Like swords, have pierced Thee, and, behold! Toward the Father, and Thy sighs The fiery rage Of sorrow in this frame of mine? Ah, woe, woe, woe, With woe's my bosom shaking! I moan, I moan, I moan, That sorrow-laden face of Thine Unto my need, and rescue me! GOETHE. (Trs. Editors.) APRIL 2. THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed That quickens only where Thou say'st it may; Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind MICHAEL ANGELO. (Trs. William Wordsworth.) APRIL 3. HOW EXCELLENT IS THY NAME. O LORD, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength, because of thine enemies; that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger. When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon, and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him? For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the work of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet: All sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! PSALM VIII. APRIL 4. O THOU, whose balance does the mountains weigh, Thy power, my weakness may I ever see, This glorious volume which Thy wisdom made, Who joys the mother Autumn's bed to crown? APRIL 5. TO HIS DEAR GOD. ILE hope no more For things that will not come ; And, if they do, they prove but cumbersome. Wealth brings much woe; And, since it fortunes so, "Tis better to be poor Than so t'abound As to be drown'd Or overwhelm'd with store. Pale care, avant, Ile learn to be content With that small stock thy bounty gave or lent. Το What may conduce my most healthful use, Deny Thy suppliant. R. HERRICK. G APRIL 6. ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide; And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; Doth God exact day labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask? but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's works or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait. JOHN MILTON. APRIL 7. DE PROFUNDIS. FROM depth of doole wherein my soule doth dwell, Wherein I faint, O, heare me then for Thy great mercie's sake. |