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VENI CREATOR. CREATOR Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev'ry pious mind; Come, pour Thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make Thy temples worthy Thee. O Source of uncreated light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete! Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire, Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire ; Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, To sanctify us while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in Thy sevenfold energy! Thou strength of His almighty hand, Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown’st Thy gift with eloquence; Refine and purge our earthly parts ; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay Thine hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace,
the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
FROM THE FUNERAL SERVICE. Man that is born of woman, short his time, And full of woe! he springeth like a flower, Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime, Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour; Never doth he continue in one stay, But like a shadow doth he pass away. Yet not for ever, O Lord God most high! Saviour! yet not for ever shall we die !
CONTEMPLATION OF DEPARTED SAINTS. They are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
After the sun's remove.
Whose light doth trample on my days ;
Mere glimmerings and decays.
Shining no where but in the dark ;
Could man outlook that mark !
Green earth closed lately o'er ;
For those who “ die no more."
Dread portals of the grave;
Whom Jesus died to save.
To mortal eye their path is dim ;
The pale eclipse of mind,
The deathless ray behind :
From Death's dominion here,-
From every mortal fear,
If heavenly tear can flow,
In this sad world below.
And they who mourn are blest,
Send comfort to the breast :
RISE, said the Master ; come unto the feast :-
But she hath made no answer, and the day
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