Orpheus he went (as poets tell)To fetch Euridice from hell;And had her; but it was uponThis short, but strict, condition:Backward he should not looke while heLed her through hell's obscuritie.But ah! it happened as he madeHis passage through that dreadful shade,Revolve he did his loving eye,For gentle feare, or jelousie,And looking back, that look did severHim and Euridice forever.
—Robert Herrick
Dear Reader, should you chance to goTo Hades, do not fail to throwA "Sop to Cerberus" at the gate,His anger to propitiate.Don't say "Good dog!" and hope therebyHis three fierce Heads to pacify.What though he try to be politeAnd wag his tail with all his might,How shall one amiable TailAgainst three angry Heads prevail?The Headsmustwin.—What puzzles meIs why in Hades there should beA watchdog; 'tis, I should surmise,Thelastplace one would burglarize.
—Oliver Herford
They certainly contrived to raiseQueer ladies in the olden days.Either the type had not been fixed,Or else Zoölogy got mixed.I envy not primeval manThis female on the feathered plan.We only have, I'm glad to say,Two kinds of human birds today—Women and warriors, who stillWear feathers when dressed up to kill.
—Oliver Herford
Young Cupid once a rose caressed,And sportively its leaflets pressed.The witching thing, so fair to viewOne could not but believe it true,Warmed, on its bosom false, a bee,Which stung the boy-god in his glee.Sobbing, he raised his pinions bright,And flew unto the isle of light,Where, in her beauty, myrtle-crowned,The Paphian goddess sat enthroned.Her Cupid sought, and to her breastHis wounded finger, weeping, pressed."O mother! kiss me," was his cry—"O mother! save me, or I die;A winged little snake or beeWith cruel sting has wounded me!"The blooming goddess in her armsFolded and kissed his budding charms;To her soft bosom pressed her pride,And then with truthful words replied:"If thus a little insect thingCan pain thee with its tiny sting,How languish, think you, those who smartBeneath my Cupid's cruel dart?How fatal must that poison proveThat rankles on the shafts of Love."
O'er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,The coaches soon were seen, and a long train
Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;
And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,More than a hundred servants, rather vain
Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,Followed their masters to the Council Hall.
First came the Prince of Delos, Phoebus hight,In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn
By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;
Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and lightAround his neck the golden fleece was thrown;
And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.
Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,Came on a nag of Basignanian race;
Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seenHer gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o'er her face
Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen,Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;
A bunch of feathers on her head she wore,And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.
But Ceres and the God of Wine appearedAt once, conversing; and the God of Ocean
Upon a dolphin's back his form upreared,Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;
Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared;For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,
Reproaching his proud brother, when she meets him,Because so like a fisherman he treats him.
Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there;She had risen early and o'er woodland green
Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fairUpon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene.
And not returning till the northern starHad rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,
Her mother made excuses quite provoking,Knitting at the time, a worsted stocking.
Juno-Lucina did not go—and why?She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.
Menippus, Jove's chief taster, standing byFor the disastrous Fates excuses made.
They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry,And they were also busy baking bread.
The cellarman, Silenus, kept away,To water the domestics' wine, that day.
On starry benches sit the famous warriorsOf the immortal kingdom, in a ring;
Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers,Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;
A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriersAttend, and their peculiar offerings bring.
And after them, armed with his club so hard,Alcides, captain of the city guard.
With Jove's broad hat and spectacles arrivedThe light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore
A sack, in which, of other means deprived,He damned poor mortals' prayers, some million score;
Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived,Which graced his father's cabinet of yore;
And, wont attention to all claims to pay,He regularly signed them twice a day.
Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed,With starry diadem upon his head,
And o'er his shoulders an imperial vestWorn upon holidays.—The king displayed
A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest:In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,
Given by the inhabitants of Sericane,And Ganymede held up his splendid train.
—A. Tassoni
(Pliny, the Younger, writes the following in a letter relative to the death of Minicia Marcella, the daughter of his friend, Fundanus.)
Tristissimus haec tibi scribo, Fundani nostri filia minore defuncta, qua puella nihil umquam festivius, amabilius, nec modo longiore vita sed prope immortalitate dignius vidi. Nondum annos quattuor decem impleverat, et iam illi anilis prudentia, matronalis gravitas erat, et tamen suavitas puellaris cum virginaliverecundia. Ut illa patris cervicibus inhaerebat! Ut nos amicos paternos et amanter et modeste complectabatur! ut nutrices, ut paedagogos, ut praeceptores, pro suo quemque officio diligebat! quam studiose, quam intellegenter lectitabat! ut parce custoditeque ludebat! Qua illa temperantia, qua patientia, qua etiam constantia novissimam valetudinem tulit! Medicis obsequebatur, sororem, patrem adhortabatur, ipsamque se destitutam corporis viribus vigore animi sustinebat. Duravit hic illi usque ad extremum nec aut spatio valetudinis aut metu mortis infractus est, quo plures gravioresque nobis causas relinqueret et desiderii et doloris. O triste plane acerbumque funus! O morte ipsa mortis tempus indignius! Iam destinata erat egregio iuveni, iam electus nuptiarum dies, iam nos vocati. Quod gaudium quo maerore mutatum est! Nec possum exprimere verbis quantum anima vulnus acceperim, cum audivi Fundanum ipsum, praecipientem, quod in vestes margarita gemmas fuerat erogaturus, hoc in tus et unguenta et odores impenderetur.
—C. Pliny.Epist.v, 16
I have the saddest news to tell you. Our friend Fundanus has lost his youngest daughter. I never saw a girl more cheerful, more lovable, more worthy of long life—nay, of immortality. She had not yet completed her fourteenth year, and she had already the prudence of an old woman, the gravity of a matron, and still, with all maidenly modesty, the sweetness of a girl. How she would cling to her father's neck! how affectionately and discreetly she would greet us, her father's friends! how she loved her nurses, her attendants, her teachers,—everyone according to his service. How earnestly, how intelligently, she used to read! How modest was she and restrained in her sports! And with what self-restraint, what patience—nay, what courage—she bore her last illness! She obeyed the physicians, encouraged her father and sister, and, when all strength of body had left her, kept herself alive by thevigor of her mind. This vigor lasted to the very end, and was not broken by the length of her illness or by the fear of death; so leaving, alas! to us yet more and weightier reasons for our grief and our regret. Oh the sadness, the bitterness of that death! Oh the cruelty of the time when we lost her, worse even than the loss itself! She had been betrothed to a noble youth; the marriage day had been fixed, and we had been invited. How great a joy changed into how great a sorrow! I cannot express in words how it went to my heart when I heard Fundanus himself (this is one of the grievous experiences of sorrow) giving orders that what he had meant to lay out on dresses, and pearls, and jewels, should be spent on incense, unguents, and spices.
—Tr.Alfred J. Church
Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,Et quantumst hominum venustiorum.Passer mortuus est meae puellae,Passer, deliciae meae puellae,Quem plus illa oculis suis amabat:Nam mellitus erat suamque noratIpsa tam bene quam puella matrem,Nec sese a gremio illius movebat,Sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illucAd solam dominam usque pipiabat.Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosumIlluc unde negant redire quemquam.At vobis male sit, malae tenebraeOrci, quae omnia bella devoratis:Tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis.O factum male! io miselle passer!Tua nunc opera meae puellaeFlendo turgiduli rubent ocelli.
—Catullus
Each Love, each Venus, mourn with me!Mourn, every son of gallantry!The sparrow, my own nymph's delight,The joy and apple of her sight;The honey-bird, the darling dies,To Lesbia dearer than her eyes,As the fair one knew her mother,So he knew her from another.With his gentle lady wrestling,In her snowy bosom nestling;With a flutter and a bound,Quiv'ring round her and around;Chirping, twitt'ring, ever near,Notes meant only for her ear.Now he skims the shadowy way,Whence none return to cheerful day.Beshrew the shades! that thus devourAll that's pretty in an hour.The pretty sparrow thus is dead;The tiny fugitive is fled.Deed of spite! poor bird!—ah! see,For thy dear sake, alas! for me!—My nymph with brimful eyes appears,Red from the flushing of her tears.
—Elton
The following tribute to Cicero was written by Catullus, the Roman lyric poet (87-54b.c.)
Disertissime Romuli nepotum,Quot sunt quotque fuere, Marce Tulli,Quot que post aliis erunt in annis,Gratius tibi maximas CatullusAgit, pessimus omnium poeta,Tanto pessimus omnium poetaQuanto tu optimus omnium patronum.
Tully, most eloquent, most sageOf all the Roman race,
That deck the past or present age,Or future days may grace.
Oh! may Catullus thus declareAn overflowing heart;
And, though the worst of poets, dareA grateful lay impart!
'Twill teach thee how thou hast surpastAll others in thy line;
For, far as he in his is last,Art thou the first in thine.
—Charles Lamb
Patiendo fit homo melior,Auro pulchrior,Vitro clarior,Laude dignior,Gradu altior,A vitiis purgatior,Virtutibus perfectior,Iesu Christo acceptior,Sanctis quoque similior,Hostibus suis fortior,Amicis amabilior.
—Thomas à Kempis
O Domine Deus!Speravi in te;O care mi Iesu!Nunc libera me:In dura catenaIn misera poenaDesidero te;Languendo, gemendo,Et genuflectendoAdoro, imploro,Ut liberes me!
My Lord and my God! I have trusted in Thee;O Jesus, my Savior belov'd, set me free:In rigorous chains, in piteous pains,I am longing for Thee!In weakness appealing, in agony kneeling,I pray, I beseech Thee, O Lord, set me free!
American pride has often gloried in Seneca's "Vision of the West" written more than 1800 years ago.
Venient annis
Saecula seris, quibus OceanusVincula rerum laxet, et ingensPateat tellus, Tethysque novosDetegat orbes, nec sit terrisUltima Thule.
—Seneca
A time will come in future ages farWhen Ocean will his circling bounds unbar,And, opening vaster to the Pilot's hand,New worlds shall rise, where mightier kingdoms are,Nor Thule longer be the utmost land.
Oh, the Roman was a rogue,He erat, was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilisAnd smoked his cigarettum;
He wore a diamond studibusAnd elegant cravatum,
A maxima cum laude shirtAnd such a stylish hattum.
He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc,And bet on games and equi:
At times he won: at others, though,He got it in the nequi.
He winked (quousque tandem?)At puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes even madeThose goo-goo oculorum!
He frequently was seenAt combats gladiatorial,
And ate enough to feedTen boarders at Memorial:
He often went on sprees,And said on starting homus,
"Hic labor, opus est,Oh, where's my hic-haec-domus?"
Although he lived in Rome—Of all the arts the middle—
He was (excuse the phrase)A horrid individ'l;
Ah, what a different thingWas the homo (dative homini)
Of far away B. C.From us of Anno Domini!
—Harvard Lampoon
TheJournal of Educationcommends this ingenious poem, written in seven languages— English, French, German, Greek, Latin, Spanish, and Italian— as one of the best specimens of Macaronic verse in existence, and worthy of preservation by all collectors.
In tempusold a hero lived,Quilovedpuellas deux;
He nopouvait pasquite to sayWhich oneamabat mieux.
Dit-il lui-meme un beau matin,"Non possumbothavoir,
Sed siaddress Amanda Ann,Then Katey yohave war.
Amandahabet argentcoin,SedKate hasaureascurls;
EtbothsuntveryagathæEtquiteformosægirls."
Enfinthejoven anthropos,Philountheduomaids,
Resolvedproponere adKateDevant cetevening's shades,
Procedensthen to Kate'sdomo,Il trouveAmanda there,
Kaiquite forgot his late resolves,Bothsuntso goodly fair,
Sedsmiling on the newtapis,Betweenpuellastwain,
Coepitto tellsuoloveaKateDans un poetiquestrain.
Mais, glancing everetanonAt fair Amanda's eyes,
Illæ non possunt dicereProwhich he meant his sighs.
Eachvirgoheard the demi-vow,Concheeks asrougeas wine,
Edoffering, each, a milk-white hand,Both whispered, "Ich bin dein."
Prope ripam fluvii solusA senex silently sat;
Super capitum ecce his wig,Et wig super, ecce his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,Dum elderly gentleman sat;
Et a capite took up quite torveEt in rivum projecit his hat.
Tunc soft maledixit the old man,Tunc stooped from the bank where he sat,
Et cum scipio poked in the water,Conatus servare his hat.
Blew Zephyrus alte, acerbus,The moment it saw him at that;
Et whisked his novum scratch wigIn flumen, along with his hat.
Ab imo pectore damnavit,In coeruleus eye dolor sat;
Tunc despairingly threw in his cane,Nare cum his wig and his hat.
L'Envoi
Contra bonos mores, don't swearIt est wicked you know (verbum sat)
Si this tale habet no other moralMehercle! You're gratus to that.
—James A. Morgan
A cat sedebat on our fenceAs laeta as could be;
Her vox surgebat to the skies,Canebat merrily.
My clamor was of no avail,Tho' clare did I cry.
Conspexit me with mild reproof,And winked her alter eye.
Quite vainly ieci boots, a lamp,Some bottles and a book;
Ergo, I seized my pistol, etMy aim cum cura took.
I had six shots, dixi, "Ye gods,May I that felis kill!"
Quamquam I took six of her livesThe other three sang still.
The felis sang with major vim,Though man's aim was true,
Conatus sum, putare quidIn tonitru I'd do.
A scheme advenit in my headScivi, 'twould make her wince—
I sang! Et then the hostis fledNon eam vidi since.
—Tennessee University Magazine
A homo ibat, one dark nightPuellas visitare
Et mansit there so very lateUt illi constet cura.
Pueri walking by the houseSaw caput in fenestra,
Et sunt morati for a whileTo see quis erat in there.
Soon caput turned its nasum roundIn viam puerorum;
Agnoscunt there the pedagogue,Oh! maximum pudorem!
Progressus puer to the doorCum magna quietate,
Et turned the key to lock him inMoratus satis ante.
Tum pedagogue arose to goEst feeling hunky-dore:
Sed non potest to get outNam key's outside the fore.
Ascendit sweetheart now the stairsCum festinato pede,
Et roused puellas from their sleepSed habent non the door key.
Tum excitavit dominumBy her tumultuous voce
Insanus currit to the doorEt vidit puellam.
"Furenti place," the master roared,"Why spoil you thus my somnum?
Exite from the other doorSi rogues have locked the front one."
Puella tristis hung her headAnd took her lover's manum,
Et cite from the other doorHis caput est impulsum.
Cum magno gradu redit domumRetrorsum umquam peeping,
Et never ausus est againVexare people's sleeping.
Puer ex JerseyIens ad school;
Vidit in meadow,Infestum mule.
Ille approachesO magnus sorrow!
Puer it skywardFunustomorrow.
Moral
Qui vidit a thingNon ei well-known
Est bene for himId relinqui alone.
—Anonymous
musical notation
Flevit lepus parvulusclamans altis vocibus:
Chorus
Quid feci hominibus,quod me sequuntur canibus?
Neque in horto fui,neque olus comedi.
Longas aures habeo,brevem caudam teneo.
Leves pedes habeo,magnum saltum facio.
Domus mea silva est,lectus meus durus est.
musical notation
musical notation
H. W. Longfellow, 1839, EnglishB. L. D'Ooge, 1885, LatinF. H. Barthélémon, 1741-1808
Ne narrate verbis mæstis,Esse vitam somnium!Vita nam iners est inanis,Et est visum perfidum.
Vita vera! vita gravis!Meta non est obitus;"Cinis es et cinis eris,"Nihil est ad spiritus.
Ned lætitia, nec mæror,Finis designatus est;Sed augere, est noster labor,Semper rem quæ nobis est.
Ars est longa, tempus fugit,Ut cor tuum valens sit,Tamen modum tristem tunditNeniæ qui concinit.
Orbis terræ campo in lato,In ætatis proeliis,Mutum pecus turpe ne esto!Heros esto in copiis!
Fidere futuro noli!Anni numquam redeunt.Age nunc! age in præsenti!Fortes dei diligunt.
Summi nos admonent omnesSimus inter nobilis,Et legemus, disce dentes,Signa viæ posteris;
Signa forsitan futuraAlicui felicia,Qui, tum in dura vitæ via,Cernat hæc cum gratia.
Agite, tum nos nitamurQuidquid erit, fortiter,Superantes iam sequamurPatienter, acriter.
Vita vera! vita gravis!Meta non est obitus;"Cinis es et cinis eris,"Nihil est ad spiritus.
musical notation
Gaudeamus igitur,Iuvenes dum sumus;
Post iucundam iuventutem,Post molestam senectutem,
Nos habebit humus.
Ubi sunt, qui ante nosIn mundo fuere?
Transeas ad superos,Abeas ad inferos,
Quos si vis videre.
Vita nostra brevis est,Brevi finietur;
Venit mors velociter,Rapit nos atrociter,
Nemini parcetur.
Vivat academia,Vivant professores,
Vivat membrum quodlibet,Vivant membra quaelibet,
Semper sint in flore.
Vivant omnes virgines,Faciles formosae;
Vivant et mulieres,Dulces et amabiles,
Bonae, laboriosae.
Vivat et res publica,Et qui illam regit.
Vivat nostra civitas,Maecenatum caritas,
Quae nos hic protegit.
Pereat tristitia,Pereant osores,
Pereat diabolus,Quivis antiburschius
Atque irrisores.
While the glowing hours are bright,Let not sadness mar them,
For when age shall rifle youth,And shall drive our joys unsooth,
Then the grave will bar them.
Where are those who from the worldLong ago departed!
Scale Olympus' lofty height—See grim Hades' murky night—
There are the great hearted.
Mortal life is but a span,That is quickly fleeting;
Cruel death comes on apaceAnd removes us from the race,
None with favor treating.
Long may this fair temple stand,Nassau now and ever!
Long may her professors graceEach his own time honored place,
Friendship failing never.
May our charming maidens live,Matchless all in beauty,
May our blooming matrons longBe the theme of grateful song,
Patterns bright of duty.
May our Union grow in strength,Faithful rulers guiding;
In the blaze of Freedom's lightWhere the genial arts are bright,
Find we rest abiding.
Out on sighing! Vanish hate,And ye friends of sadness;
To his chill abode of woe,Let the dread Philistine go,
Who would steal our gladness.
—Tr.J. A. Pearce, Jr.
musical notation
Lauriger Horatius,Quam dixisti verum!
Fugit Euro citiusTempus edax rerum.
Chorus
Ubi sunt, O pocula,Dulciora melle,
Rixae, pax, et osculaRubentis puellae?
Crescit uva molliter,Et puella crescit,
Sed poeta turpiterSitiens canescit.
Quid iuvat aeternitasNominis, amare
Nisi terrae filiasLicet, et potare?
Horace, crowned with laurels bright,Truly thou hast spoken;
Time outspeeds the swift winds' flight,Earthly power is broken.
Chorus
Give me cups that foaming rise,Cups with fragrance laden,
Pouting lips and smiling eyes,Of a blushing maiden.
Blooming grows the budding vine,And the maid grows blooming;
But the poet quaffs not wine,Age is surely dooming.
Who would grasp at empty fame?'Tis a fleeting vision;
But for love and wine we claim,Sweetness all Elysian.
—Tr.J. A. Pearce, Jr.
This singable Latin translation of America was made by Professor George D. Kellogg of Union College and appeared inThe Classical Weekly.
Te cano, Patria,candida, libera;
te referet
portus et exulumet tumulus senum;libera montium
vox resonet.
Te cano, Patria,semper et atria
ingenuum;
laudo virentiaculmina, flumina;sentio gaudia
caelicolum.
Sit modulatio!libera natio
dulce canat!
labra vigentia,ora faventia,saxa silentia
vox repleat!
Tutor es unicus,unus avum deus!
Laudo libens.
Patria luceat,libera fulgeat,vis tua muniat,
Omnipotens!
musical notation
Integer vitae, scelerisque purusNon eget Mauris jaculis nec arcu,Nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra.
Sive per Syrtes, iter aestuosas,Sive facturus per inhospitalemCaucasum, vel quae loca fabulosus
Lambit Hydaspes.
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campisArbor aestiva recreatur aura;Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;
Pone sub curru nimium propinquiSolis, in terra domibus negata:Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.
Fuscus, the man of life upright and pureNeedeth nor javelin, nor bow of MoorNor arrows tipped with venom deadly-sure,
Loading his quiver.
Whether o'er Afric's burning sand he rides,Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain-sides,Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides,
That storied river.
Place me where no life-laden summer breezeFreshens the meads, or murmurs 'mongst the trees;Where clouds oppress, and withering tempests' breeze
From shore to shore.
Place me beneath the sunbeams' fiercest glare,On arid sands, no dwelling anywhere,Still Lalage's sweet smile, sweet voicee'en there
I will adore.
—Tr.William Greenwood
Iesu, pro me perforatus,Condar intra tuum latus,Tu per lympham profluentem,Tu per sanguinem tepentem,In peccata mi redunda,Tolle culpam, sordes munda.
Coram te nec iustus forem,Quamvis tota vi laborem.Nec si fide nunquam cesso,Fletu stillans indefesso:Tibi soli tantum munus:Salva me, Salvator unus!
Nil in manu mecum feroSed me versus crucem gero;Vestimenta nudus oro,Opem debilis imploro;Fontem Christi quaero immundus,Nisi laves, moribundus.
Dum hos artus vita regit;Quando nox sepulchre tegit;Mortuos cum stare iubes;Sedens iudex inter nubes;Iesu, pro me perforatus,Condar intra tuum latus.
—Toplady. Tr. byGladstone
Dies irae, dies illaSolvet saeclum in favilla,Teste David cum Sybilla.
Quantus tremor est futurus,Quando iudex est venturus,Cuncta stricte discussurus!
Tuba, mirum spargens sonumPer sepulcra regionum,Coget omnes ante thronum.
Mors stupebit, et natura,Cum resurget creaturaIudicanti responsura.
Liber scriptus proferetur,Inquo totum continetur,Unde mundus iudicetur.
Iudex ergo cum sedebit,Quidquid latet, apparebit,Nil inultum remanebit.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,Quem patronum rogaturus,Cum vix iustus sit securus?
Rex tremendae maiestatis,Qui salvandos salvas gratis,Salva me, fons pietatis!
Recordare, Iesu pie,Quod sum causa tuae viae;Ne me perdas illa die!
Quaerens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus:Tantus labor non sit cassus!
Iuste iudex ultionis,Donum fac remissionisAnte diem rationis!
—Thomas of Celano
Day of Wrath,—that Day of Days,—When earth shall vanish in a blaze,As David, with the Sibyl, says!
What a trembling will come o'er us,When the Judge shall be before us,For every hidden sin to score us!
The trumpet with its wondrous sound,Piercing each sepulchral mound,Shall summon all, the throne around.
Nature and death will stand aghast,When those who to the grave have past,Come answering to the judgment blast!
The Written Book shall be unrolled,Wherein the deeds of all are told,And shall the doom of all unfold.
For when the Judge shall be enthroned,No secret shall be left unowned,No crime or trespass unatoned.
When for a guilty wretch like me,What plea, what pleader, will there be,When scarcely shall the just go free!
King of tremendous majesty,Whose grace saves all who saved may be,Fountain of mercy, oh save me!
Forget not then, dear Son of God,For my sake Thou thy way hast trod,Nor let me sink beneath thy rod.
Yes, me to save Thou sat'st in pain,Nor didst the bitter Cross disdain,—Let not such anguish be in vain!
Unerring Judge, thy wrath restrain,And let my sins remission gain,While still the days of grace remain.
—Tr.Robert C. Winthrop
Veni, Sancte Spiritus,Et emitte coelitusLucis tuae radium.Veni, pater pauperum,Veni, dator munerum,Veni, lumen cordium;
O lux beatissima,Reple cordis intimaTuorum fidelium!Sine tuo numineNihil est in homine,Nihil est innoxium.
Da tuis fidelibusIn te confitentibusSacrum septenarium;Da virtutis meritum,Da salutis exitum,Da perenne gaudium!
Holy Spirit, come, we prayShed from Heaven thine inward ray,Kindle darkness into day.Come, Thou Father of the poor,Come, Thou source of all our store,Light of hearts forevermore.
Light most blissful! Fire divine!Fill, oh! fill these hearts of Thine!On our inmost being shine.If in Thee it be not wroughtAll in men is simply naught,Nothing pure in deed and thought.
On the faithful who confide,Solely in Thyself as guide,Let Thy sevenfold gifts abide.Grant them virtue's full increase,Grant them safe and sweet release,Grant them everlasting peace!
Adeste, fideles,Laeti, triumphantes,Venite, venite in Bethlehem:Natum videteRegem Angelorum:
Chorus
Venite adoremus,Venite adoremus,Venite adoremus Dominum.
Deum de Deo,Lumen de lumine,Gestant puellae viscera:Deum verum,Genitum non factum:
Cantet nunc IoChorus Angelorum,Cantet nunc aula caelestium:Gloria inExcelsis Deo:
Ergo qui natusDie hodiernaIesu, tibi sit gloria:Patris aeterniVerbum caro factum.
O come, all ye faithful,Joyful and triumphant,O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem;Come and behold him.Born, the King of Angels;O come, let us adore Him,O come, let us adore Him,O come, let us adore Him, Christ the Lord.
God of God,Light of Light,Lo! He abhors not the Virgin's womb;Very God,Begotten, not created;O come, let us adore Him, etc.
Sing choirs of Angels,Sing in exultation,Sing, all ye citizens of Heav'n above:"Glory to GodIn the highest";O come, let us adore Him, etc.
Yea, Lord, we greet Thee,Born this happy morning;Jesu, to Thee be glory given;Word of the Father,Now in flesh appearing;O come, let us adore Him, etc.
Puer natus in BethlehemUnde gaudet Ierusalem
Hic iacet in praesepio,Qui regnat sine termino.
Cognovit bos et asinusQuod puer erat Dominus.
Reges de Saba veniunt,Aurum, thus, myrrham offerunt.
Intrantes domum invicemNovum salutant Principem.
De matre natus virgineSine virile semine;
Sine serpentis vulnereDe nostro venit sanguine;
In carne nobis similis,Peccato sed dissimilis;
Ut redderet nos hominesDeo et sibi similes
In hoc natali gaudioBenedicamus Domino.
Laudetur sancta Trinitas;Deo dicamus gratias.