Chapter II: A Study of the Life and Poetry of Richard Crashaw (7)

Spes diva, salve! diva avidam tuo
Necessitatem numine prorogans,
Vindicta fortunae furentis,
Una salus mediis ruinis.
Regina quamvis, tu solium facis
Depressa parvi tecta tugurii;
Surgit jacentes inter; illic
Firma magis tua regna constant.
Cantus catenis, carmina carcere,
Dolore ab ipso gaudiaque exprimis:
Scintilla tu vivis sub imo
Pectoris, haud metuens procellas.
Tu regna servis, copia pauperi,
Victis triumphus, littora naufrago,
Ipsisque damnatis patrona,
Anchora sub medio profundo.
Quin ipse alumnus sum tuus, ubere
Pendens ab isto, et hinc animam traho.
O Diva nutrix, o foventes
Pande sinus, sitiens laboro.

TRANSLATION.

HOPE.

Hail, goddess Hope!
Who Fate remorseless movest
Far off, and canst with raging Fortune cope;
'Mid ruin thou our sole salvation provest.
A mighty queen,
Thy throne on roof-trees lowly
And prostrate souls is fix'd, and there are seen
The firm foundations of thy kingdom holy.
A gladsome hymn
From fetters disengaging,
And joy from grief, thou liv'st in bosom dim,
A spark that laughs at tempests wildly raging.
A crown to slaves;
Abundance to the needy;
To shipwreck'd men a refuge from the waves;
To conquer'd and condemn'd deliverance speedy.
An 'Anchor sure,'
The eternal Rock thou graspest,
The strain of ocean 'stedfast' to endure;
And Heaven's calm joys 'within the veil' thou claspest.
Nay, I thy child,
Dependent here adore thee:
From thee I draw my life, O Mother mild;
Open thy fostering bosom, I implore thee. R. WI.

{EIS TON TOU STEPHANOU STEPHANON}.

Ecce tuos lapides! nihil est pretiosius illis;
Seu pretium capiti dent, capiantve tuo.
Scilicet haec ratio vestri diadematis: hoc est,
Unde coronatis vos decet ire comis.
Quisque lapis quanto magis in se vilis habetur,
Ditior hoc capiti est gemma futura tuo.
Haec est, quae sacra didicit florere figura,
Non nisi per lacrymas charta videnda tuas.
Scilicet ah dices, haec cum spectaveris ora,
Ora sacer sic, o sic tulit ille pater.
Sperabis solitas illinc, pia fulmina, voces;
Sanctaque tam dulci mella venire via.
Sic erat illa, suas Famae cum traderet alas,
Ad calamum, dices, sic erat illa manus.
Tale erat et pectus, celsae domus ardua mentis,
Tale suo plenum sidere pectus erat.
O bene fallacis mendacia pulchra tabellae,
Et qui tam simili vivit in aere, labor!
Cum tu tot chartis vitam, Pater alme, dedisti,
Haec merito vitam charta dat una tibi.

TRANSLATION.

ON STEPHEN'S CROWN.

[This poem seems only intelligible by our supposing that a double
reference is intended; first, and faintly, to St. Stephen the
proto-martyr; and mainly to Stephens (Stephanus), father and son,
Robert and Henry, the great scholars, commentators, printers, and
publishers of the sixteenth century, whose books would always be in
Crashaw's hands. Stephens, father and son, suffered persecution,
banishment, poverty, and excommunication alike from Protestants and
Catholics, while engaged in bringing out the Bible, Greek Testament,
and numerous Classic Authors. 'In two years Henry revised and
published more than 4000 pages of Greek text.' In the latter years
of his life, being driven from Geneva (as it is alleged) by the
'petty surveillance and censorship of the pious pastors there, he
wandered in poverty over Europe, his own family often ignorant where
he was to be found.']

Behold thy stones! more precious nought is seen,
Whether they deck with precious rays serene
Thy head, or from it take a precious glow.
This is your style of diadem; e'en so
With crowned locks 'tis seemly ye should go:
The viler in itself each stone may seem,
A richer gem upon thy head will gleam.
Behold the Book where, seen through mist of tears,
A sacred form in manhood's bloom appears.
Ah, you will say, when you behold this face,
Such looks, O such, our father us'd to grace.
The accustom'd sounds you hope for--holy thunder,
And the blest honey hid that sweet tongue under:
So, o'er his pen, you say, that hand was bent,
When her own wings to fetter'd Fame he lent.
Such was that breast, his spirit's lofty dwelling--
That breast with its own starry thoughts high swelling.
O pleasing fantasies of picture fair,
And kindred forms which laboured brass may bear!
Since through thee, Sire, such countless writings live,
Life unto thee let this one writing give. R. WI.

EXPOSTULATIO JESU CHRISTI

CUM MUNDO INGRATO.

Sum pulcher: at nemo tamem me diligit.
Sum nobilis: nemo est mihi qui serviat.
Sum dives: a me nemo quicquam postulat.
Et cuncta possum: nemo me tamen timet.
Aeternus exsto: quaeror a paucissimis.
Prudensque sum: sed me quis est qui consulit?
Et sum Via: at per me quotusquisque ambulat?
Sum Veritas: quare mihi non creditur?
Sum Vita: verum rarus est qui me petit.
Sum Vera Lux: videre me nemo cupit.
Sum misericors: nullus fidem in me collocat.
Tu, si peris, non id mihi imputes, homo:
Salus tibi est a me parata: hac utere.[97]

TRANSLATION.

JESUS CHRIST'S EXPOSTULATION

WITH AN UNGRATEFUL WORLD.

I am all-fair, yet no one loveth Me:
Noble, yet no one would My servant be:
Rich, yet no suppliant at My gate appears:
Almighty, yet before Me no one fears:
Eternal, I by very few am sought:
Wise am I, yet My counsel goes for nought:
I am the Way, yet by Me walks scarce one:
The Truth, why am I not relied upon?
The Life, yet seldom one My help requires:
The True Light, yet to see Me none desires:
And I am merciful, yet none is known
To place his confidence in Me alone.
Man, if thou perish, 'tis that thou dost choose it;
Salvation I have wrought for thee, O use it! R. WI.

Latin Poems.

PART SECOND. SECULAR.

I.

FROM 'STEPS TO THE TEMPLE' AND 'DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES,' ETC.

1646-1648.

NOTE.

Among the English poems of the 'Steps to the Temple' and 'Delights
of the Muses' of 1646 were the following, in order: In Picturam
Reverendissimi Episcopi D. Andrews (p. 89)--Epitaphium in Dominum
Herrisium (pp. 92-3)--Principi recens natae omen maternae indolis
(pp. 108-9)--In Serenissimae Reginae partum hyemalem (pp. 118-9)--Ad
Reginam (pp. 121-2)--In faciem Augustiss. Regis a morbillis integram
(p. 127)--Rex Redux (pp. 131-2), and Ad Principem nondum natum (p.
133). In the enlarged edition of 1648 besides these, there appeared:
Bulla (pp. 54-58)--Thesaurus Malorum Foemina (p. 59)--In Apollinea
depereuntem Daphnen (pp. 60-1)--Aeneas Patris sui Bajulus (p.
61)--In Pygmaliona (p. 61)--Arion (pp. 61-2)--Phoenicis Genethliacon
et Epicedion (p. 63)--Epitaphium (p. 64)--Damno affici saepe fit
Lucrum (pp. 64-5)--Humanae Vitae Descriptio (p. 65)--Tranquillitas
Animi, Similitudine ducta ab Ave captiva et canora tamen (pp. 66-7).

These Poems I have arranged under two classes: (_a_) Miscellaneous,
really, not merely formally, poetry: (_b_) Royal and other
commemorative pieces. The former in the present section, the latter
in the next. See our Essay on each. Nearly the whole of the
translations in this division are by myself, with additional
renderings of some by Rev. Thomas Ashe, M.A., as before, and others
by Rev. Richard Wilton, M.A., as before, as pointed out in the
places.

As before, I note here the more misleading errors of Turnbull's
text. In 'Bulla,' l. 1, 'timores' for 'tumores;' l. 4, 'dextera
mihi' for 'dextra mei;' l. 54, 'nitent' for 'niteat;' l. 80, 'avis'
for 'uvis;' l. 84, 'nives' for 'niveae;' l. 85, 'sint' for 'sunt;'
l. 154, 'desinet' for 'defluet;' l. 157, 'Tempe' for 'Nempe:' in
Tranquillitas Animi,' l. 13, 'minis minisque' for 'nimis nimisque;'
l. 16, 'patrisque' for 'patreaeque;' l. 20, 'provocabit' for
'provocabat:' in 'Humanae Vitae Descriptio,' l. 13, 'more' for
'mare:' in 'Apollinea depereuntem Daphnen,' l. 12, 'ores' for
'oris:' in Phoenicis Genethliacon et Epicedion,' l. 5, 'teipsum' for
'teipsam:' in 'Epitaphium,' l. 6, 'tremulum' for 'tremulam;' l. 7,
'discas' for 'disces,' 'hinc' for 'huc,' and 'reponas' for
'repones;' l. 10, 'miseris' for 'nimis:' in 'Thesaurus Malorum
Foemina,' l. 16, 'Pietas' for 'Pectus.' G.

BULLA.

Quid tibi vana suos offert mea Bulla tumores?
Quid facit ad vestrum pondus inane meum?
Expectat nostros humeros toga fortior. Ista
En mea Bulla, lares en tua dextra mei.
Quid tu? quae nova machina, 5
Quae tam fortuito globo
In vitam properas brevem?
Qualis virgineos adhuc
Cypris concutiens sinus,
Cypris jam nova, jam recens, 10
Et spumis media in suis,
Promsit purpureum latus;
Concha de patria micas,
Pulchroque exsilis impetu;
Statim et millibus ebria 15
Ducens terga coloribus
Evolvis tumidos sinus
Sphaera plena volubili.
Cujus per varium latus,
Cujus per teretem globum 20
Iris lubrica cursitans
Centum per species vagas,
Et picti facies chori
Circum regnat, et undique,
Et se Diva volatilis 25
Jucundo levis impetu
Et vertigine perfida
Lasciva sequitur fuga,
Et pulchre dubitat; fluit
Tam fallax toties novis, 30
Tot se per reduces vias,
Erroresque reciprocos
Spargit vena coloribus;
Et pompa natat ebria.
Tali militia micans 35
Agmen se rude dividit;
Campis quippe volantibus,
Et campi levis aequore
Ordo insanus obambulans
Passim se fugit, et fugat. 40
Passim perdit, et invenit.
Pulchrum spargitur hic Chaos.
Hic viva, hic vaga flumina
Ripa non propria meant,
Sed miscent socias vias, 45
Communique sub alveo
Stipant delicias suas.
Quarum proximitas vaga
Tam discrimine lubrico,
Tam subtilibus arguit 50
Juncturam tenuem notis,
Pompa ut florida nullibi
Sinceras habeat vias;
Nec vultu niteat suo.
Sed dulcis cumulus novos 55
Miscens purpureus sinus
Flagrant divitiis suis,
Privatum renuens jubar.
Floris diluvio vagi,
Floris sidere publico 60
Late ver subit aureum,
Atque effunditur in suae
Vires undique copiae.
Nempe omnis quia cernitur,
Nullus cernitur hic color, 65
Et vicinia contumax
Allidit species vagas.
Illic contiguis aquis
Marcent pallidulae faces.
Unde hic vena tenellulae, 70
Flaminis ebria proximis
Discit purpureas vias,
Et rubro salit alveo.
Ostri sanguineum jubar
Lambunt lactea flumina; 75
Suasu caerulei maris
Mansuescit seges aurea;
Et lucis faciles genae
Vanas ad nebulas stupent;
Subque uvis rubicundulis 80
Flagrant sobria lilia;
Vicinis adeo rosis
Vicinae invigilant nives;
Ut sint et niveae rosae,
Ut sunt et roseae nives, 85
Accenduntque rosae nives,
Extinguuntque nives rosas.
Illic cum viridi rubet,
Hic et cum rutile viret,
Lascivi facies chori. 90
Et quicquid rota lubrica
Caudae stelligerae notat,
Pulchrum pergit et in ambitum.
Hic coeli implicitus labor,
Orbes orbibus obvii; 95
ex velleris aurei,
Grex pellucidus aetheris;
Qui noctis nigra pascua
Puris morsibus atterit;
Hic quicquid nitidum et vagum 100
Coeli vibrat arenula,
Dulci pingitur in joco;
Hic mundus tener impedit
Sese amplexibus in suis.
Succinctique sinu globi 105
Errat per proprium decus.
Hic nictant subitae faces,
Et ludunt tremulum diem,
Mox se surripiunt sui et
Quaerunt tecta supercili, 110
Atque abdunt petulans jubar,
Subsiduntque proterviter.
Atque haec omnia quam brevis
Sunt mendacia machinae!
Currunt scilicet omnia 115
Sphaera, non vitrea quidem--
Ut quondam Siculus globus--
Sed vitro nitida magis,
Sed vitro fragili magis,
Et vitro vitrea magis. 120
Sum venti ingenium breve,
Flos sum, scilicet, aeris,
Sidus scilicet aequoris;
Naturae jocus aureus,
Naturae vaga fabula, 125
Naturae breve somnium.
Nugarum decus et dolor;
Dulcis doctaque vanitas.
Aurae filia perfidae;
Et risus facilis parens. 130
Tantum gutta superbior,
Fortunatius et lutum.
Sum fluxae pretium spei;
Una ex Hesperidum insulis.
Formae pyxis, amantium 135
Clare caecus ocellulus;
Vanae et cor leve gloriae.
Sum caecae speculum Deae,
Sum Fortunae ego tessera,
Quam dat militibus suis; 140
Sum Fortunae ego symbolum,
Quo sancit fragilem fidem
Cum mortalibus ebriis,
Obsignatque tabellulas.
Sum blandum, petulans, vagum, 145
Pulchrum, purpureum, et decens,
Comptum, floridulum, et recens,
Distinctum nivibus, rosis,
Undis, ignibus, aere,
Pictum, gemmeum, et aureum, 150
O sum, scilicet, o NIHIL.
Si piget, et longam traxisse in taedia pompam
Vivax, et nimium Bulla videtur anus:
Tolle tuos oculos pensum leve defluet, illam
Parca metet facili non operosa manu. 155
Vixit adhuc. Cur vixit? adhuc tu nempe legebas.
Nempe fuit tempus tum potuisse mori?

NOTE.

A collation of the 'Bulla' with the Tanner MS. corrects the
punctuation of the original and subsequent printed texts, and
specially puts right in the last line 'Nempe' for 'Tempe,' so long
retained. In the fourth line from close the printed texts read
'desinet' for 'defluet.' Nothing else noticeable. G.

TRANSLATION. THE BUBBLE. [TO REV. DR. LANY.]

What art thou? What new device,
Globe, chance-fashion'd in a trice,
Into brief existence bounding,
Perfectly thy circle rounding?
As when Cypris, her breast smiting--
Virgin still, all love inviting--
Cypris in young loveliness
Couch'd rosy where the white waves press
Her to bear and her to bless;
_So_ forth from thy native shell
Gleamest thou ineffable!
Springing up with graceful bound
And describing dainty round;
Thousand colours come and go
As thou dost thy fair curves show,
Swelling out--a whirling ball
Meet for Fairy-Festival;
Through whose sides of shifting hue,
Through whose smooth-turn'd globe, we view
Iris' gliding rainbow sitting,
In a hundred forms soft-flitting:
And semblance of a troop displaying,
All around dominion swaying:
And the Goddess volatile
With witching step and luring smile
Follows still with twinkling foot
In link'd mazes involute:
With many a sight-deceiving turn
And flight which makes pursuers burn,
And a graceful hesitation--
Only treacherous simulation:
JUST SO, and no less deceiving,
Our BUBBLE, all its colours weaving,
Follows ever-varying courses,
Or in air itself disperses:
Here now, there now, coming, going,
Wand'ring as if ebbing, flowing:
Sporting Passion's colours all
In ways that are bacchanal;
And the GLOBES undisciplin'd
As though driven by the wind,
Borne along the fleeting plains
Light as air; nor order reigns--
But the heaven-possess'd array
Moving each in its own way,
Hither now and thither flying,
Glancing, wavering, and dying,
Losing still their path and finding,
In a random inter-winding:
Rising, falling, on careering,
Vis'ble now, now disappearing;
Living wand'ring streams outgoing,
Ev'n Confusion beauteous showing:
Flowing not each in its course,
But each to other joining force;
Moving in pleasant pastime still
In a mutual good-will:
And a nearness that's so near
You the contact almost fear,
Yet so finely drawn to eye
In its delicate subtlety
That the procession, blossom-fair,
Nowhere has direction clear:
Nor with their own aspect glance,
But in the sweet luxuriance
Which skiey influences lend,
As in new windings on they trend:
Throwing off the stol'n sunlight
In a flood of blossoms bright,
Scatter'd on the fields of light;
Such a brilliancy of bloom
As all may share if all will come.
Now golden Spring advances lightly,
Spreading itself on all sides brightly,
Out of its rich and full supply
Open-handed, lavishly.
Since all colours you discern,
No one colour may you learn:
All tints melted into one
In a sweet confusion,
You cannot tell 'tis that or this,
So shifting is the loveliness:
Gleams as of the peacock's crest,
Or such as on dove's neck rest;
Opal, edg'd with amethyst,
Or the sunset's purpl'd mist,
Or the splendour that there lies
In a maiden's azure eyes,
Kindling in a sweet surprise:
Flower-tints, shell-tints, tender-dy'd,
Save to curious unespied:
Lo, one BUBBLE follows t'other,
Differing still from its frail brother,
Striking still from change to change
With a quick and vivid range.
There in the contiguous wave
Torches palely-glist'ning lave;
Here what delicate love-lights shine!
Through them near flames bick'ring shine.
Matching flushing of the rose,
As the ruddy channel flows:
Milky rivers in white tide
Lucent, hush, still onwards glide:
Purple rivers in high flood--
Red as is man's awful blood:
Corn-fields smiling goldenly
Meet the blue laugh of the sea:
Mist-clouds sailing on their way
Darken the changeful cheeks of Day:
And beneath vine-clusters red
Lilies are transfigured:
Here you mark as 'twere the snows
Folding o'er the neighb'ring rose;
Snow into blown roses flushing,
Roses wearied of their blushing,
As the shifting tints embrace,
And their course you scarce can trace;
Now retiring, now advancing,
Now in wanton mazes dancing;
Now a flow'ry red appears,
Now a purpl'd green careers.
All the signs in heaven that burn
Where the gliding wheel doth turn,
Here in radiant courses go,
As though 'twere a heaven below:
The sky's mazes involute
Circling onward with deft foot,
Sphere on heavenly sphere attending,
Coming, going, inter-blending:
And the gold-fleec'd flocks of air
Wand'ring inviolate and fair;
Flocks that drink in chaste delight
Dewy pastures of the Night,
Leaving no trace of foot or bite.
Whate'er of change above you note,
As these clouds o'er heaven float,
Lo, repeated here we see
In a sportive mimicry.
Here the tiny tender world
Within its own brightness furl'd
Wavers, as in fairy robe
'Twere a belted lined globe.
Lights as of the breaking Day
Tremble with iridescent play,
But now swiftly upward going,
Evanescent colours showing,
In some nook their beams concealing,
Nor their wantonness revealing.
O, what store of wonders here
In this short-liv'd slender SPHERE!
For all wonders I have told
Are within its GLOBE enroll'd:
Not such globe as skilled he
Fashion'd of old in Sicily:
Brighter e'en than crystals are,
And than crystal frailer far.
'I am Spirit of the Wind,
For a flitting breath design'd;
I am Blossom born of air;
I'm of Ocean, guiding Star;
I'm a golden sport of Nature,
Frolic stamp'd on ev'ry feature:
I'm a myth, an idle theme,
The brief substance of a dream:
Grace and grief of trifles, I
Charm--a well-skill'd vanity;
Begotten of the treacherous breeze,
Parent of absurdities:
Yet, a drop or mote, at best,
Favour'd more than are the rest.
I'm price of Hope that no more is,
One of the Hesperides:
Beauty's casket, doating eye
Of lovers blinded wilfully:
The light Spirit of Vanity.
I am Fortune's looking-glass,
The countersign which she doth pass
To her troop of warriors:
I'm the oath by which she swears,
And wherewith she doth induce
Men to trust a fragile truce.
Charming, provoking, still astray,
Fair and elegant and gay,
Trim and fresh and blossom-hu'd;
Interchangeably imbu'd
With rosy-red and the snow's whiteness,
Air and water and fire's brightness:
Painted, gemm'd, of golden dye,
NOTHING--after all--am I!'
If now, O gentle Reader, it appear
Irksome my BUBBLE'S chatterings to hear;
If on it frowning, 'Words, words, words!' thou say,
No more I'll chatter, but at once obey.
So, turn thine eye, my Friend, no more give heed;
My BUBBLE lives but if thou choose to read.
Cease thou to read, and I resign my breath;
Cease thou to read, and that will be my death. G.

TRANQUILLITAS ANIMI:

SIMILITUDINE DUCTA AB AVE CAPTIVA, ET CANORA TAMEN.

Ut cum delicias leves, loquacem
Convivam nemoris vagamque musam
Observans, dubia viator arte
Prendit desuper: horridusve ruris
Eversor, male perfido paratu, 5
Heu durus! rapit, atque io triumphans
Vadit: protinus et sagace nisu
Evolvens digitos, opus tenellum
Ducens pollice lenis erudito,
Virgarum implicat ordinem severum, 10
Angustam meditans domum volucri.
Illa autem, hospitium licet vetustum
Mentem solicitet nimis nimisque,
Et suetum nemus, hinc opaca mitis
Umbrae frigora, et hinc aprica puri 15
Solis fulgura, patriaeque sylvae
Nunquam muta quies; ubi illa dudum
Totum per nemus, arborem per omnem,
Hospes libera liberis querelis
Cognatum bene provocabat agmen: 20
Quanquam ipsum nemus arboresque alumnam
Implorant profugam, atque amata multum
Quaerant murmura lubricumque carmen
Blandi gutturis et melos serenum.
Illa autem, tamen, illa jam relictae, 25
Simplex! haud meminit domus, nec ultra
Sylvas cogitat; at brevi sub antro,
Ah penna nimium brevis recisa,
Ah ritu vidua sibique sola,
Privata heu fidicen! canit, vagoque 30
Exercens querulam domum susurro
Fallit vincula, carceremque mulcet;
Nec pugnans placidae procax quieti
Luctatur gravis, orbe sed reducto
Discursu vaga saltitans tenello, 35
Metitur spatia invidae cavernae.
Sic in se pia mens reposta, secum
Alte tuta sedet, nec ardet extra,
Aut ullo solet aestuare fato:
Quamvis cuncta tumultuentur, atrae 40
Sortis turbine non movetur illa.
Fortunae furias onusque triste
Non tergo minus accipit quieto,
Quam vectrix Veneris columba blando
Admittat juga delicata collo. 45
Torvae si quid inhorruit procellae,
Si quid saeviat et minetur, illa
Spernit, nescit, et obviis furorem
Fallit blanditiis, amatque et ambit
Ipsum, quo male vulneratur, ictum. 50
Curas murmure non fatetur ullo;
Non lambit lacrymas dolor, nec atrae
Mentis nubila frons iniqua prodit.
Quod si lacryma pervicax rebelli
Erumpit tamen evolatque gutta, 55
Invitis lacrymis, negante luctu,
Ludunt perspicui per ora risus.

TRANSLATION. PEACE OF MIND:[98]

UNDER THE SIMILITUDE OF A CAPTIVE SONG-BIRD.

The time of the singing of birds is come;
I will away i' the greenwood to roam;
I will away; and thou azure-ey'd Muse
Deign with thy gifts my mind to suffuse.--
So o'erheard I one say, as he withdrew
To a fairy scene that well I knew,
Light lac'd with shadow, shadow with light,
Leaves playing bo-peep from morn unto night.
But, ah, what is this? Alas, and alas,
A sweet bird flutters upon the grass;
Flutters and struggles with quivering wing!
Tempted and snar'd--gentle, guileless thing.
Vain, vain thy struggles; for, lo, a hand
Hollow'd above, makes thee captive stand.
Home hies the Captor, loud singing his joy;
He has got a pet song-bird for his boy.
Now twining and twisting, a cage he makes
Wire-wrought and fast'n'd. Ah, my heart aches!
It is a prison, for the poor bird prepar'd;
Shut close and netted, netted and barr'd.
Comes the flutter and gleam of forest-leaves
Through the trellis'd window under the eaves;
Comes the breath and stir of the vernal wind,
Comes the goldening sunshine--to remind
Of all that is lost; comes now and again
Far off a song from the blading grain;
Calling, still calling the Songster to come
Back--once more back--to its woodland home.
I mark eyelids rise; mark the lifting wing;
Mark the swelling throat, as if it would sing;
Mark the weary 'chirp, chirp,' like infant's cry,
Yearning after the free and boundless sky;
For the grand old woods; once more to sit
On the swinging bough into blossom smit.
Vain, vain, poor bird! thou'rt captive still;
Thou must bend thee to thy Captor's will:
Thy wing is cut; from thy mate thou'rt taken;
All alone thou abidest, sad, forsaken.
The days pass on; and I look in once more
On the captive bird 'bove the ivied door.
Sweetly it sings, as if all by itself,
A short, quiet song. O thou silly elf,
Hast forgot the greenwood, the forest hoar,
The flash of the sky, the wind's soften'd roar?
Hast forgot that thou still a captive art,
Prison'd in wire-work? hast forgot thy smart?
'Tis even so: for now down, and now up,
Now hopping on perch, now sipping from cup,
I mark it sullen and pining no more,
But keeping within, though open the door.
List ye, now list--from its swelling throat,
Of its woodland song you miss never a note.
Alone, it is true, and in a wir'd cage;
But kindness has melted the captive's rage.
Behold a sweet meaning in this bird's story--
How the child of God is ripen'd for glory:
For it is thus with the child of God,
Smitten and bleeding 'neath His rod:
Thus 'tis with him; for, tranquil and calm
'Mid dangers and insults, he singeth his psalm:
Alone, all alone, deserted of man,
Slander'd and trampl'd and plac'd under ban,
He frets not, he pines not, he plains not still,
But sees clear in all his dear Father's will:
Come loss, come cross, come bereavement, come wrong,
He sets all to music, turns all to song;
Come terror, come trial, come dark day, come bright,
Still upward he looks, and knows all is right:
Wounded, he sees the Hand gives the stroke,
Bending his neck to bear his Lord's yoke,
And finds it grow light, by grace from Above,
As love's slender collars o' the Queen of Love;
Comes the starting tear, 'tis dried with a smile;
Comes a cloud, as you look 'tis gone the while;
Stirs the 'old Adam' to tempt and to dare,
He thinks Who was tempted and knows what we are;
Gentle and meek, murmurs not nor rebels,
But serene as in heaven and tranquil dwells:
And so the Believer has 'songs in the night,'
And so every cloud has a lining of light.
Thus, even thus, the captive bird's story
Tells how a soul is ripen'd for glory. G.

DAMNO AFFICI SAEPE FIT LUCRUM.

Damna adsunt multis taciti compendia lucri,
Felicique docent plus properare mora.
Luxuriem annorum posita sic pelle redemit,
Atque sagax serpens in nova saecla subit.
Cernis ut ipsa sibi replicato suppetat aevo,
Seque iteret multa morte perennis avis?
Succrescit generosa sibi, facilesque per ignes
Perque suos cineres, per sua fata ferax.
Quae sollers jactura sui? quis funeris usus?
Flammarumque fides ingeniumque rogi?
Siccine fraude subis? pretiosaque funera ludis?
Siccine tu mortem, ne moriaris, adis?
Felix cui medicae tanta experientia mortis,
Cui tam Parcarum est officiosa manus.

TRANSLATION.

GAIN OUT OF LOSS.

Losses are often source of secret gain,
Delays good-speed, and ease the child of pain.
The subtle snake, laying aside her fears,
Casts off her slough, and heals the waste of years.
The phoenix thus her waning pride supplies,
And, to be ever-living, often dies;
Bold for her good, she makes the fires her friend,
And to begin anew, will plot her end.
What skilful losing! what wise use of dying!
What trust in flames! and what a craft in plying
That trick of immolation! Canst thou so
Compound with griefs? canst wisely undergo
Life's losses, crosses? play with gainful doom?
Canst, to be quicken'd, gladly seek the tomb?
Thrice-happy he thus touch'd with healing sorrow,
For whom night's strife plots but a gracious morrow. A.

ANOTHER RENDERING (_more freely_).

Suff'ring is not always loss;
Often underneath the cross--
Heavy, crushing, wearing, slow,
Causing us in dread to go--
All unsuspected lieth gain,
Like sunshine in vernal rain.
Lo, the serpent's mottled skin
Cast, new lease of years doth win:
Lo, the phoenix in the fire
Leaps immortal from its pyre,
The mystic plumage mewing,
And life by death renewing.
What a wise loss thus to lose!--
Who will gainsay or abuse?
What strange end to fun'ral pile,
Thus in Death's gaunt face to smile!
Faith still strong within the fire,
Faith triumphant o'er its ire.
How stands it, fellow-man, with thee?
What meaning in this myth dost see?
Happy thou, if when thou'rt lying
On thy sick-bed slow a-dying,
Cometh vision of the Eternal,
Cometh strength for the supernal,
Cometh triumph o'er the infernal;
And thou canst the Last Enemy
Calmly meet, serenely die;
The hard Sisters life's web snipping,
But thy spirit never gripping;
Good, not evil, to thee bringing;
Hushing not thy upward singing,
To the Golden City winging.
Even so to die is gain,
Like the Harvest's tawnied grain:
Suffering is not always loss;
The Crown succeeds the Cross. G.

HUMANAE VITAE DESCRIPTIO.

O vita, tantum lubricus quidam furor
Spoliumque vitae! scilicet longi brevis
Erroris hospes! Error o mortalium!
O certus error! qui sub incerto vagum
Suspendit aevum, mille per dolos viae 5
Fugacis, et proterva per volumina
Fluidi laboris, ebrios lactat gradus;
Et irretitos ducit in nihilum dies.
O fata! quantum perfidae vitae fugit
Umbris quod imputemus atque auris, ibi 10
Et umbra et aura serias partes agunt
Miscentque scenam, volvimur ludibrio
Procacis aestus, ut per incertum mare
Fragilis protervo cymba cum nutat freto;
Et ipsa vitae fila, queis nentes Deae 15
Aevi severa texta producunt manu,
Haec ipsa nobis implicant vestigia,
Retrahunt trahuntque, donec everso gradu
Ruina lassos alta deducat pedes.
Felix, fugaces quisquis excipiens dies 20
Gressus serenos fixit, insidiis sui
Nec servit aevi, vita inoffensis huic
Feretur auris, atque clauda rarius
Titubabit hora: vortices anni vagi
Hic extricabit, sanus assertor sui. 25

TRANSLATION.

DESCRIPTION OF HUMAN LIFE.

O Life, or but some evanescent madness
And glittering spoil of life snatch'd with blind gladness!
Of endless Error, transitory guest;
Sad human Error, which would fain find rest.
O certain Error, 'neath uncertain sky
Suspending here our frail mortality;
Leading us through a thousand devious ways
And intricacies of a treacherous maze!
Our staggering footsteps how dost thou beguile
Through wanton rounds of unavailing toil,
And our entangl'd days to nothing bring!
O fates, how much of our poor life takes wing,
Wasted on winds and shadows! On life's stage
Shadows and winds a serious part engage,
The scene confusing. On life's billow tost,
The sport of changeful tide, we're well-nigh lost,
And, like a frail boat on a stormy sea,
We waver up and down uncertainly.
Nay, e'en the threads spun by the Fates on high,
As with stern fingers they divinely ply
The web of life, twine round us as we go,
And draw us backwards, forwards, to and fro;
Till Ruin trips us up, and we are found
Helpless and weary, stretched along the ground.
Happy the man who, welcoming each day
With smiles that answer to its fleeting ray,
Pursues with step serene his purpos'd way;
The alluring snares peculiar to the age
_His_ soul enslave not, nor his mind engage;
His life with peaceful tenor glides along,
By fav'ring breezes fann'd, and sooth'd with song;
Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force,
Seldom he falls, or falters in his course;
But ever, as the eddying years roll round,
Bursting through all the perils that abound,
A wise assertor of himself is found. R. WI.

IN PYGMALIONA.

Poenitet artis
Pygmaliona suae,
Quod felix opus esset,
Infelix erat artifex;
Sentit vulnera, nec videt ictum.
Quis credit? gelido veniunt de marmore flammae:
Marmor ingratum nimis
Incendit autorem suum.
Concepit hic vanos furores,
Opus suum miratur atque adorat.
Prius creavit, ecce nunc colit manus;
Tentantes digitos molliter applicat;
Decipit molles caro dura tactus.
An virgo vera est, an sit eburnea;
Reddat an oscula quae dabantur,
Nescit; sed dubitat, sed metuit, munere supplicat,
Blanditiasque miscet.
Te, miser, poenas dare vult, hos Venus, hos triumphos
Capit a te, quod amorem fugis omnem.
Cur fugis heu vivos? mortua te necat puella.
Non erit innocua haec, quamvis tua fingas manu;
Ipsa heu nocens erit nimis, cujus imago nocet.

TRANSLATION.

ON PYGMALION.

Grief for work his hands have done
Harroweth Pygmalion;
Happy reach of art! yet he
The artificer, unhappily,
He feels the wounds: what deals the blow?
Can it be true? can flames from gelid marble flow?

Marble, treacherous and to blame
To burn your Sculptor with such flame!
What madness in his heart is hid?
He wonders at, he adores the work he did.
First he made, and next his hand
With wandering fingers softly tries
The mystery to understand.
Ah, surely now the hard flesh lies!
Is it a living maiden, see!
O treacherous blisses!
Is it no marble? can it frail flesh be?
Does it return his kisses?
He knows not, he.

He doubts, he fears, he prays; what mean
All these sweet blandishments between?
Venus, wretched Sculptor, wills
You should suffer these sad ills;
This is her triumph over you,
Because at love your lips would curl;
Your will not living overthrows yet this dead girl.

Weep, ah, weep, Pygmalion!
Though you shap'd her with your hands,
With your chisel, out of stone,
Not innocuous here she stands.
O image of a maiden!
If you so strangely baneful prove,
With what despair will you come laden,
Coming alive to claim his love! A.

ANOTHER VERSION (_more freely_).

Pygmalion mourns his own success;
Was ever such strange wretchedness?
His work itself, a work of Art,
Perfect in its every part;
But himself? Alas, artist he
Of his own utmost misery.
He feels his wounds, but who shall tell
Whence come the drops that downward steal?
Flames leap out from the marble, cold
As ice itself by storm-wind roll'd:
And he, contriver of that fire,
Burns self-immolate on his own pyre;
Furies of his own genius born
Cast him, adoring and forlorn,
Into a strange captivity
Before his own hands' work; and he
Clings to the shapely form, until,
In ecstasy of love a-thrill,
He burning lips to cold lips sets,
And wild with passion her cheek wets;
Strains to his breast insensate stone,
As 'twere a breathing thing; with moan,
With clasp and grasp and tingling touch,
As though he ne'er could grip too much;
And wilder'd cry of agony,
That she respond would; by him lie
A virgin pure as drifted snow,
Or lilies that i' the meadows blow.
Is it ivory? is it stone?
Lives it? or is it clay alone?
O that to flesh the stone would melt,
And show a soul within it dwelt!
He looks, he yearns, he sighs, he sobs,
Convulsive his whole body throbs;
He doubts, he fears, he supplicates
With wistful gaze; he on her waits;
Gifts lavish he lays at her feet,
And, stung to passion, will entreat,
As though the image he has made
Were thing of life he might persuade--
Persuade and woo, and on her stake
His future, all. O sad mistake!
For thee, Pygmalion, Venus sends
These triumphs which thy chisel lends,
To punish thee, for that no love
Erewhile thy obstinate heart might move.
Why flee'st thou the living, say,
When this image thee doth slay?
Thee doth--ay, slay! Why dost thou stand
Entranc'd before the work o' thy hand,
None the less hurtful that it is
Thine own genius yields the bliss?
Venus must thee still deny;
The sculptured maid must breathless lie. G.

ARION.

Squammea vivae
Lubrica terga ratis
Jam conscendet Arion.
Merces tam nova solvitur
Navis quam nova scanditur. Illa
Aerea est merces, haec est et aquatica navis.
Perdidere illum viri
Mercede magna, servat hic
Mercede nulla piscis: et sic
Salute plus ruina constat illi;
Minoris et servatur hinc quam perditur.
Hic dum findit aquas, findit hic aera:
Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion:
Et sternit undas, sternit et aera:
Carminis hoc placido Tridente
Abjurat sua jam murmura, ventusque modestior
Auribus ora mutat:
Ora dediscit, minimos et metuit susurros;
Sonus alter restat, ut fit sonus illis
Aura strepens circum muta sit lateri adjacente penna,
Ambit et ora viri, nec vela ventis hic egent;
Attendit hanc ventus ratem: non trahit, at trahitur.

TRANSLATION (_full_).

ARION.

Never since ship was set a-float
Have men seen so strange a boat:
Alive it is from deck to keel,
Having the gray gleam of steel;
Slippery as wave-wash'd wreck,
Or as a war-ship's bloody deck.
A Dolphin, lo, its huge back bending,
Safety to Arion lending
From the sailors of Sicily,
Covetous of his golden monie;
Money that as prize he had won
Before all Singers aneath the sun;
Playing and singing so famouslie,
Singing and playing so wondrouslie,
That there went up from ev'ry throat
The verdict, 'for Arion I vote:'
Vote the prize; and gifts as well,
Crowns of gold and of asphodel;
Lyres all a-glow with gems,
Robes bejewell'd to their hems;
A thousand golden pieces and one
For the gifted son of Poseidon:
And, hark, as 'twere the bellowing thunder,
In clang'rous shouts men tell their wonder.
Arion now homeward takes his way
In a fair ship steer'd for Corinth Bay;
Proud of his prizes, proud of his skill,
Proud that soon Periander will
Welcome him fondly, and call him friend,
With words such as no money can send.
Alas and alas, such crime to tell!
The ship-captain and sailors fell
Covet his gold, and have it must,
Though Arion they murder by blow or thrust.
But Apollo at midnight hour
Sendeth a dream in mystic power;
It showeth the men, it showeth their crime.
Arion awakes with the morning's chime;
Awakes, and planneth how to escape.
Vain, vain all; on him they gape,
Thirsting alike for gold and life,
Murder and covetousness at strife.
'Suffer me, then,' Arion said,
'That I may play as I have play'd;
Here is my poor Lyre, and, ere I die,
Let me prove its minstrelsy.'
He has donn'd him now in gay attire,
Festal robes; in his hand his Lyre.
List ye, list ye; above, below,
Sounds such as only the angels know;
Sounds that are born of rapture and bliss,
Of the throbbing heart and the burning love-kiss.
Now it is soft, pathetic, low,
Then 'gins to change to cry of woe;
Now it comes rushing as if the thunder
Came booming from the deep earth under;
Pulsing along each quivering string
As though the Lyre were a living thing,
And Arion's hand had so cunning a spell
As should win all heaven--ay and hell.
O, came there never such melodie
From mortal earth or mortal sky.
He mounted to the good ship's prow,
And mingling with his song a vow
To the gods, he himself threw
Out 'mid the waves from that damnable crew.
Up through the waves the Dolphins bound,
A hundred bended backs are found,
Each one more eager than the rest
To upbear the sweet Player on Ocean's breast.
Arion ascends; and, lo, he stands,
His Lyre unwet within his hands:
Onward and onward careering they go;
O soft and true the notes that flow!
Rising, falling, swelling, dying,
Near and nearer, far-off flying;
Pulsing along each quivering string
As though the Lyre were a living thing.
New is the ship, as new the freight;
The Dolphin feels never the weight;
New is the ship, and new the fare,
That of the water, this of the air:
The sailors in their greed him lost,
The Dolphin bears him withouten cost.
Away and away with a shim'ring track
Arion goes on the Dolphin's back;
Away and away, still softly playing,
Each string his lightest touch obeying.
Under the spell the Sea grows calm,
Listing attent his witching psalm;
Under the spell the air grows mild,
Breathing soft as sleeping child.
But who may seek all the tale to tell?
It is a tale unspeakable.
Onward and onward careering they go,
Silence above and silence below:
The Storm-gale shuts its mouth and lists,
The Wind folds its pinions and desists,
Following, not blowing, drawing not, but drawn,
From early ev'ning to breaking dawn.
Tenarus at last Arion beheld;
Tenarus, his own dear home that held;
And as together they swiftly come,
He claps hands loud and thinks of home.
The Dolphin seeks a quiet cove;
The Dolphin arching its back above
The azure waters, leaves him there,
A-list'ning still his Lyre to hear.
Homeward to Corinth Arion proceeds:
Periander a tale of suff'ring reads
In the thinned cheek and the dreamy eye,
In the tremulous words and the laden sigh.
The story is told. O story of wrong!
The ship returns; and it is not long
Ere captain and crew, at bar arraign'd,
Must tell where Arion they detain'd.
'He tarries,' quoth they, 'in Sicily,
Winning all men by his minstrelsie.'
Lies were proven in their throat.
Periander his hands together smote,
Swearing a solemn oath that they--
One, all--should drown'd be in the Bay.
Tied hand and foot, pallor'd and grim,
'Tis done as they would ha' done to him.
A plunge as of a plunging stone,
A few bubbles--Vengeance is done! G.

IN

APOLLINEA DEPEREUNTEM DAPHNEN.

Stulte Cupido,
Quid tua flamma parat?
Annos sole sub ipso
Accensae pereunt faces?
Sed fax nostra potentior istis,
Flammas inflammare potest, ipse uritur ignis,
Ecce flammarum potens
Majore sub flamma gemit.
Eheu, quid hoc est? En Apollo
Lyra tacente, ni sonet dolores,
Coma jacente squallet aeternus decor
Oris, en, dominae quo placeat magis,
Languido tardum jubar igne promit.
Pallente vultu territat aethera.
Mundi oculus lacrymis senescit,
Et solvit pelago debita, quodque hauserat ignibus,
His lacrymis rependit.
Noctis adventu properans se latebris recondit,
Et opacas tenebrarum colit umbras,
Namque suos odit damnans radios nocensque lumen.
An lateat tenebris dubitat, an educat diem,
Hinc suadet hoc luctus furens, inde repugnat amor.

TRANSLATION (_full_).

ON APOLLO PINING FOR DAPHNE.

Cupid, foolishest of pets,
What woe thy swift-sent flame begets!
Surely before the flashing Sun
Torches pale to extinction?
But our torch is mightier far;
It able is 'gainst fire to war,
Yea, fire itself to burn and char.
The igni-potent in amaze,
Lo, groans, his huge heart all a-blaze
With keener flame than his own rays.
Ah, what is this? Apollo burns,
And as distraught in anguish mourns.
Lo, see his lyre mute and unstrung,
Or only grief-notes from it wrung:
Lo, his golden locks neglected,
And his radiant face dejected;
Beauty eterne distain'd, rejected.
The great Sun-god is in love,
And seeks in vain his Fair to move:
Hence his weird pallor, and those cries
That the sky shudd'ring terrifies;
Hence the world's day-bringing eye
Tears dim, such as in mortals' lie;
Hence those showers often falling,
The Sea her erst gifts recalling;
Hence welcome the approaching night,
That mourning he may veil his light--
Veil his light, and in shadows deep
His great anguish in secret weep.
Nor, when vermeil-draped Morning,
With her smile the East adorning,
Touches with her rosy finger
Eyes that 'neath their lashes linger,
Seeking to wake the God of Day,
That round the world his beams may play,
Does he haste at all to rise
To his 'fulgent throne i' the skies;
But rather would abide within
The clouds whereon he rests his chin;
Hating his own beams' splendour now,
Since Daphne scorns to list his vow:
Thus he lingers, and still weighs
Whether Day or Night to raise.
Raging grief he cannot smother,
Says the one; and Love the other.
Cupid, tricksiest of pets,
What woe thy swift-sent flame begets![99] G.

AENEAS PATRIS SUI BAJULUS.

Moenia Trojae, hostis et ignis,
Hostes inter et ignes, Aeneas spolium pium
Atque humeris venerabile pondus
Excipit, et 'Saevae nunc o nunc parcite flammae;
Parcite haud, clamat, mihi;
Sacrae favete sarcinae:
Quod si negatis, nec licebit
Vitam juvare, sed juvabo funus
Rogusque fiam patris ac bustum mei.'
His dictis, acies pervolat hostium,
Gestit, et partis veluti trophaeis
Ducit triumphos. Nam furor hostium
Jam stupet, et pietate tanta
Victor vincitur; imo et moritur
Troja libenter, funeribusque gaudet,
Ac faces admittit ovans, ne lateat tenebras
Per opacas opus ingens pietatis.
Debita sic patri solvis tua, sic pari rependis
Officio. Dederat vitam tibi, tu reddis huic:
Felix, parentis qui pater diceris esse tui.

TRANSLATION (_full_).

AENEAS THE BEARER OF HIS FATHER.

The walls of Troy--the walls of Troy!
'Tis an old tale you will enjoy:
A foe is there amid the fire,
A foe 'twixt foemen in their ire.
Aeneas takes a pious load
With upward prayer to his god;
E'en his old father, whose gray head
Lay 'mong the dying and the dead:
O venerable spoil in truth,
Fit from the demons to fetch ruth.
Fierce roar the flames, and fiercer still
Rages the fight on plain and hill.
'Spare the old man,' Aeneas cries;
'Spare the white hairs; or if he dies,
Be mine the privilege of his pyre;
Be mine with him at once t'expire.'
Scarcely are the true words spoken,
When through line of battle broken
Swift he passes; and this brave son
His father bears in triumph on;
Reck'ning that he a trophy has
That the conquerors' doth surpass.
He safely goes: for, lo, amaz'd,
The foe upon them wistful gaz'd:
The conquerors the conquer'd are
By filial love so strong, so fair.
The flames Troy willingly receives,
Jubilant that the old man lives;
Welcomes the torches, that the night
May not conceal this deed of light.
All praise to thee, high-hearted son!
Thou an undying name hast won:
The debt of love thou hast repaid
Unto thy father, who is made
Thy debtor now; for life he gave,
And thou in turn his life dost save.
Happy the son whom thus we see
Father of his own sire to be. G.

PHOENICIS GENETHLIACON ET EPICEDION.

Phoenix alumna mortis,
Quam mira tua puerpera!
Tu scandis haud nidos, sed ignes.
Non parere sed perire ceu parata:
Mors obstetrix; atque ipsa tu teipsam paris,
Tu tuique mater ipsa es,
Tu tuique filia.
Tu sic odora messis
Surgis tuorum funerum;
Tibique per tuam ruinam
Reparata, te succedis ipsa. Mors o
Faecunda; sancta o lucra pretiosae necis!
Vive, monstrum dulce, vive,
Tu tibique suffice.

TRANSLATION.

OF THE GENERATION AND REGENERATION OF THE PHOENIX.

Phoenix, nursling of Death,
How wondrous is thy birth!
Thou gainest not thy breath
I' nest, like birds of Earth:
'Mid fire all flaming hot
Thou strangely art begot;
The leaping flames thee cherish
When thou seem'st to perish.
Lo, Death thy midwife is;
Lo, thyself thou bearest.
O tell me how is this,
That mystery thou preparest?
Thou mother of thyself!
Thou daughter of thyself!
When thy 'pointed hour is done,
Thou an od'rous nest entwinest;
And, as for thy destruction,
Thou 'midst its fires reclinest.
Most surely thou'rt consum'd;
Most surely thou'rt relum'd.
O fruitful Death!
O gainful Death!
Live then, self-contained bird;
Most pleasing wonder.
The old legend is absurd;
But truth lies under. G.

EPITAPHIUM.

Quisquis nectareo serenus aevo
Et spe lucidus aureae juventae,
Nescis purpureos abire soles,
Nescis vincula ferreamque noctem
Imi careris horridumque Ditem, 5
Et spectas tremulam procul senectam,
Hinc disces lacrymas, et huc repones.
Hic, o scilicet hic brevi sub antro
Spes et gaudia mille, mille, longam,
Heu longam nimis! induere noctem. 10
Flammantem nitidae facem juventae
Submersit Stygiae paludis unda.
Ergo, si lacrymas neges doloris,
Huc certo lacrymas feres timoris.

NOTE.

I correct, in l. 6, 'tremulam' for 'tremulum;' l. 7, 'disces' for
'discas,' and 'huc' for 'hinc.' G.

TRANSLATION.

EPITAPH.

Ye that still, serene in peace,
Lying in the lap of ease,
Believe the hopes of golden youth,
And have not heard the bitter truth,
How shining suns fade at a breath;
Ye, with little dread of death,
Or fear of chains and iron night
Of man's last prison, or the sight
Of gloomy Dis; that think to keep
Old age away,--look here, and weep.
Here, to this one narrow room,
A thousand joys and hopes have come;
Here bright minutes many a one
Have a lasting night put on:
Youth's torch, that flash'd such light about,
Is in the Stygian wave put out.
Then, if you grudge poor grief a tear,
Heave, at least, a sigh for fear. A.

ANOTHER RENDERING (_more freely_).

Whoe'er ye be, upgazing here,
Calm, unruffl'd, without tear;
Joyous in your golden prime,
And unwitting of the time
When shall pale Life's glowing sun,
And the web of years be spun;
Thinking not o' the iron night
Where grim Pluto reigns in might;
Thinking not of the nether world,
With its clanking chains;
Whither damned souls are hurl'd
When the Judge arraigns;
Seeing old age far away;
Making Life one holiday;--
Here perceive that Grief shall yet
Your ruddy cheeks with sorrow wet;
Here musing upon this poor stone,
Ye may learn prevention.
This Earth, what is it but a home
Fugitive as sea-wave's foam?
Mark where breaks the whit'n'd wave
'Mid the cliffs--an arched cave;
Light and shadow play within,
Flick'ring o'er its walls;
In the gloom--with Hell akin--
A dull stream slowly crawls.
E'en such is Life, how bright soe'er,
Hope and Joy lure to Despair;
And Life's stream goes plunging down
Into dark drear Acheron;
Youth's bright torch extinguish'd quite;
Golden Day exchang'd for Night:
To long night of changeless woe
Swift the Christless souls shall go.
Shun not therefore in thy prime,
Shun not whilst thou art in Time,
Tears of penitence over sin;
Or bitterly shalt thou rue,
When Death shall fling his javelin,
And Hell's prison thee immew.
Bethink thee in thy golden prime;
Bethink thee whilst thou'rt yet in Time. G.

ELEGIA.[100]

Ite, meae lacrymae, nec enim moror, ite; sed oro
Tantum ne miserae claudite vocis iter.
O liceat querulos verbis animare dolores,
Et saltem 'Ah periit!' dicere noster amor.
Ecce negant tamen; ecce negant, lacrymaeque rebelles
Pergunt indomita praecipitantque via.
Visne, o care, igitur te nostra silentia dicant?
Vis fleat assiduo murmure mutus amor?
Flebit, et urna suos semper bibet humida rores,
Et fidas semper semper habebit aquas.
Interea, quicunque estis, ne credite mirum
Si verae lacrymae non didicere loqui.

TRANSLATION.

ELEGY.

Flow, flow, my tears; I stay you not; but pray
To my unhappy voice close not the way.
My plaintive griefs with words, O let me move;
To say, 'Alas, he died!' allow my love.
Lo, they say, no--the rebel tears say, no!
And with unconquer'd headlong torrent flow.
Wouldst thou, O dear one, that our silence speak?
Mute love with ceaseless sob moisten our cheek?
It shall; and still thine urn drink its own dews,
And never its own faithful waters lose.
Meanwhile let no one think a wonder wrought,
If real tears to speak could not be taught. R. WI.

THESAURUS MALORUM FOEMINA.

Quis deus, o quis erat, qui te, mala foemina, finxit?
Proh, crimen superum, noxa pudenda deum!
Quae divum manus est adeo non dextera mundo?
In nostras clades ingeniosa manus:
Parcite; peccavi: nec enim pia numina possunt
Tam crudele semel vel voluisse nefas.
Vestrum opus est pietas; opus est concordia vestrum;
Vos equidem tales haud reor artifices.
Heus, inferna cohors, foetus cognoscite vestros.
Num pudet hanc vestrum vincere posse scelus?
Plaudite Tartarei proceres Erebique potentes,
Nae mirum est tantum vos potuisse malum;
Jam vestras laudate manus. Si forte tacetis,
Artificum laudes grande loquetur opus.
Quam bene vos omnes speculo contemplor in isto?
Pectus in angustum cogitur omne malum.
Quin dormi, Pluto; rabidas compesce sorores;
Jam non poscit opem nostra ruina tuam.
Haec satis in nostros fabricata est machina muros,
Mortales furias Tartara nostra dabunt.

TRANSLATION.

WOMAN A TREASURY OF EVILS.

What god? or who was it? I ask, contriv'd
Thee, O Woman, evil Woman? who conniv'd
Together--who--in this supremest crime
Of the divinities, before old Time
Was born? Alas, most dire calamity
As e'er has come upon humanity!
Whence was the hand, ye Powers, so evil-skill'd
In sin and mischief, so perversely will'd
To curse this world of ours? But hold! I blunder;
I must to the dark regions lying under,
Ev'n Hell, descend. Not Thee, O God above,
For Thou art pitiful, for Thou art Love:
Not one of all the gracious Pow'rs supernal;
But ye, O Furies, from the pit infernal,
Ye, ye the work devis'd, matur'd, achiev'd,
And brought to Man; to Man--frail Man! deceiv'd:
Ho, hosts of evil! ho! on you I call:
Behold your offspring diabolical.
Does it a blush raise?--Spirits of evil, speak!--
Such as expos'd crime brings to mortal cheek?
Lo, these your works yourselves surpass, I wis;
Clap hands, ye potentates of the Abyss.
Rulers of Erebus, is it not a wonder,
Worthy of Hell's most resonant swift thunder,
That ye such thing contrived have as Heaven
Never cast out, nor e'er to Hell was driven?
Take ye your praise, your praise; this work o' your hands
Absolute in mischief 'bove compar'son stands.
Or if ye silent be, your work will speak
Your praise. Ha, ha! what mean ye that ye shriek
Thus as I meditate with pulse of fear
Upon this monster, Woman? Ah, 'tis clear;
I see your guile and skill. The gods above
Would have all ills within one scant breast move!
To bed, Pluto, king of the nether world;
Sleep on in peace; be every banner furl'd;
Ye fires, go out; Man's ruin is complete;
No need of you--in Woman all woes meet:
In her, ye devils, ye have so contriv'd
That Tempter, who--better than had ye div'd
To furthest Tartarus--Man's protecting wall
Shall breach. Earth's fury--Woman--passes all! G.

Latin Poems.

PART SECOND. SECULAR.

II.

MISCELLANEOUS AND COMMEMORATIVE.

NEVER BEFORE PRINTED.

NOTE.

Once more the Sancroft MS. furnishes the Poems of this division, all
hitherto unprinted. In this section I have again been largely and
finely aided in the translations by my already-named friend the Rev.
Richard Wilton, as before. G.

PULCHRA NON DIUTURNA.

EHEU, ver breve et invidum!
Eheu, floriduli dies!
Ergo curritis improba,
Et quae nunc face fulgurat,
Dulcis forma tenacibus
Immiscebitur infimae:
Heu, noctis nebulis; amor
Fallax, umbraque somnii.
Quin incumbitis; invida
Sic dictat colus, et rota
Cani temporis incito
Currens orbe volubilis.
O deprendite lubricos
Annos; et liquidum jubar
Verni sideris, ac novi
Floris fulgura, mollibus
Quae debetis amoribus,
Non impendite luridos
In manes avidum et Chaos.
Quanquam sidereis genis,
Quae semper nive sobria
Sinceris spatiis vigent,
Floris germine simplicis,
Flagrant ingenuae rosae:
Quanquam perpetua fide
Illic mille Cupidines,
Centum mille Cupidines,
Pastos nectarea dape,
Blandis sumptibus educas;
Istis qui spatiis vagi,
Plenis lusibus ebrii,
Udo rore beatuli,
Uno plus decies die
Istis ex oculis tuis,
Istis ex oculis suas
Sopitas animant faces,
Et languentia recreant
Succo spicula melleo:
Tum flammis agiles novis
Lasciva volitant face,
Tum plenis tumidi minis,
Tum vel sidera territant,
Et coelum et fragilem Jovem:
Quanquam fronte sub ardua
Majestas gravis excubans,
Dulces fortiter improbis
Leges dictat amoribus:
Quanquam tota, per omnia,
Coelum machina praeferat,
Tanquam pagina multiplex
Vivo scripta volumine,
Terris indigitans polos.
Et compendia siderum:
Istis heu tamen heu genis,
Istis purpureis genis,
Oris sidere florido,
Regno frontis amabili;
Mors heu crastina forsitan
Crudeles faciet notas,
Naturaeque superbiam
Damnabit tumuli specu.

TRANSLATION.

THE BEAUTIFUL NOT LASTING.