How lovely is thy dwelling, Great god, to whom all greatness is belonging! To view thy courts far, far from any telling My soul doth long and pine with longing Unto the God that liveth, The God that all life giveth, My heart and body both aspire, Above delight, beyond desire.
Alas, the sparrow knoweth The house where free and fearless she resideth; Directly to the nest the swallow goeth, Where with her sons she safe abideth. Oh, altars thine, most mighty In war, yea, most almighty:
O Lord, whose grace no limits comprehend; Sweet Lord, whose mercies stand from measure free; To me that grace, to me that mercy send, And wipe, O Lord, my sins from sinful me. Oh, cleanse, oh, wash, my foul iniquity; Cleanse still my spots, still wash away my stainings, Till stains and spots in me leave no remainings.
For I, alas, acknowledging do know My filthy fault, my faulty filthiness To my soul’s eye incessantly doth show, Which done to thee, to thee I do confess, Just judge, true witness, that for righteousness Thy doom may pass against my guilt awarded, Thy evidence for truth may be regarded.
AS one who in his journey bates at Noone, Though bent on speed, so heer the Archangel paus'd Betwixt the world destroy'd and world restor'd, If Adam aught perhaps might interpose; Then with transition sweet new Speech resumes.
Thus thou hast seen one World begin and end; And Man as from a second stock proceed. Much thou hast yet to see, but I perceave Thy mortal sight to faile; objects divine Must needs impaire and wearie human sense: Henceforth what is to com I will relate, Thou therefore give due audience, and attend. This second sours of Men, while yet but few; And while the dread of judgement past remains
Hymen, O Hymen king, what bitter thing is this? what shaft, tearing my heart? what scar, what light, what fire searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame? nameless, O spoken name, king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.
Thou hidden love of God, whose height, Whose depth unfathom’d no man knows, I see from far thy beauteous light, Inly I sigh for thy repose; My heart is pain’d, nor can it be At rest, till it finds rest in thee.
Thy secret voice invites me still, The sweetness of thy yoke to prove: And fain I would: but tho’ my will Seem fix’d, yet wide my passions rove; Yet hindrances strew all the way; I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.
DECAMERON, x. 7 There is no woman living that draws breath So sad as I, though all things sadden her. There is not one upon life's weariest way Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
"With sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required: Celestial pity I again implore;— Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; As she expects the issue in repose.
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''
Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"
Comment form: