Miserere

Be pitiful, oh God! the night is long,
    My soul is faint with watching for the light,
    And still the gloom and doubt of seven-fold night
Hangs heavy on my spirit: Thou art strong.--
    Pity me, oh my God!

I stretch my hands through darkness up to Thee,--
    The stars are shrouded, and the night is dumb;
    There is no earthly help,--to Thee I come
In all my helplessness and misery,--
    Pity me, oh my God!

Be pitiful, oh God!--for I am weak,
    And all my paths are rough, and hedged about,--
    Hold Thou my hand dear Lord, and lead me out,
And bring me to the city which I seek,--
    Pity me, oh my God!

By the temptation which Thou didst endure,
    And by Thy fasting and Thy midnight prayer,
    Jesu! let me not utterly despair;
Oh! hide me in the Rock from ill secure,--
    Pity me, oh my God!

Mine eyes run down with tears that do not cease;
    Oh! when beyond the river dark and cold,
    Shall I the white walls of my home behold,--
The shining palaces--the streets of gold,--
And enter through the gates the City of Peace,--
    Pity me, oh my God!

Kate Seymour Maclean

Kate Seymour Maclean, born on January 6, 1829, was a Canadian poet who carved out a significant place for herself in the literary scene of her time. Her poetry often reflected the deep appreciation she had for nature, and she was renowned for her elegant and evocative style. Maclean's work was well-regarded by her contemporaries, and she maintained correspondence with others in the literary community, including famous poets like Bliss Carman and Charles G.D. Roberts. She passed away on March 23, 1914, but her contributions to Canadian literature have left a lasting legacy.

Kate Seymour Maclean

My Garden

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

A Baby's Death

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

Christmas Hymn.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

English

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Questionings.

I touch but the things which are near;
    The heavens are too high for my reach:
        In shadow and symbol and creed,
        I discern not the soul from the deed,
    Nor the thought hidden under, from speech;
And the thing which I know not I fear.

I dare not despair nor despond,
    Though I grope in the dark for the dawn:
        Birth and laughter, and bubbles of breath,
        And tears, and the blank void of death,
    Round each its penumbra is drawn,--
I touch them,--I see not beyond.

What voice speaking solemn and slow,
    Before the beginning for me,
        From the mouth of the primal First Cause,
        Shall teach me the thing that I was,
    Shall point out the thing I shall be,
And show me the path that I go?

...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Out Of The Depths.

Thou art, and, therefore, Thou art near, oh God!
    Thick darkness covers me, I cannot see;
Is this the Shepherd's crook, or the correcting rod,
    And by Thy hand, O Father, laid on me?

I cry to Thee, and shall I cry in vain?
    My soul looks up as if through prison bars,
Up through the silent Heaven, ah, turn again
    Thy face to me, hide not behind the stars.

Thy presence hath been with me in the past,
    Where "heaps of witness" mark out all the way;
Thy years change not, Thy love is still as vast,
    I look to Thee, I trust Thee though Thou slay.

My friends walk on the hills the sun hath kissed,
    Flowers at their feet, their sky is blue and fair;
I'm prisoned in this vale of tearful mist,
    Shut in with sorrow, darkened by despair....

Nora Pembroke

A Morn Of Guilt, An Hour Of Doom. (Hymn)

"There was darkness."

A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom -
    Shocks and tremblings dread;
All the city sunk in gloom -
    Thick darkness overhead.
An awful Sufferer straight and stark;
    Mocking voices fell;
Tremblings - tremblings in the dark,
    In heaven, and earth, and hell.

Groping, stumbling up the way,
    They pass, whom Christ forgave;
They know not what they do - they say,
    "Himself He cannot save.
On His head behold the crown
    That alien hands did weave;
Let Him come down, let Him come down,
    And we will believe!"

Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,
    Cloven rocks down hurl'd;
God's love itself doth seem to fail
    The Saviour of the world.
Dying thieves do curse and wail,
    Eithe...

Jean Ingelow

A Martyr. The Vigil Of The Feast.

Inner not outer, without gnash of teeth
Or weeping, save quiet sobs of some who pray
And feel the Everlasting Arms beneath, -
Blackness of darkness this, but not for aye;
Darkness that even in gathering fleeteth fast,
Blackness of blackest darkness close to day.
Lord Jesus, through Thy darkened pillar cast,
Thy gracious eyes all-seeing cast on me
Until this tyranny be overpast.
Me, Lord, remember who remember Thee,
And cleave to Thee, and see Thee without sight,
And choose Thee still in dire extremity,
And in this darkness worship Thee my Light,
And Thee my Life adore in shadow of death,
Thee loved by day, and still beloved by night.
It is the Voice of my Beloved that saith:
"I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, I go
Whither that soul knows well that follow...

Christina Georgina Rossetti

Psal. LXXXVIII

Lord God that dost me save and keep,
All day to thee I cry;
And all night long, before thee weep
Before thee prostrate lie.
Into thy presence let my praier
With sighs devout ascend
And to my cries, that ceaseless are,
Thine ear with favour bend.
For cloy'd with woes and trouble store
Surcharg'd my Soul doth lie,
My life at death's uncherful dore
Unto the grave draws nigh.
Reck'n'd I am with them that pass
Down to the dismal pit
I am a ^*1man, but weak alas
And for that name unfit.
From life discharg'd and parted quite
Among the dead to sleep
And like the slain in bloody fight
That in the grave lie deep.
Whom thou rememberest no more,
Dost never more regard,
Them from thy hand deliver'd o're
Deaths hideous house hath...

John Milton

Impenitent Ultima

Before my light goes out for ever if God should give me a choice of graces,
I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be;
But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces,
Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see.

"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses,
And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat,
But at Thy terrible judgment-seat, when this my tired life closes,
I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

"But once before the sand is run and the silver thread is broken,
Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years,
Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token
Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe ...

Ernest Christopher Dowson