.... wants, and passions; its vivid and natural expressions, to monastic Christianity what the Hebrew psalms are to our common religion, to our common Christianity; its contagious piety;-all conspired to its universal dissemination. Its manner, its short quivering sentences, which went at once to the heart, and laid hold of and clung tenaciously to the memory with the compression and completeness of proverbs; its axioms, each of which suggested endless thought; its imagery, scriptural and simple, were alike original, unique. No book has been so often reprinted, no book has been so often translated, or into so many languages, as The Imitation of Christ.'" Who does not bless the memory of its author; who does not enjoy the sentences of the man who wrote as the Saviour was speaking to his heart? who does not love the name of Thomas à Kempis? He who instructed the world on the Imitation of Christ,' could sing too of the heaven where he hoped to see his beloved Master. He was a hymnist, and the joys above formed his chosen theme. Let those who would, like him, find Christ after waiting for them in their cell, be, like him, ever ready for devotion, and breathing more and more deeply his heavenly spirit from day to day, they will find a daily joy in singing with him— High the angel choirs are raising Sweetest strains, from soft harps stealing; Trumpets, notes of triumph pealing; Holy, holy, holy, singing Holy, holy, holy! crying; For all earthly care and sighing Every voice is there harmonious, Venerate the cherubim. To their want of honour turning; Oh, how beautiful that region, Light and peace from end to end! Keep the law of charity, Labour finds them not, nor care. Ignorance can ne'er perplex, Nothing tempt them, nothing vex; Joy and health their fadeless blessing, Always all things good possessing. Chapter VIII. SONGS IN HIGH PLACES. “Praise Him in the heights. Kings of the earth, and all people, princes, and all judges of the earth, let them praise the name of the Lord." HE great dramatist gives us no mere fancy The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported I pray thee mark me. I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated O'er prized all popular rate, in my false brother Such princes have lived, and studied, and prayed, and suffered, to the edification of a few, and to the sorrow of many. Hugh Capet, the father of the third line of French kings, showed himself quite equal to his position, and held the reins so as to keep his rude. and kicking subjects within the traces. He knew how to preserve quietness within his own border, and how 9 to make a sufficiently awful impression outside. He was a ruler at home and a terror abroad; and in those days both were desirable virtues in men of his calling. He prospered, and finished his royal career in 996. But like does not always beget like. His son Robert came to the throne, bringing to it all his father's softer virtues, without those sterner qualities for government which are necessary to keep the balance of state. He wanted to be good, and was good. But he was too willing to cast the affairs of government upon some brother, and false brothers are not lacking. If not to be found in France, Italy could furnish one. Gregory the Fifth could do the politics for him, and the fighting too, and manage at the same time to lord it over King Robert's conscience. The king was not fit for kingship; he was more disposed to the cloisters. Anybody might rule for him. He might have had rule in Italy; yes, and the imperial crown might have been on his brow. But no, not he: "Let me alone," he seemed to say, "my joy is in secret; give me my psalter, my service-book, my psalm, my hymn, and I am happy." And so he was. He took his choice. The outside world might wag its way as it pleased; he would be a royal monk, and his palace should be his cell. And so he lived, and prayed, and chanted, and sung; and whether France or the world were ever the better for his rule or not, Christendom is the better for one hymn at least, which he left as the fruit of his devotion, and in which his reverent, tender, and peaceful spirit is graciously embalmed. As a king, his memory might have melted into oblivion; but as a hymnist his name will be dear to every following generation of those who breathe the feeling and sustain the music of his Veni Sancte Spiritus. Holy Spirit come, we pray, Come from heaven and shed the ray Come, thou Father of the poor, Giver from a boundless store, Light of hearts, O shine! Matchless comforter in woe, Sweetest guest the soul can know, When we weep our solace sweet, Holy and most blessed light, For without thy sacred powers, What is arid, fresh bedew, What is sordid, cleanse anew, Balm on the wounded pour. What is rigid gently bend, On what is cold thy fervour send; To Thine own in every place Give to virtue its reward, Safe and peaceful end afford, By bequeathing this hymn to us King Robert has left the world better than he found it. Nevertheless, it is a mercy for the world that Providence makes |