Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 128.djvu/140

HYMNUS RESPONSORIUS
	I.		I.
	"Scis te lassum? scis languentem? Luctu contristaris? Audin' 'Veni, veniensque Pace perfruaris."		Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distrest? "Come to Me," saith One, "and coming, Be at rest!"
	II.		II.
R.	Notas habet, quas agnôrim Istum consectatus? "Manus, Plantæ, cruentatæ, Cruentatum Latus."		Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my guide? "In His Feet and Hands are wound-prints, And His Side."
	III.		III.
R.	Ecquid portat, pro corona Quæ Monarchas ornat? "Diadema, sed spinarum, Frontem Hanc adornat."		Hath He diadem as Monarch That His Brow adorns? "Yea, a Crown, in very surety, But of thorns."
	IV.		IV.
R.	Sin obnitar, sin attingam, Quî remunerabit? "Luctûs, fletûs, ac laborum Largitatem dabit."		If I find Him, if I follow, What His guerdon here?, "Many a sorrow, many a labour, Many a tear."
	V.		V.
R.	Sin obstrictus adhærebo, Quis in fine status? "Viæ meta, luctûs fuga, Labor exantlatus."		If I still hold closely to Him, What hath He at last? "Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan past."
	VI.		VI.
R.	Si receptum supplicâssim, Votum exaudiret? "Quanquam Terra, quanquam Cœlum In ruinam iret."		If I ask Him to receive me, Will He say me nay? "Not till Earth, and not till Heaven Pass away."
	VII.		VII.
R.	Persistentem, perluctantem Certus est beare? "Vates quisque, Martyr, Virgo, Angelus, testare!"		Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless? "Angels, Martyrs, Prophets, Virgins, Answer, Yes!"
	W.E. Gladstone. Nov., 1875.		By Dr. John Mason Neale (No. 254, Hymns Ancient and Modern, Revised and Enlarged); taken from the Greek of St. Stephen the Sabaite.
Contemporary Review.

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TWO SONNETS.

I. — WINTER SORROW.

A grey and leaden sky, without a break,
Shuts in the narrow world whereon I look,
And, day by day, mine ears almost forget
To miss the babbling of the ice-bound brook.
The woods stand rigid, ghostlike, draped in snow,
Life is no longer there, nor pleasant sound,
No breath is stirring in the bitter air,
To bid them drop their burden to the ground.
The drift lies deeply piled before my door,
My little garden, touched by winter’s breath,
Laid cold and smooth beneath his icy hand,
Looks stark and changeless as the bed of death.
‘Tis thus my heart, thy desolation chill
Holds me, like cruel winter, dumb and still.

II. — SPRING SORROW.

Spare me that clear, triumphant song of praise,
Sweet thrush, with which thou welcomest the morn;
It wakes too keen a sorrow in my heart,
Who sigh to think another day is born.
Ye opening buds, ye sounds and scents of spring,
So deeply interwoven with the past,
Ye touch the inmost fibre of my grief,
And bring the bitter memories thronging fast.
Not less the lilac crowns herself with bloom,
And bright laburnums shake their tasselled gold, -
Nor does the violet breathe one odour less
Because my life is left me dark and cold;
Only while earth and sky such joy express,
I fain would turn me from their loveliness.

A. E. J.

Spectator