82

MUCH in sorrow, oft in woe,

Christian warfare.

Onward, Christians! onward go;
Fight the fight, and, worn with strife,
Steep with tears the Bread of Life.

Onward, Christians, onward go;
Join the war, and face the foe;
Faint not! much doth yet remain ;
Dreary is the long campaign.

Shrink not, Christians! will ye yield?
Will ye quit the painful field?
Will ye flee in danger's hour?
Know ye not your Captain's power?

Let your drooping hearts be glad ;
March, in heavenly armour clad;
Fight, nor think the battle long;
Victory soon shall tune your song.

Let not sorrow dim your eye,
Soon shall every tear be dry;
Let not woe your course impede;

Great your strength, if great your need.

Onward then to battle move;

More than conquerors ye shall prove;
Though opposed by many a foe,
Christian soldiers, onward go.

HENRY KIRK WHITE, 1806.

F. F. MAITLAND, 1827.

LXXXIII Sancti Augustini antidotum contra tyrannidem peccati.

QUID, Tyranne! quid minaris?

Quid usquam poenarum est,

Quidquid tandem machinaris:
Hoc amanti parum est;

Dulce mihi cruciari,

Parva vis doloris est:
Malo mori quam foedari!
Major vis amoris est.

Para rogos, quamvis truces,
Et quidquid flagrorum est:
Adde ferrum, adde cruces :
Nil adhuc amanti est!

Dulce mihi cruciari,
Parva vis doloris est :
Malo mori quam foedari!
Major vis amoris est.

Nimis blandus dolor ille!
Una mors quam brevis est!
Cruciatus amo mille,
Omnis poena levis est.

Dulce mihi sauciari,

Parva vis doloris est:

Malo mori quam foedari!

Major vis amoris est.

PETRUS DAMIANUS, undecimo saeculo.

83

Augustine's antidote against sinful compliances.

TYRANT! dost thou think to seize me?
All thy vaunting threats are vain ;
Do thy worst! the love of Jesus
Mocks at all the power of pain.

Sweet to kiss the cross! defying
Dread of pain my soul to move:
Better dying than complying;
Mightier is the power of love!

Light your stake! and let it crackle;
Let your galling lash be brought;
Bring the sword, the cross, the shackle,
Love will set them all at nought.

Sweet to kiss the cross! defying
Dread of pain my soul to move;
Better dying than complying;
Mightier is the power of love.

Happy sorrows! sweet afflictions!

Death comes once, and comes no more.

Hail a thousand crucifixions!

All their pangs will soon be o'er.

Sweet to bear those wounds! defying
Dread of pain my soul to move;

Better dying than complying;
Mightier is the power of love.

PETER DAMIANI, eleventh century.

GG

LXXXIV

ALES diei nuntius

Vox galli matutina.

Lucem propinquam præcinit ;

Nos excitator mentium

Jam Christus ad vitam vocat.

Auferte, clamat, lectulos
Ægros, soporos, desides:
Castique, recti, ac sobrii
Vigilate jam sum proximus.
Post solis ortum fulgidi
Serum est cubile spernere ;
Ni parte noctis addita
Tempus labori adjeceris.

Vox ista, qua strepunt aves,
Stantes sub ipso culmine,
Paulo ante quam lux emicet,
Nostri figura est Judicis.

Tectos tenebris horridis
Stratisque opertos segnibus,
Suadet quietem linquere
Jamjamque venturo die.

Ut cum coruscis flatibus
Aurora cœlum sparserit
Omnes labore exercitos
Confirmet ad spem luminis

Hic somnus ad tempus datus,
Est forma mortis perpetis:
Peccata, ceu nox horrida,
Cogunt jacere ac stertere.

Sed vox ab alto culmine

Christi docentis præmonet :
Adesse jam lucem prope,
Ne mens sopori serviat.

ΙΟ

20

30

84

Cockcrow

THE bird that hails the early morn,
Heralds aloud the coming day;
So Christ who stirs our slumbering hearts,
Bids us awake to live and pray.
Sleeper arise! the herald cries,

Shake off dull sloth, awake and hear.
All true, and pure, and watchful be;
Night passes and the day is near.
'Tis late to spurn your beds of down,
When morn has gilded all the skies;
Unless the labours of the night,

Of rest have robbed your weary eyes.
The day of judgment.
We hear the birds around our homes,
Sing to the morn's first dawning ray ;
So let us hear the Judge of all,

And wait the coming of that day. Sunk in our slumber long and deep, And wrapt in shades of deepest night, He bids us leave our listless rest, To meet that day's all-piercing light; As if it were some common morn, Casting its gleam athwart the sky, Flooding with hope the sons of toil, Who hail its sunshine from on high. Here, oft the sleep that comes and goes, Wears more the guise of death than rest, For sin like midnight, wraps us round, And lays its nightmare on our breast. But Jesus from above lets fall,

His blessed voice upon our ear, To break our slumber and to tell,

How night retreats and day draws near,