WHAT THEN?

And he who is himself the Gift and Giver-
The future glory and the present smile,
With the bright promise of the glad forever
Will light the shadows of the "little while."

463

JANE CREWDSON,

What Then?

HAT then? Why, then another pilgrim song;

WHA

And then a hush of rest, divinely granted;

And then a thirsty stage (ah me, so long!)
And then a brook, just where it most is wanted.

What then? The pitching of the evening tent;
And then, perchance, a pillow rough and thorny;
And then some sweet and tender message, sent
To cheer the faint one for to-morrow's journey.

What then? The wailing of the midnight wind,
A feverish sleep, a heart oppressed and aching;
And then a little water-cruse to find

Close by my pillow, ready for my waking.

What then?

I am not careful to inquire;

I know there will be tears, and fears, and sorrow; And then, a loving Saviour drawing nigher,

And saying "I will answer for the morrow."

What then? For all my sins, his pardoning grace;
For all my wants and woes, his loving-kindness;
For darkest shades, the shining of God's face,

And Christ's own hand to lead me in my blindness.

What then? A shadowy valley, lone and dim;
And then, a deep and darkly rolling river;
And then a flood of light, a seraph's hymn,
And God's own smile forever and forever!

JANE CREWDSON.

THE

The Lord will come.

HE Lord will come! the earth shall quake, The hills their fixed seat forsake; And, withering from the vault of night, The stars withdraw their feeble light.

The Lord will come! but not the same
As once in lowly form he came,

A silent lamb to slaughter led,

The bruised, the suffering, and the dead.

The Lord will come! a dreadful form,
With wreath of flame and robe of storm,
On cherub wings, and wings of wind,
Anointed Judge of human kind!

Can this be he who wont to stray,
A pilgrim on the world's highway;
By power oppressed, and mocked by pride?
O God! is this the Crucified?

Go, tyrants! to the rocks complain !
Go, seek the mountain's cleft in vain!
But Faith, victorious o'er the tomb,
Shall sing for joy-the Lord is come!

BISHOP HEBER.

DI

Dies Ira.

IES IRE! DIES ILLA!
Solvet sæclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.

Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando Judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus!

Qui Mariam absolvisti,

Et latronem exaudisti,

Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

Preces meæ non sunt dignæ;
Sed Tu bonus fac benigne
Ne perenni cremer igne!

Inter oves locum præsta,
Et ab hædis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.

Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis,
Voca me cum benedictis!

Oro supplex et acclints,
Cor contritum quasi cinis,
Gere curam mei finis!

Lacrymosa dies illa!
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus;

Huic ergo parce, Deus!

THOMAS DE CELANO.

Dies Ira.

AY of wrath! That day of mourning

DAY

Sees our earth to ashes turning ;

Such the seer's and sibyl's warning.

Ah! the dread each bosom rending,
When the Judge in flame descending,
Shall his glance through all be sending!

DIES IRÆ.

When the trumpet's blast appalling,
Midst earth's charneled millions falling,
All before the throne is calling!

Death's stern heart what fear surprises,
As from dust creation rises
To the last and great assizes!

Opened are the awful pages,
Where the record of all ages
Man's eternal doom presages.

When the Judge shall take his station,
Full shall be the revelation,

Naught escape his stern probation.

What shall I, poor wretch, be pleading?

Ask what patron's interceding,

When the righteous help is needing?

King of majesty tremendous,

Who dost free salvation send us,

Save me, Source of love stupendous !

Think, O Jesus, kind and tender!
Why thou leftst thy throne of splendor,
Nor to death my soul surrender.

Me thou sought'st with travail sorest;
Crown of thorns for me thou worest;
Be not vain the toil thou borest.

Righteous Judge of dread decision,
Freely grant my sin's remission,
Ere the day of inquisition.

Deep my guilty spirit sigheth;
Shame my cheek with crimson dyeth;
Spare the suppliant when he crieth!

467