Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor aestiva recreatur aura;
Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;
Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis, in terra domibus negata:
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.
Translation
Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure
Needeth nor javelin, nor bow of Moor
Nor 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 breeze
Freshens 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 voice _e'en there_
I will adore.
--Tr. William Greenwood
ROCK OF AGES
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 fero
Sed me versus crucem gero;
Vestimenta nudus oro,
Opem debilis imploro;
Fontem Christi quaero immundus,
Nisi laves, moribundus.
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