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STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. (A Latin poem, written in the thirteenth century by JACOPONE, a Franciscan friar, of Umbria. Of this and the two preceding poems Dr. Neale says : "The De Contemptu is the most lovely, the Dies Ira the most sublime, and the Stabat Mater the most pathetic, of mediæval poems.") STABAT Mater dolorosa

Stood the afflicted mother weeping,
Juxta crucem lacrymosa,

Near the cross her station keeping
Dum pendebat filius ;

Whereon hung her Son and Lord ;
Cujus animam gementem,

Through whose spirit sympathizing,
Contristatam et dolentem,

Sorrowing and agonizing,
Pertransivit gladius.

Also passed the cruel sword.

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Fac me plagis vulnerari,
Cruce hac inebriari,

Et cruore filii ;
Inflammatus et accensus,
Per te, Virgo, sim defensus

In die judicii.

Wound for wound be there created ;
With the cross intoxicated

For thy Son's dear sake, I pray
May I, fired with pure affection,
Virgin, have through thee protection

In the solemn Judgment Day.

Fac me cruce custodiri,
Morte Christi præmuniri,

Confoveri gratia.
Quando corpus morietur,
Fac ut animæ donetur
Paradisi gloria.

FRA JACOPONE.

Let me by the cross be warded,
By the death of Christ be guarded,

Nourished by divine supplies.
When the body death hath riven,
Grant that to the soul be given
Glories bright of Paradise.

ABRAHAM COLES

VENI SANCTE SPIRITUS.

(This hymn was written in the tenth century by ROBERT II., the gentle son of HUGH CAPET. It is often mentioned as second in rank to the Dies Ira.] VENI, Sancte Spiritus,

COME, Holy Ghost ! thou fire divine !
Et emitte colitus

From highest heaven on us down shine !
Lucis tuæ radium.

Comforter, be thy comfort mine !

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VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS.

This hymn, one of the most important in the service of the Latin Church, has been sometimes attributed to the EMPEROR CHARLEMAGNE. The better opinion, however, inclines to POPP GREGORY I., called the Great, as the author, and fixes its origin somewhere in the sixth century.)

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THE HOLY SPIRIT.

DESIRE.

In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

Thou, who dost dwell alone ; Thou, who dost know thine own ; Thou, to whom all are known, From the cradle to the grave,

Save, 0, save!

From the world's temptations ;
From tribulations ;
From that fierce anguish
Wherein we languish ;
From that torpor deep
Wherein we lie asleep,
Heavy as death, cold as the grave,

Save, 0, save!

When I lie within my bed,
Sick at heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the artless doctor sees
No one hope but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill
Has or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing-hell doth toll,
And the Furies, in a shoal,
Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said
Because my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, confort me!
When, God knows, I'm tost about
Either with despair or doubt,
Yet before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the judgment is revealed, And that opened which was sealed, When to thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the soul, growing clearer,
Sees God no nearer ;
When the soul, mounting higher,
To God comes no nigher ;
But the arch-fiend Pride
Mounts at her side,
Foiling her high emprize,
Sealing her eagle eyes,
And, when she fain would soar,
Makes idols to adore ;
Changing the pure emotion
Of her high devotion,
To a skin-deep sense
Of her own eloquence;
Strong to deceive, strong to enslave, —

Save, 0, save!

From the ingrained fashion
Of this earthly nature
That mars thy creature ;
From grief, that is but passion ;
From mirth, that is but feigning ;
From tears, that bring no healing ;
From wild and weak complaining;
Thine old strength revealing,

Save, 0, save!

From doubt, where all is double,
Where wise men are not strong;
Where comfort turns to trouble ;
Where just men suffer wrong;
Where sorrow treads on joy ;
Where sweet things soonest cloy ;
Where faiths are built on dust;
Where love is half mistrust,
Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea ;

0, set us free!

0, let the false dream fly Where our sick souls do lie, Tossing continually.

ROBERT HERRICK.

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