Part 1 / Book 2 — FROM "THE FAËRIE QUEENE," BOOK II. CANTO 8.
Reading edition
And is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is:—else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts: but O the exceeding grace Of Highest God! that loves his creatures so, And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessèd angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!
How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward; O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard!
EDMUND SPENSER.
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SAINT AGNES.
Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snow-drop of the year That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Through all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll backhand far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbath of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide— A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom with his bride!
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
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PRAISE OF THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY.
[The poem De Contemptu Mundi was written by Bernard de Morlaix, Monk of Cluni. The translation following is of a portion of the poem distinguished by the sub-title "Laus Patriae Coelestis."]
The world is very evil, The times are waxing late; Be sober and keep vigil, The Judge is at the gate,— The Judge that comes in mercy, The Judge that comes with might, To terminate the evil, To diadem the right. When the just and gentle Monarch Shall summon from the tomb, Let man, the guilty, tremble, For Man, the God, shall doom!
Arise, arise, good Christian, Let right to wrong succeed; Let penitential sorrow To heavenly gladness lead,— To the light that hath no evening, That knows nor moon nor sun, The light so new and golden, The light that is but one.
And when the Sole-Begotten Shall render up once more The kingdom to the Father, Whose own it was before, Then glory yet unheard of Shall shed abroad its ray, Resolving all enigmas, An endless Sabbath-day.
For thee, O dear, dear Country! Mine eyes their vigils keep; For very love, beholding Thy happy name, they weep. The mention of thy glory Is unction to the breast, And medicine in sickness, And love, and life, and rest.
O one, O only Mansion! O Paradise of Joy, Where tears are ever banished, And smiles have no alloy! Beside thy living waters All plants are, great and small, The cedar of the forest, The hyssop of the wall; With jaspers glow thy bulwarks, Thy streets with emeralds blaze, The sardius and the topaz Unite in thee their rays; Thine ageless walls are bonded With amethyst unpriced; Thy Saints build up its fabric, And the corner-stone is Christ.
The Cross is all thy splendor, The Crucified thy praise; His laud and benediction Thy ransomed people raise: "Jesus, the gem of Beauty, True God and Man," they sing, "The never-failing Garden, The ever-golden Ring; The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, The Guardian of his Court; The Day-star of Salvation, The Porter and the Port!"
Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! Thou hast no time, bright day! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away! Upon the Rock of Ages They raise thy holy tower; Thine is the victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower!
Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, O Bride that know'st no guile, The Prince's sweetest kisses, The Prince's loveliest smile; Unfading lilies, bracelets Of living pearl thine own; The Lamb is ever near thee, The Bridegroom thine alone. The Crown is he to guerdon, The Buckler to protect, And he himself the Mansion, And he the Architect.
The only art thou needest— Thanksgiving for thy lot; The only joy thou seekest— The Life where Death is not. And all thine endless leisure, In sweetest accents, sings The ill that was thy merit, The wealth that is thy King's!
Jerusalem the golden, With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice oppressed. I know not, O I know not, What social joys are there! What radiancy of glory, What light beyond compare!
And when I fain would sing them, My spirit fails and faints; And vainly would it image The assembly of the Saints.
They stand, those halls of Zion, Conjubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng; The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the Blessèd Are decked in glorious sheen.
There is the Throne of David, And there, from care released, The song of them that triumph, The shout of them that feast; And they who, with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, Forever and forever Are clad in robes of white!
O holy, placid harp-notes Of that eternal hymn! O sacred, sweet reflection, And peace of Seraphim! O thirst, forever ardent, Yet evermore content! O true peculiar vision Of God cunctipotent! Ye know the many mansions For many a glorious name, And divers retributions That divers merits claim; For midst the constellations That deck our earthly sky, This star than that is brighter— And so it is on high.
Jerusalem the glorious! The glory of the Elect! O dear and future vision That eager hearts expect! Even now by faith I see thee, Even here thy walls discern; To thee my thoughts are kindled, And strive, and pant, and yearn.
Jerusalem the only, That look'st from heaven below, In thee is all my glory, In me is all my woe; And though my body may not, My spirit seeks thee fain, Till flesh and earth return me To earth and flesh again.
O none can tell thy bulwarks, How gloriously they rise! O none can tell thy capitals Of beautiful device! Thy loveliness oppresses All human thought and heart; And none, O peace, O Zion, Can sing thee as thou art!
New mansion of new people, Whom God's own love and light Promote, increase, make holy, Identify, unite! Thou City of the Angels! Thou City of the Lord! Whose everlasting music Is the glorious decachord!
And there the band of Prophets United praise ascribes, And there the twelvefold chorus Of Israel's ransomed tribes. The lily-beds of virgins, The roses' martyr-glow, The cohort of the Fathers Who kept the faith below.
And there the Sole-Begotten Is Lord in regal state,— He, Judah's mystic Lion, He, Lamb Immaculate. O fields that know no sorrow! O state that fears no strife! O princely bowers! O land of flowers! O realm and home of Life!
Jerusalem, exulting On that securest shore, I hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, And love thee evermore! I ask not for my merit, I seek not to deny My merit is destruction, A child of wrath am I; But yet with faith I venture And hope upon my way; For those perennial guerdons I labor night and day.
The best and dearest Father, Who made me and who saved, Bore with me in defilement, And from defilement laved, When in his strength I struggle, For very joy I leap, When in my sin I totter, I weep, or try to weep: Then grace, sweet grace celestial, Shall all its love display, And David's Royal Fountain Purge every sin away.
O mine, my golden Zion! O lovelier far than gold, With laurel-girt battalions, And safe victorious fold! O sweet and blessèd Country, Shall I ever see thy face? O sweet and blessèd Country, Shall I ever win thy grace? I have the hope within me To comfort and to bless! Shall I ever win the prize itself? O tell me, tell me, Yes!
Exult! O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art! Exult, O dust and ashes! The Lord shall be thy part; His only, his forever, Thou shalt be, and thou art!
From the Latin of BERNARD DE MORLAIX.
Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.
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THE NEW JERUSALEM;
OR, THE SOUL'S BREATHING AFTER THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.
"Since Christ's fair truth needs no man's art, Take this rude song in better part."
O mother dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end— Thy joys when shall I see? O happy harbor of God's saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrows can be found— No grief, no care, no toil.
In thee no sickness is at all, No hurt, nor any sore; There is no death nor ugly night, But life for evermore. No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, No cloud nor darksome night, But every soul shines as the sun— For God himself gives light.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat. But pleasures every way. Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Would God I were in thee! Oh! that my sorrows had an end, Thy joys that I might see!
No pains, no pangs, no grieving griefs, No woful night is there; No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard— No well-away, no fear. Jerusalem the city is Of God our king alone; The Lamb of God, the light thereof, Sits there upon His throne.
O God! that I Jerusalem With speed may go behold! For why? the pleasures there abound Which here cannot be told. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine— With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, Surpassing pure and fine.
Thy houses are of ivory, Thy windows crystal clear, Thy streets are laid with beaten gold— There angels do appear. Thy walls are made of precious stone, Thy bulwarks diamond square, Thy gates are made of orient pearl— O God! if I were there!
Within thy gates no thing can come That is not passing clean; No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, No filth may there be seen. Jehovah, Lord, now come away, And end my griefs and plaints— Take me to Thy Jerusalem, And place me with Thy saints!
Who there are crowned with glory great, And see God face to face, They triumph still, and aye rejoice— Most happy is their case. But we that are in banishment, Continually do moan; We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep— Perpetually we groan.
Our sweetness mixèd is with gall, Our pleasures are but pain, Our joys not worth the looking on— Our sorrows aye remain. But there they live in such delight, Such pleasure and such play, That unto them a thousand years Seems but as yesterday.
O my sweet home, Jerusalem! Thy joys when shall I see— The King sitting upon His throne, And thy felicity? Thy vineyards, and thy orchards, So wonderfully rare, Are furnished with all kinds of fruit, Most beautifully fair.
Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. There cinnamon and sugar grow, There nard and balm abound; No tongue can tell, no heart can think, The pleasures there are found.
There nectar and ambrosia spring— There music's ever sweet; There many a fair and dainty thing Are trod down under feet. Quite through the streets, with pleasant sound, The flood of life doth flow; Upon the banks, on every side, The trees of life do grow.
These trees each month yield ripened fruit— For evermore they spring; And all the nations of the world To thee their honors bring. Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place, Full sore I long to see; Oh! that my sorrows had an end, That I might dwell in thee!
There David stands, with harp in hand, As master of the choir; A thousand times that man were blest That might his music hear. There Mary sings "Magnificat," With tunes surpassing sweet; And all the virgins bear their part, Singing around her feet.
"Te Deum," doth Saint Ambrose sing, Saint Austin doth the like; Old Simeon and Zacharie Have not their songs to seek. There Magdalene hath left her moan, And cheerfully doth sing, With all blest saints whose harmony Through every street doth ring.
Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Thy joys fain would I see; Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, And take me home to Thee; Oh! paint Thy name on my forehead, And take me hence away, That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, And sing Thy praises aye.
Jerusalem, the happy home— Jehovah's throne on high! O sacred city, queen, and wife Of Christ eternally! O comely queen with glory clad, With honor and degree, All fair thou art, exceeding bright— No spot there is in thee!
I long to see Jerusalem, The comfort of us all; For thou art fair and beautiful— None ill can thee befall. In thee, Jerusalem, I say, No darkness dare appear— No night, no shade, no winter foul— No time doth alter there.
No candle needs, no moon to shine, No glittering star to light; For Christ, the king of righteousness, For ever shineth bright. A lamb unspotted, white and pure, To thee doth stand in lieu Of light—so great the glory is Thine heavenly king to view.
He is the King of kings beset In midst His servants' sight: And they, His happy household all, Do serve Him day and night. There, there the choir of angels sing— There the supernal sort Of citizens, which hence are rid From dangers deep, do sport.
There be the prudent prophets all, The apostles six and six, The glorious martyrs in a row, And confessors betwixt. There doth the crew of righteous men And matrons all consist— Young men and maids that here on earth Their pleasures did resist.
The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped The snare of death and hell, Triumph in joy eternally, Whereof no tongue can tell; And though the glory of each one Doth differ in degree, Yet is the joy of all alike And common, as we see.
There love and charity do reign, And Christ is all in all, Whom they most perfectly behold In joy celestial. They love, they praise—they praise, they love; They "Holy, holy," cry; They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, But laud continually.
Oh! happy thousand times were I, If, after wretched days, I might with listening ears conceive Those heavenly songs of praise, Which to the eternal king are sung By happy wights above— By savèd souls and angels sweet, Who love the God of love.
Oh! passing happy were my state, Might I be worthy found To wait upon my God and king, His praises there to sound; And to enjoy my Christ above, His favor and His grace, According to His promise made, Which here I interlace:
"O Father dear," quoth He, "let them Which Thou hast put of old To me, be there where lo! I am— Thy glory to behold; Which I with Thee, before the world Was made in perfect wise, Have had—from whence the fountain great Of glory doth arise."
Again: "If any man will serve Thee, let him follow me; For where I am, he there, right sure, Then shall my servant be." And still: "If any man loves me, Him loves my Father dear, Whom I do love—to him myself In glory will appear."
Lord, take away my misery, That then I may be bold With Thee, in Thy Jerusalem, Thy glory to behold; And so in Zion see my king, My love, my Lord, my all— Where now as in a glass I see, There face to face I shall.
Oh! blessèd are the pure in heart— Their sovereign they shall see; O ye most happy, heavenly wights, Which of God's household be! O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands, These gins and fetters strong; For I have dwelt within the tents Of Kedar over long.
Yet search me, Lord, and find me out! Fetch me Thy fold unto, That all Thy angels may rejoice, While all Thy will I do. O mother dear! Jerusalem! When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see?
Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, To quit me from all strife, That to Thy hill I may attain, And dwell there all my life— With cherubim and seraphim And holy souls of men, To sing Thy praise, O God of hosts! Forever and amen!
ANONYMOUS.
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PARADISE.
O Paradise, O Paradise, Who doth not crave for rest, Who would not seek the happy land Where they that loved are blest? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise, The world is growing old; Who would not be at rest and free Where love is never cold? Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise, Wherefore doth death delay?— Bright death, that is the welcome dawn Of our eternal day; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise, 'Tis weary waiting here; I long to be where Jesus is, To feel, to see him near; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise, I want to sin no more, I want to be as pure on earth As on thy spotless shore; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise, I greatly long to see The special place my dearest Lord Is destining for me; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise, I feel 'twill not be long; Patience! I almost think I hear Faint fragments of thy song; Where loyal hearts and true Stand ever in the light, All rapture through and through, In God's most holy sight.