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Perhaps no poem has been more frequently Newark, N. J., has made thirteen. Seven The version here given preserves the

[A Latin poem by THOMAS OF CELANO (a Neapolitan village), about A. D. 1250. translated. A German collector published eighty-seven versions in German. Dr. Coles, of are given in the "Seven Great Hymns of the Mediaval Church," Randolph & Co., N. Y. measure of the original.]

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Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking,
When, the grave's long slumber breaking,
Man to judgment is awaking.

On the written Volume's pages,
Life is shown in all its stages -
Judgment-record of past ages.

Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning,
Darkest mysteries explaining,
Nothing unavenged remaining.

What shall I then say, unfriended,
By no advocate attended,
When the just are scarce defended?

King of majesty tremendous,
By thy saving grace defend us,
Fount of pity, safety send us!

Holy JESUS, meek, forbearing,
For my sins the death-crown wearing,
Save me, in that day, despairing!

Worn and weary, thou hast sought me ;
By thy cross and passion bought me
Spare the hope thy labors brought me !

Righteous Judge of retribution,
Give, O give me absolution
Ere the day of dissolution!

As a guilty culprit groaning,
Flushed my face, my errors owning,
Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning!

Thou to Mary gav’st remission,
Heard'st the dying thief's petition,
Bad'st me hope in my contrition.

In my prayers no grace discerning,
Yet on me thy favor turning,
Save my soul from endless burning!

Give me, when thy sheep confiding
Thou art from the goats dividing,
On thy right a place abiding!

When the wicked are confounded,
And by bitter flames surrounded,
Be my joyful pardon sounded!

Prostrate, all my guilt discerning,
Heart as though to ashes turning;
Save, O save me from the burning!

Day of weeping, when from ashes
Man shall rise mid lightning flashes, —
Guilty, trembling with contrition,
Save him, Father, from perdition!

JOHN A. DIX.

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STABAT MATER DOLOROSA.

[A Latin poem, written in the thirteenth century by JACOPONE, a Franciscan friar, of Umbria. Of this and the two preceding poems Dr. Neale says: "The De Contemptu is the most lovely, the Dies Ira the most sublime, and the Stabat Mater the most pathetic, of medieval poems."]

STABAT Mater dolorosa

Juxta crucem lacrymosa,

Dum pendebat filius; Cujus animam gementem, Contristatam et dolentem, Pertransivit gladius.

O quam tristis et afflicta,
Fuit illa benedicta

Mater unigeniti,

Quæ mærebat et dolebat,
Pia mater, dum videbat

Nati pœnas inclyti!

Quis est homo qui non fleret, Christi matrem si videret

In tanto supplicio ? Quis non posset contristari Piam matrem contemplari Dolentem cum filio?

Pro peccatis suæ gentis,
Vidit Jesum in tormentis,
Et flagellis subditum.
Vidit suum dulcem natum,
Morientem, desolatum,

Dum emisit spiritum.

Eia mater, fons amoris,
Me sentire vim doloris

Fac, ut tecum lugeam.
Fac ut ardeat cor meum
In amando Christum Deum,
Ut illi complaceam.
Sancta Mater, istud agas,
Crucifixi fige plagas

Cordi meo valide.

Tui nati vulnerati,
Tam dignati pro me pati,
Pœnas mecum divide.

Fac me vere tecum flere,
Crucifixo condolere,

Donec ego vixero;

Juxta crucem tecum stare,

Et tibi me sociare

In planctu desidero.

Virgo virginum præclara,
Mihi jam non sis amara ;

Fac me tecum plangere ;
Fac ut portem Christi mortem,
Passionis fac consortem,
Et plagas recolere.

STOOD the afflicted mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping

Whereon hung her Son and Lord; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing,

Also passed the cruel sword.

Oh how mournful and distressèd
Was that favored and most blessed
Mother of the only Son,
Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving,
While perceiving, scarce believing,
Pains of that Illustrious One!

Who the man, who, called a brother,
Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother
In such deep distress and wild?
Who could not sad tribute render
Witnessing that mother tender
Agonizing with her child?

For his people's sins atoning,
Him she saw in torments groaning,
Given to the scourger's rod;
Saw her darling offspring dying,
Desolate, forsaken, crying,

Yield his spirit up to God.

Make me feel thy sorrow's power,
That with thee I tears may shower,
Tender mother, fount of love!
Make my heart with love unceasing
Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing
I may be to him above.

Holy mother, this be granted,
That the slain one's wounds be planted

Firmly in my heart to bide.

Of him wounded, all astounded -
Depths unbounded for me sounded ·
All the pangs with me divide.

Make me weep with thee in union; With the Crucified, communion

In his grief and suffering give; Near the cross, with tears unfailing, I would join thee in thy wailing Here as long as I shall live.

Maid of maidens, all excelling!
Be not bitter, me repelling;

Make thou me a mourner too; Make me bear about Christ's dying, Share his passion, shame defying; All his wounds in me renew.

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