He closed his eyes, but still retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the black hand and the white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at broken intervals, "Recordare Jesu pie Ne me perdas illa die Querens me sedisti lassus."
Clare sang the more pathetic parts. Tom would have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning of the beautiful words: Recordare Jesu pie Quod sum causa tuar viae Ne me perdas, illa die Querens me sedisti lassus Redemisti crucem passus Tantus laor non sit cassus.* St.
Quaerens me sedisti lassus Redemisti crucem passus Tantus labor non sit passus. Francis Thompson's long walks by day and by night had magnificent company. In the country, in the streets of London, he was attended by seraphim and cherubim. The heavenly visions were more real to him than London Bridge.
But the supreme point even of Doomsday, of the Dies Irae, has not been seized. We do not hear the still small voice of pathos and of human hope which thrills through Thomas a Celano's hymn: Quaerens me sedisti lassus, Redemisti crucem passus: Tantus labor non sit cassus.