I LOVE thee, holy Church of Rome,
For hallowed is thy ground;
Our Lord hath made His earthly home,
Upon thine altars found.
Mother, and queen of Christendom,
Spouse of our God most high ;
For thee, O holy Church of Rome,
I'd lay me down and die !
O Church of Rome, thou art the one
White pearl of all the earth;
The home of Heaven's outcast son,
The country of his birth.
Heaven's glory lights thy sacred dome,
And gilds thine altars high;
And for thee, holy Church of Rome,
I'd lay me down and die !
I love thee, holy Church of Rome,
Old, and for ever young:
To thee all tribes of earth shall come, Of every race and tongue.
Firm rock, amid the ocean foam,
Bright beacon-star on high;
For thee, O holy Church of Rome,
I'd lay me down and die!
How fair thine outward gates of gold
Poor aliens know full well;
But what within thou dost unfold,
No angel's tongue can tell.
O never from thy shrine to roam,
Thine be my life's last sigh;
In thee, O holy Church of Rome,
I'll lay me down and die!
The Joy of a Good Conscience.
I'm a poor little child, and but briefly I pray,
And all my heart's wealth is a spirit that's gay;
My heart is so gay, for my soul is at rest,
And the beam of God's smile makes a light in my breast.
There's nothing but sin can e'er part us from Him, Who loves us in joy, as in sorrow so dim ;
And I'll grieve for each fault, and for help I will pray, And in holy confession I'll wash it away.
In the fair summer morning fresh dewdrops we see On the small thirsty flow'rets of meadow and lea : Thus at mass and confession I'll try to regain Bright dewdrops to shine on my spirit again.
ROBIN REDBREAST! joyous singer,
In the changeful autumn tree;
When the fleeting sunbeams linger,
Dear thy music is to me.
Robin Redbreast! gay new-comer,
Dear old friend, returned again;
Saying, "Grieve not for the summer-
Both are fading, joy and pain."
Robin Redbreast! sweetly singing
In the autumn of the year,
Though few berries may be clinging
To branch and bough for thy poor cheer;
Robin Redbreast, there is given
A happy heart, thine own to be : Wise are they who trust in Heaven, Glad, and fearless, like to thee !
Good Lodgings.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
A HOSPITABLE host was mine,
Courteous as few might know ;
A golden apple was his sign,
Upon a long green bough.
It was the worthy apple-tree
Whose good cheer then I tasted;
Fresh juicy drink he gave to me,
And on ripe fruit I feasted.
Into his green and open house
Came many a light-winged guest;
With joyous hearts in gay carouse
They sang their very best.
No sweeter bed than mine could be
Upon the soft green meadow;
My host himself there covered me
With his cool pleasant shadow.
But when I asked, "What was to pay!"
He shook his head-joy send him !
Oh may my blessing, night and day,
From root to top attend him!
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