Chapter II: A Study of the Life and Poetry of Richard Crashaw (3)

'Greeting,' Reader; and now 'farewell'!
Wherefore shouldst thou on my page dwell,
Where neither jest nor sport inviteth,
That the jocund youth delighteth?
Therefore, Reader, pass thee by
To thine own idle jollity:
The notes that trill from my poor lute
Such as thee shall never suit;
Nor here are Acidalian dews
That Venus' roses sweet suffuse;
Nor breath sets Cupid's torch a-blaze
That lovers on my lines may gaze.
Vainly shall mother and shall son
Look here for lewd emotion.
Cupid, seek thy mother's kirtle,
Or hide thee 'neath her fragrant myrtle.
And, Venus, thy Idalian hills
Will better yield thee sport that thrills:
Thither, therefore, goddess, turn;
O'er thy lost Adonis burn;
Or devise, if grief thee frets,
Other shrines for thy violets:
There, with Flora and the Spring
The green earth enamelling,
Thou mayst fill thy bosom's whiteness,
He his wings in all their brightness,
With all flow'rs that wait on thee
When thou holdest revelry.
Me my own poor flow'r will crown;
Poor 'tis true, yet all my own--
Poor but pure. So let it be,
Those unto others, this to me.
No Circe-cup foams in my verse,
To make fierce lustings still more fierce;
No draft of Lethe here doth flow,
Flow'ry above, deathly below;
No false cheeks, with falser bloom--
A rose up-bursting from a tomb;
No barb hid 'neath treach'rous plume;
No poison spread as honey'd bait;
No line where danger lies in wait:
Here's nor spleen nor melancholy,
That for me were unmeet wholly;
Rarely do I raise a smile,
Ne'er merge my wit in wanton wile;
Never quicken Passion's pulse,
Nor show nude Beauty to convulse,
Until beneath the hoof o' th' flesh
The strong man bound is in Lust's mesh.
If jest I pass, do not repine
To learn it reeks not of the wine;
For my Apollo is celestial,
And from Bacchus shrinks as bestial.
Nothing that's foul my page contains;
Nothing the modest eye arraigns;
Nothing to cause averted face--
Lucretia every line might trace
With calm, serene, unfearing eye,
Nor blush stain cheek of Modesty.
For not more pure the maiden's vow[42]
Whisper'd in tremulous words and low,
As, girt in snowy robe, her breast
Heaves like a wave in sweet unrest,
And the white veil shows whiter brow
In pureness of unfallen snow,
With flame-gleam from meek-dropped hair
Dishevell'd by the am'rous air:
Soft strains with her soft voice blending,
The marriage-rites to heaven ascending:
Yea, not the altar's self exhaleth
More chastely, as its God it haileth,
That keeps far off unholy hands
While there the priest with bow'd head stands.
My verse is not the Queen of Love's,
Nor knows the cooing of her doves:
Her beauty me not overpowers,
Though bright as skies when no cloud low'rs;
Vainly at me her tricksy boy
His arrows shoots. The sweet annoy
I never felt; though oft and oft
He hover'd o'er me, and with soft,
Sly, 'luring glances his torch wav'd,
And look'd to find me swift enslav'd;
Offer'd a quill from his own wing,
E'en from his mother's swan--to sing;
Ay, often Venus' love-wreaths weaving,
On my brow the symbol leaving:
He would laugh, and Poet style me,
And with flatteries beguile me:
'Begone, begone, O wanton boy!
Thy mother too, though Queen of Joy.'
Thus did I speak. Naught of my song
Shall thy tyranny prolong:
Get thee, with thy torch and arrow,
Unto the Veronian sparrow; _Catullus_
Or the Bilbilician win _Martial_
To embalm thy pleasant sin:
Be thy assaults however vile,
He on thee will smile, and smile:
He, thy love-locks curious twining,
Shall ne'er come short of thy inclining:
He thine own poet is, and will
Give thee full license to instill
By jest and quip and jollity
Whate'er it listeth thee to try.
Alas, that genius so august
Should pander to adult'rous lust!
Alas, that he, poet so true,
Should poet be, Cupid, to you!
O, what harvest of rich thought
Judean seed from him had brought,
If, up-climbing holy mountains,
He had drunk from hallow'd fountains!
Mother and son, I see them now,
As round her neck his arms he'd throw,
Nestling with his azure eyes,
Her bosom's splendour for his skies;
Kissing, and kiss'd in sweet reply,
As soft winds o'er violets die:
While she all her love discloses,
Murm'ring on his lips' twin roses:
His lips like hers, and hers like his,
Glued i' the rapture of their bliss.
Visions like these would Martial give
With dainty touch and fugitive.
The heav'nly Weeper there would bow
Before her Lord, and pay her vow:
Now is uttered gentle sigh,
And now great tears gleam in her eye:
That, offspring of the stainless Light;
This, of the Pyx's mystic rite:
In his verse, tears, sighs should fall
Delicate and musical:
In fine, whate'er in mine were mean
Should radiant grow as sunlight's sheen.
Go, then, go, insatiate boy,
Nor me longer seek t' annoy:
I've said it, nor shall e'er unsay:
Go to thy mother, and there play.
Why wilt thou whisper flattery,
And praise my Muse's witchery--
Verses that reck not of thy smarts--
And smite me with thy fire-tipp'd darts?
Go, get thee gone! Thy haunt must be
Where there's wanton revelry,
And the young minx with toss o' curls
Opes her lips to show her pearls;
Opes her lips, with some gross jest
A foolish lover to arrest.
Thither go, where falsely-fair
Beauty is bought and sold; and where,
Flaunting with painted cheek, and eye
A-flame to ev'ry devilry,
Base women seek base men, and tingle
Their hot veins as they commingle,
Baring their charms, 'neath alien roses
Ministering such sweets as Hell composes.
Hence, therefore, Cupid! Venus, hence!
I yield not to your violence:
I've said it, nor shall you allure
My heart to own your sway impure.
Another Cypris holds me now,
Another Love receives my vow:
For Love is here and Mother kind,
But she a Virgin; He not blind.
O Child! O Lord! great Mother blest!
O wonder of thy holy breast!
O Love, whose quiver's sacred pow'rs
Ne'er send forth arrow that devours,
Unless a shaft pierce the pure heart,
That Thou mayst heal the blessed smart.
Me whom Thou piercest, holy Child,
Pierce, pierce me sure with arrows mild.
Let Thy quiver grow more light
As Thou dost me yearning smite:
What my soul pants for, and still drinks
And drinks, and thirsts, and never thinks
To get enough, O give, still give.
Thus would I die; thus would I live.
Transfix this heart, Child: howsoe'er
Thou comest,--crown'd with thorns and bare,
Or great with the awful heraldry
Of nail and spear for Faith to see;
Or greater still, on the holy rood
Wet with the terror of Thy Blood;
Or great'st of all, Thyself alone
In meek might of Thy Passion,--
Still pierce this heart; O pierce it, Child:
_Thus_ would I drink in rapture wild.
O that Thy bow might wound me still!
O that of wounds I had my fill!
Or, if some swifter wing there be,
That it would fly to me--to me!
Behold, my Saviour, this poor breast,
And take it as Thine arrows' nest:
I seek not to be spar'd one blow:
Thus would I have Thee still my foe;
Still yearn that wounded I may be;
For wounds like these are ecstasy.
These are my wishes: and my Books,
May they be his who on them looks!
Seek'st, Reader, to be mine? Then, last,
I ask thy eyes that they be chaste;
Chaste, but not tearless; my dear Love
To meet and know, as from above
He comes, and still the Crucified,
Proclaiming how for man He died
By thorn, and nail, and spear, and cry,
And bitterest words of agony:
Say, should He meet thee thus in blood,
Couldst thou e'en grudge of tears a flood?
Ah, hard thy heart as e'er was stone,
That all unmov'd can hear Him groan,
Nor by a throb of feeling show
Thou hast a sense of His great woe;
While here He treasured human tears
Hushing sad Mary in her fears,
As to His feet in shame she crept,
And with white drops them all bewept:
More than Assyrian gold to thee
Such tears, if thou their worth couldst see.
His love with thine again will glow,
His tears afresh with thine will flow.
Here, Reader, glancing through my Book,
Thou shalt upon His cradle look:
To His sweet obsequies now turn,
And mark how still my love shall burn.
Here, with His Mother and with me,
My ceaseless sacred joys shalt see:
Whether Earth's Princes speechless stand
As sudden darkness wraps the land;
Or He lies hidden in the Cave,
A temple now, and not a grave;
But the third morning shall restore Him:
Ah, much too slow those days pass o'er Him!
Be true, ye shadows of the tomb;
Enfold Him in a kindly gloom:
Thus wilt thou pray; while my dear Light
(O strange!) demands the help of Night.
In fine, whate'er my Book shall say
To my dear Love--however pray,
However fear, however weep,
And with sweet tears its pages steep--
My words thy willing words will move.
'O, not enough these things I love;
But they are sweet all things above;
And certainly the love of Him
Deserves all other loves to dim.'

If it seem to you, good Reader, that I have promised overmuch on behalf of him to whom this tractate shall be pleasing, know that I do not look merely on those things which you possess here, but also on those which, by cherishing such as you now have, you may hereafter obtain; for I have been unwilling, if hitherto I have not been a-wanting to my friends earnestly entreating me that I should allow them, even at the risk of their own peril, to encroach on your good-will, however great--I have been unwilling, I say, to give myself up to your fastidious criticism. You have enough here either to hand over to the rod which it deserves (for none of these things ask or claim for themselves maturer years), or to lay it up in your bosom as a pledge of more and of advanced attempts. Choose for yourself an alternative. As for myself, my aim has not deceived me. I have already attained the utmost pinnacle of my ambition, at the time when this somewhat indifferent murmur of my almost-infantine Muse sounded not unmusically in those ears, than which from the world at large I have none more learned to fear, none more indulgent to hope for; so that, as regards your applause, I will speak candidly and at once: I am neither over-confident nor over-solicitous of it. Firstly, my respect for you, Reader, whoever you are, and of whose decision I can hope everything, restrains; and next, my respect for those of whose penetration I am unable not to persuade myself to hope the greatest things. Yet still, how I do wish that I were of service whenever my Country desires to cast aside its own particular custom, so unworthy its own worth--that custom particularly by which, all her own things being despised, she only prizes those things to which having crossed the Alps and lived over the sea has given a value! But these wishes of too rash hope being put aside, let me turn to the acygnian gentlemen, whom I know--although I shall name none personally--to have angrily abandoned me on account of some of my recent sayings. Still, let them compose their temper, and let them confess--may they pardon such a great saying from a forward young man!--I say, let them confess that they owe me this: that, in truth, in so grand an argument, in which they have not recourse to the stale untruths concerning their own services, nor to the nauseous calumnies concerning ours. With regard to this slight statement of mine, I have yielded to the importance of those from whence it springs. And let it spring, forsooth! I speak seriously--and let them know that they will always find me most tranquilly reposing under that shadow which their greater light has cast around me!

EPIGRAMMATA SACRA.

I.

_Pharisaeus et Publicanus._ Luc. xviii. 14-19.

En duo templum adeunt, diversis mentibus ambo.
Ille procul trepido lumine signat humum:
It gravis hic, et in alta ferox penetralia tendit.
Plus habet hic templi; plus habet ille Dei.

{Andres, idou, heteroisi noois, dyo hiron eselthon.
Telothen orrhodei keinos ho phrikaleos;
All' ho men hos sobaros neou mychon engys hikanei;
Pleion ho men neou, pleion ho d' eiche Theou.}

_Two went up into the Temple to pray._

Two went to pray! O, rather say,
One went to brag, th' other to pray.
One stands up close, and treads on high,
Where th' other dares not send his eye.
One neerer to God's altar trod;
The other to the altar's God. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Two men unto the Temple went to pray.
That, with a downcast look, stood far away;
This, near the altar, himself highly bore:
This of the Temple, that of God hath more. B.

II.

_In asinum Christi vectorem._ Matt. xxi. 7.

Ille[43] suum didicit quondam objurgare magistrum:
Et quid ni discas tu celebrare tuum?
Mirum non minus est, te jam potuisse tacere,
Illum quam fuerat tum potuisse loqui.

_Upon the asse that bore our Saviour._

Hath only Anger an omnipotence
In eloquence?
Within the lips of Love and Joy doth dwell
No miracle?
Why else had Balaam's asse a tongue to chide
His master's pride,
And thou, heaven-burthen'd beast, hast ne're a word
To praise thy Lord?
That he should find a tongue and vocal thunder
Was a great wonder;
But O, methinkes, 'tis a farre greater one
That thou find'st none. CR.

MORE CLOSELY.

The ass of old had power to chide its wilful lord;
And hast not thou the power to speak one praiseful word?
Not less a marvel, sure, this silence is in thee
Than that the ass of old to speak had liberty. G.

III.

_Dominus apud suos vilis._ Luc. iv. 28-29.

En consanguinei! patriis en exul in oris
Christus! et haud alibi tam peregrinus erat.
Qui socio demum pendebat sanguine latro,
O consanguineus quam fuit ille magis!

_The Lord 'despised and rejected' by His own people._

See, O my kinsmen, what strange thing is this!
Christ in's own country a great stranger is.
The thief which bled upon the Cross with Thee
Was more ally'd in consanguinity.[44] B.

IV.

_Ad Bethesdae piscinam positus._ Joan. v. 1-16.

Quis novus hic refugis incumbit Tantalus undis,
Quem fallit toties tam fugitiva salus?
Unde hoc naufragium felix medicaeque procellae,
Vitaque tempestas quam pretiosa dedit?

_The cripple at the Pool of Bethesda._

What Tantalus is this, who health still craves
So oft, yet vainly, from the refluent waves?
And whence this happy wreck, this healing strife,
This storm that drifts its victim into life? CL.

ANOTHER VERSION.

What new Tantalus is here,
Couch'd by this swift-ebbing wave,
Whom the healing flood comes near,
Then retiring fails to save?

O, what happy shipwreck this,
And a cure by conflict wrought!
Strange that woe should thus win bliss,
From disaster life be brought! G.

V.

_Christus ad Thomam._ Joan. xx. 26-29.

Saeva fides, voluisse meos tractare dolores!
Crudeles digiti, sic didicisse Deum!
Vulnera ne dubites, vis tangere nostra: sed, eheu,
Vulnera, dum dubitas, tu graviora facis.

_Christ to Thomas._

Harsh faith, and wouldst thou probe these signs of woe?
O cruel fingers, would ye prove God so?
Touch them, lest thou shouldst doubt? Then have thy will;
But, ah, thy doubting makes them deeper still. CL.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

O cruel faith, afresh my pangs to move!
O ruthless fingers, thus their Lord to prove!
See, touch the wounds; doubt not; but with such doubt
Thou makest all those wounds afresh gush out. A.

VI.

_Quisquis perdiderit animam suam mea causa inveniet eam._ Matt. xvi. 25.

I, vita, i, perdam: mihi mors tua, Christe, reperta est:
Mors tua vita mea est; mors tibi vita mea.
Aut ego te abscondam Christi, mea vita, sepulchro:
Non adeo procul est tertius ille dies.

_Whosoever will lose his life for My sake shall find it._

Away, my life! Lord Christ, I have Thy death:
My life's Thy death, and Thy death gives me breath.
But come, my life, I'll hide thee in His tomb:
The third day hence is not so long to come. A.

VII.

_Primo mane venit ad sepulchrum Magdalena._ Joan. xx. 1.

Tu matutinos praevertis, sancta, rubores,
Magdala; sed jam tum Sol tuus ortus erat.[45]
Jamque vetus merito vanos sol non agit ortus,
Et tanti radios non putat esse suos.
Quippe aliquo, reor, ille novus jam nictat in astro,
Et se nocturna parvus habet facula.
Quam velit o tantae vel nuntius esse diei,
Atque novus Soli Lucifer ire novo!

_[Mary] Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, cometh unto the sepulchre._

Thou holy Magdalene,
Ere rosy morn was seen,
Awokest; but e'en then
Thy Sun was in thy ken.

Now the great olden sun,
Rising as wont upon
The earth, is wildered
With new beams round him shed.

Lo, as a star he seems,
Or torch with nigh-quench'd beams;
Keeping himself still small
Before the Lord of All.

How well might'st thou, O Sun,
Submit to be outshone,
And, as a morning-star,
Herald One grander far! G.

VIII.

_Quinque panes ad quinque hominum millia._ Joan. vi. 9.

En mensae faciles, redivivaque vulnera coenae,
Quaeque indefessa provocat ora dape!
Aucta Ceres stupet arcana se crescere messe.
Denique quid restat? Pascitur ipse cibus.

_On the miracle of multiplyed loaves._

See here an easie feast that knows no wound,
That under Hunger's teeth will needs be found;
A subtle harvest of unbounded bread:
What would ye more? Here Food itselfe is fed. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Eas'ly-furnish'd table!
And feast increas'd by eating:
Still the mouth entreating.

The bread itself, unable
To tell whence it flows,
Finds it most surely grows.

Finds itself guest--no fable!
Whence is the mystic dower?
From Him Who is all power. G.

IX.

_Aethiops lotus._ Act. viii. 38.

Ille niger sacris exit, quam lautus! ab undis:
Nec frustra Aethiopem nempe lavare fuit.
Mentem quam niveam piceae cutis umbra fovebit?
Tam volet et nigros sancta Columba lares.

_On the baptized Ethiopian._

Let it no longer be a forlorne hope
To wash an Ethiope:
He's washt; his gloomy skin a peacefull shade
For his white soule is made:
And now, I doubt not, the Eternall Dove
A black-fac'd house will love. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

How fair this Ethiop comes from th' holy fount!
To wash a Black we may not vain account.
How bright a soul is in a cloudy skin!
The Dove now loves a black house to dwell in. B.

X.

_Publicanus procul stans percutiebat pectus suum._ Luc. xviii. 13.

Ecce hic peccator timidus petit advena templum:
Quodque audet solum, pectora moesta ferit.
Fide miser; pulsaque fores has fortiter: illo
Invenies templo tu propiore Deum.

_The publican standing afar off smote on his breast._

Lo, a sinner, timid stranger,
Stranger to the Lord our God,
Seeks, in consciousness of danger,
Where to leave sin's awful load.
He to the Temple now is come,
Bow'd in dread beside the door;
His pallid lips, behold, are dumb;
He smites his bosom, dares no more.
Ah, distress'd one, smite thee there
In _that_ temple, God is near. G.

XI.

_[In] obolum viduae._ Marc. xii. 44.

Gutta brevis nummi, vitae patrona senilis,
E digitis stillat non dubitantis anus;
Istis multa vagi spumant de gurgite census:
Isti abjecerunt scilicet; illa dedit.

{Kermatioio bracheia rhanis, biotoio t' aphaures
Herkos, apostazei cheiros apo tromeras.
Tois de anaskirta polys aphros anaideos olbou.
hoi men aperrhipton; keina dedoke monon.}

_The widow's mites._

Two mites, two drops--yet all her house and land--
Falle from a steady heart though trembling hand:
The others' wanton wealth foams high and brave.
The other cast away; she only gave. CR.

XII.

_Maria vero assidens ad pedes ejus audiebat eum._ Luc. x. 39.

Aspice, namque novum est, ut ab hospite pendeat hospes!
Hinc ori parat, hoc sumit ab ore cibos.
Tune epulis adeo es, soror, officiosa juvandis,
Et sinis has, inquit, Martha, perire dapes?

_Mary, which also sat at Jesus' feet, and heard His word._

Behold, a new thing here--host hanging on her Guest!
Preparing for His mouth, His mouth's words are her feast!
O Martha sister, spare thy labour and thy cost:
Tending the food that perisheth, diviner food is lost. G.

XIII.

_In Spiritus Sancti descensum._ Act. ii.

Ferte sinus, o, ferte: cadit vindemia coeli,
Sanctaque ab aethereis volvitur uva jugis.
Felices nimium, queis tam bona musta bibuntur;
In quorum gremium lucida pergit hiems!
En caput, en ut nectareo micat et micat astro;
Gaudet et in roseis viva corona comis.
Illis, o Superi, quis sic neget ebrius esse?
Illis, ne titubent, dant sua vina faces.

_The descent of the Holy Spirit._

Bear, O bosoms, bear ye what Heaven's vintage showers,
Sacred clusters pouring from ethereal bowers.
Too happy, surely, ye who drink of wine so good;
It comes into your bosoms a sparkling, cooling flood.
Behold, with nectar'd star each head is shining, shining;
Around your purpl'd locks a crown of life entwining.
O Spirit of all flesh, to drink who'd be denied,
Since Thou, lest they should falter, mak'st wine a torch to guide? G.

XIV.

_Congestis omnibus peregre profectus est._ Luc. xv. 13.

Dic mihi, quo tantos properas, puer auree, nummos?
Quorsum festinae conglomerantur opes?
Cur tibi tota vagos ructans patrimonia census?
Non poterunt siliquae nempe minoris emi?

ON THE PRODIGALL.

_The younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country._

Tell me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad,
Whither away so frolick? why so glad?
What all thy wealth in counsile? all thy state?
Are husks so deare? troth, 'tis a mighty rate. CR.

XV.

_Non solum vinciri, sed et mori paratus sum._ Act. xxi. 13.

Non modo vinc'la, sed et mortem tibi, Christe, subibo,
Paulus ait, docti callidus arte doli.
Diceret hoc aliter: Tibi non modo velle ligari,
Christe, sed et solvi[46] nempe paratus ero.

_I am ready not to be bound only, but to dye._

Come death, come bonds, nor do you shrink, my eares,
At those hard words man's cowardize calls feares.
Save those of feare, no other bands feare I;
Nor other death than this--the feare to die. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Not bonds for Thee, Lord, but death too I'll brave,
Says Paul, adept in double-meanings grave.
The words meant more: his wish was to be bound
For Christ; but loosed too, and with Him found. G.

XVI.

_In Herodem_ {skolekobroton}. Act. xii. 23.

Ille Deus, Deus! haec populi vox unica: tantum,
Vile genus, vermes credere velle negant.
At cito se miseri, cito nunc errasse fatentur;
Carnes degustant, ambrosiamque putant.

_On Herod worshipped as a god, eaten of worms._

A god! a god! one-mouth'd the people cry;
Only the worms, vile tribe, his claim deny.
Yet they, too, soon confess themselves astray,
For in his flesh they find ambrosia. CL.

XVII.

_Videns ventum magnum timuit, et cum coepisset demergi, clamavit, &c._ Matt. xiv.

Petre, cades, o, si dubitas: o, fide: nec ipsum,
Petre, negat fidis aequor habere fidem.
Pondere pressa suo subsidunt caetera: solum,
Petre, tuae mergit te levitatis onus.[47]

_When he saw the wind boisterous he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, &c._

Peter! doubt, and thou sinkest! O, believe;
The sea will not thy faith, Peter, deceive.
Things by their weight subside into the wave;
Thy lightness, Peter, threats a wat'ry grave. G.

XVIII.

_Obtulit eis pecunias._ Act. viii. 18.

Quorsum hos hic nummos profers? quorsum, impie Simon?
Non ille hic Judas, sed tibi Petrus adest.
Vis emisse Deum? potius, precor, hoc age, Simon,
Si potes, ipse prius daemona vende tuum.

_He offered them money._

Money! what wouldst thou, impious? Look and see,
'Tis Peter, not Iscariot, speaks to thee.
Wouldst thou buy God? Nay, Simon, change thy tone,
And try to sell that demon of thine own. CL.

XIX.

_Umbra S. Petri medetur aegrotis._ Act. v. 15.

Conveniunt alacres, sic, sic juvat ire sub umbras,
Atque umbras fieri, creditis? umbra vetat.
O Petri umbra potens, quae non miracula praestat?
Nunc quoque, Papa, tuum sustinet illa decus.

_The shadow of St. Peter heals the sick._

Beneath that shadow they delight to crowd;
To turn to shades by that shade not allow'd.
From Peter's shadow what may we not hope,
Now all thy glory it sustains, O Pope! G.

XX.

_Tetigit linguam ejus, &c. ... et loquebatur ... et praecepit illis ne cui dicerent: illi vero eo magis praedicabant._ Marc. vii. 33, 36.

Christe, jubes muta ora loqui; muta ora loquuntur:
Sana tacere jubes ora; nec illa tacent.
Si digito tunc usus eras, muta ora resolvens;
Nonne opus est tota nunc tibi, Christe, manu?

_The dumbe healed, and the people enjoyned silence._

Christ bids the dumbe tongue speake; it speakes: the sound
Hee charges to be quiet; it runs round.
If in the first He us'd His finger's touch,
His hand's whole strength here could not be too much. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Christ, the mute lips Thou bidst to speak; and lo,
Straightway words flow:
Thou mute wouldst have the speaking lips; but they
Thee disobey.
If, then, a single finger Thou didst use
Mute tongues to loose,
Thy whole hand now we need; for old and young
Have ceaseless tongue. G.

XXI.

_Sacerdos quidam descendens eadem via vidit, et praeteriit._ Luc. x. 32.

Spectasne, ah, placidisque oculis mea vulnera tractas?
O dolor! o nostris vulnera vulneribus!
Pax oris quam torva tui est! quam triste serenum!
Tranquillus miserum qui videt, ipse facit.

_And a certaine priest comming that way looked on him, and passed by._

Why dost thou wound my wounds, O thou that passest by,
Handling and turning them with an unwounded eye?
The calm that cools thine eye does shipwrack mine; for O,
Unmov'd to see one wretched is to make him so. CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

Dost look upon my wounds, serene-faced Priest?
Thy placid eyes give wounds more deep and sore.
O, thy calm stare avert! pass on, at least:
They who see woe unmov'd cause it, and more. G.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Canst look, and by with look so tranquil pass,
Nor heed my wounds? O, wounds on wounds, alas!
O peace, too grim! on it set little store:
Who looks unmov'd on misery makes it more. A.

XXII.

_Leprosi ingrati._ Luc. xvii.

Dum linquunt Christum, ah morbus! sanantur euntes:
Ipse etiam morbus sic medicina fuit.
At sani Christum, mens ah male-sana! relinquunt:
Ipsa etiam morbus sic medicina fuit.

_The ungrateful lepers._

Whilst leaving Christ--ah, fell disease!--
They're healed as they go:
Their malady their medicine is,
Because He will'd it so.
But healed now--ah, mind diseas'd!--
They from the Lord depart:
Their healing their disease is now,
Bred in an ingrate heart. G.

XXIII.

_Ne soliciti estote tu crastinum._ Matt. vi. 34.

I, miser, inque tuas rape non tua tempora curas:
Et nondum natis perge perire malis.
Mi querulis satis una dies, satis angitur horis:
Una dies lacrymis mi satis uda suis.
Non mihi venturos vacat expectare dolores:
Nolo ego, nolo hodie crastinus esse miser.

_Be ye not fretted about to-morrow._

Go, wretched mortal, antedate the day,
Fill thee with care;
Work thyself mis'ries, in a perverse way,
Before they're there.
Enough for me the day's cares in the day,
The passing hour;
Enough the tears that daily, yea or nay,
In sorrow low'r.
I have no leisure thus to antedate
The coming woe,
Nor to-day darken with to-morrow's fate;
And so I go. G.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Wretch, to thy woes add not
to-morrow morn;
And haste not thou to
groan with ills unborn.
Each day's laments, each
hour's griefs, me suffice;
Each morn, noon, eve, with
rueful weeping eyes.
No leisure is to look for
griefs to be:
Stir not to-day to-morrow's
pains in me. A.

XXIV.

_A telonio Matthaeus._ Matt. ix. 9.

Ah satis, ah nimis est: noli ultra ferre magistrum,
Et lucro domino turpia colla dare.
Jam fuge; jam, Matthaee, feri fuge regna tyranni:
Inque bonam, felix i fugitive,[48] crucem.

_Matthew called from the receipt of custom._

Enough, too much; no more a master's yoke
Endure, nor bow to lordly Lucre's stroke:
His service from thy slavish neck is broke.

Flee, Matthew, flee the cruel tyrant's sway,
And hie thee, like a happy runaway,
To the sweet cross that waits for thee to-day. R. WI.

XXV.

_Viduae filius e feretro matri redditur._ Luc. vii. 15.

En redeunt, lacrymasque breves nova gaudia pensant;
Bisque illa est, uno in pignore, facta parens.
Felix quae magis es nati per funera mater:
Amisisse, iterum cui peperisse fuit.

_The dead son re-delivered to his mother._

Sweet restoration! by new joys outweigh'd,
Brief sorrow is exil'd,
And the lorn widow is a mother made
Twice in her only child.

O happy mother! then a mother most
When all her hopes seem'd vain:
Happy, who wept beside a dear son lost,
And found him born again. CL.

XXVI.

_Bonum intrare in coelos cum uno oculo, &c._ Matt. xviii. 9.

Uno oculo? ah centum potius mihi, millia centum:
Nam quis ibi, in coelo, quis satis Argus erit?
Aut si oculus mihi tantum unus conceditur, unus
Iste oculus fiam totus et omnis ego.

_It is better to go into heaven with one eye, &c._

One eye? a thousand rather, and a thousand more,
To fix those full-fac't glories. O, he's poore
Of eyes that has but Argus' store!
Yet, if thou'lt fill one poore eye with Thy Heaven and Thee,
O grant, sweet Goodnesse, that one eye may be
All and every whit of me. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

With one eye! Ah! but rather to me give
A hundred or a hundred-thousand, Lord.
All Argus' eyes were no superlative
To view the glories Thy three heavens afford.

Or, O my God, if unto those who die,
It be Thy will only to give one eye,
Grant my whole body that one eye to be,
That thus I may forever gaze on Thee. G.

XXVII.

_Hydropicus sanatur._ Luc. xiv. 2-4.

Ipse suum pelagus, morboque immersus aquoso
Qui fuit, ut laetus nunc micat atque levis:
Quippe in vina iterum Christus, puto, transtulit undas;
Et nunc iste suis ebrius est ab aquis.

Himself is his own sea;
Dropsy his malady
In sad severity.

But Christ the Lord he sees,
Who touching him him frees;
Now joyous and at ease.

Again, as I opine,
The Lord transmutes to wine
By miracle divine;

And now, still more and more,
His own wine-water store
Pours mirth at ev'ry pore. G.

XXVIII.

_Non erat iis in diversorio locus._ Luc. ii. 7.

Illi non locus est? Illum ergo pellitis? Illum?
Ille Deus, quem sic pellitis; ille Deus.
O furor! humani miracula saeva furoris!
Illi non locus est, quo sine nec locus est.

_There was no room for them in the inn._

No place for Him! So Him you drive away;
You drive away your God, your God. O, stay!
O height of human madness! wonders rare!
No place for Him! without Whom no place were. G.

XXIX.

_In lacrymas Lazari spretas a Divite._ Luc. xvi.

Felix, o, lacrymis, o Lazare, ditior istis,
Quam qui purpureas it gravis inter opes:
Illum cum rutili nova purpura vestiet ignis,
Ille tuas lacrymas quam volet esse suas.

_Upon Lazarus his teares._

Rich Lazarus, richer in those gems, thy teares,
Than Dives in the roabes he weares:
He scornes them now; but, O, they'l suit full well
With th' purple he must weare in Hell! CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

O happy Lazarus! richer in thy tears
Than he who midst his riches purple wears.
Hell's purple flames red-glowing shall be his:
Ah, then how shall he count thy tears a bliss!

XXX.

_Indignatur Caiphas Christo se confitenti._ Matt. xxvi. 65.

Tu Christum, Christum quod non negat esse lacessis:
Ipsius hoc crimen, quod fuit ipse, fuit.
Tene Sacerdotem credam? Novus ille Sacerdos
Per quem impune Deo non licet esse Deum.

_Caiphas angry that Christ confesses He is the Christ._

Wroth that The Christ confesseth Christ He is!
His fault that He is but Himself, I wis.
Thee shall I reckon priest? Strange priest is he
Who leaves not God His own Divinity! G.

XXXI.

_Cum tot signa edidisset, non credebant in eum._ Joan. xii. 37.

Non tibi, Christe, fidem tua tot miracula praestant;
O verbi, o dextrae dulcia regna tuae!
Non praestant? neque te post tot miracula credunt?
Mirac'lum qui non credidit, ipse fuit.[49]

_But though He had done so many miracles before them, yet they believed not on Him._

For all Thy signs they still refuse Thee, Lord;
Those signs, blest symbols of Thy reign and word.
Such signs, and not believe? Sure, who did thus
Made unbelief itself miraculous. CL.

XXXII.

_Ad S. Andream piscatorem._ Marc. i. 16.

Quippe potes pulchre captare et fallere pisces;
Centum illic discis lubricus ire dolis.
Heus, bone piscator! tendit sua retia Christus:
Artem inverte, et jam tu quoque disce capi.

_To S. Andrew, fisherman._

How cleverly the fishes he beguiles!
He learns to use a hundred cunning wiles.
Ho, thou good Fisher: Christ casts out His net;
Now haste thou to be caught; for thee 'tis set. G.

XXXIII.

_Ego sum vox, &c._ Joan. i. 23.

Vox ego sum, dicis: tu vox es, sancte Joannes?
Si vox es, genitor cur tibi mutus erat?
Ista tui fuerant quam mira silentia patris!
Vocem non habuit tunc quoque cum genuit.

_I am the voice._

'I am the voice,' thou sayest. Thou holy John,
If voice thou art, why was thy father dumb?
O silence strange! which as I muse upon,
I see thy voice from God, not man, did come. G.

XXXIV.

_Vincula sponte decidunt._ Act. xii. 7.

Qui ferro Petrum cumulas, durissime custos,
A ferro disces mollior esse tuo.
Ecce fluit, nodisque suis evolvitur ultro:
I, fatue, et vinc'lis vincula pone tuis.

_The chains spontaneously fall off._

Who loadest him with chains, thou jailer stern,
To be more kind e'en from those chains shalt learn.
Lo, they dissolve, and their own knots untie.
Go, fool, and chains with chains to fetter try. G.

XXXV.

IN DIEM OMNIUM SANCTORUM.

_Ne laedite terrain, neque mare, neque arbores, quousque obsignaverimus servos Dei nostri in frontibus suis._ Rev. vii. 3.

Nusquam immitis agat ventus sua murmura, nusquam
Sylva tremat, crispis sollicitata comis.
Aequa Thetis placide allabens ferat oscula Terrae;
Terra suos Thetidi pandat amica sinus:
Undique pax effusa piis volet aurea pennis,
Frons bona dum signo est quaeque notata suo.
Ah, quid in hoc opus est signis aliunde petendis?
Frons bona sat lacrymis quaeque notata suis.

_On All-Saints' Day._

Let wind with murmurs harsh nowhere be heard;
Nowhere wood tremble, its curl'd tresses stirr'd.
Calm-flowing Sea greet Earth with kisses bland,
Earth unto Sea its bosom kind expand.
Let holy Peace on golden pinions steal,
Till each blest brow is mark'd with its own seal.
Ah, why elsewhere for this, need signs be sought?
To each blest brow tears seal enough have brought. R. WI.

XXXVI.

_In die Conjurationis sulphureae._

Quam bene dispositis annus dat currere festis!
Post omnes Sanctos omne scelus sequitur.

_Upon the Powder-day._

How fit our well-rank'd Feasts do follow!
All-mischiefe comes after All-Hallow.[50] CR.

XXXVII.

_Deus sub utero Virginis._ Luc. i. 31.

Ecce tuus, Natura, pater; pater hic tuus hic est:
Ille, uterus matris quem tenet, ille pater.
Pellibus exiguis arctatur Filius ingens,
Quem tu non totum, crede, nec ipsa capis.
Quanta uteri, Regina, tui reverentia tecum est,
Dum jacet hic coelo sub breviore Deus!
Conscia divino gliscunt praecordia motu,
Nec vehit aethereos sanctior aura polos.
Quam bene sub tecto tibi concipiuntur eodem
Vota, et, vota cui concipienda, Deus!
Quod nubes alia, et tanti super atria coeli
Quaerunt, invenient hoc tua vota domi.
O felix anima haec, quae tam sua gaudia tangit!
Sub conclave suo cui suus ignis adest.
Corpus amet, licet, illa suum, neque sidera malit:
Quod vinc'lum est aliis, hoc habet illa domum.
Sola jaces, neque sola; toro quocunque recumbis,
Illo estis positi tuque tuusque toro.
Immo ubi casta tuo posita es cum conjuge conjunx;
Quod mirum magis est, es tuus ipsa torus.

_God in the Virgin's womb._

Thy Father, Nature, here thy Father see:
Whom womb of mother holds, thy Father He.
Scant teguments the mighty Son enchain,
Whom thou thyself not wholly dost contain.
What reverence, Queen, to thine own womb is given,
While God lies here beneath a lesser heaven!
With sacred motion swells her conscious breast;
Nor are the poles upborne by airs more blest.
'Neath the same roof are well conceiv'd by thee
Vows, and the God to whom vows offer'd be.
What other prayers o'er clouds and sky's vast bound
Seek, by thy prayers this will at home be found.
Blest soul, so nigh to thy supreme desire,
To which 'neath its own shrine dwells its own fire.
She may her body love, nor heaven prefer:
What chains down others is a home to her.
Lone, yet not lone, where'er thou dost recline;
On that same couch are laid both thou and thine.
Nay, when with thy chaste spouse, chaste wife thou'rt laid--
More strange, thyself thine own blest couch art made. R. WI.

XXXVIII.

_Ad Judaeos mactatores Stephani._ Act. vii. 59.

Frustra illum increpitant, frustra vaga saxa: nec illi
Grandinis, heu, saevae! dura procella nocet.
Ista potest tolerare, potest nescire; sed illi,
Quae sunt in vestro pectore, saxa nocent.

_To the Jews, murderers of St. Stephen._

Vainly ye cast stones, Jews; they give no shock:
Shower as the hail-storm, it is all in vain.
These he shall bear, and heed not: 'tis the rock
Of your obdurate hearts that gives him pain. G.

XXXIX.

_D. Joannes in exilio._ Rev. i. 9.

Exul, amor Christi est: Christum tamen invenit exul:
Et solitos illic invenit ille sinus.
Ah, longo, aeterno ah terras indicite nobis
Exilio, Christi si sinus exilium est.

_St. John in exile._

Love to Christ an exile is,
Yet the exile findeth Christ;
All the dear familiar bliss,
And the bosom-joys unpric'd.
Ah, Lord, exile long to us,
Never-ending e'en be sent,
If we find Christ's bosom thus
As our place of banishment. G.

XL.

_Ad infantes martyres._ Matt. ii. 16.

Fundite ridentes animas, effundite coelo;
Discet ibi vestra, o quam bene! lingua loqui.
Nec vos lac vestrum et maternos quaerite fontes:
Quae vos expectat lactea tota via est.

_To the infant martyrs._

Go, smiling soules, your new-built cages breake,
In Heav'n you'l learne to sing ere here to speake:
Nor let the milky fonts that bath your thirst
Bee your delay;
The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,
Milke all the way. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Depart, ye smiling souls, to Heaven depart:
Your tongues may there learn best the speaking art.
Stay not to suck, sweet children, do not stay:
Cry not; for you shall go the milky way. B.

XLI.

_Quaerit Jesum suum beata Virgo._ Luc. ii. 45.

Ah, redeas miserae, redeas, puer alme, parenti;
Ah, neque te coelis tam cito redde tuis.
Coelum nostra tuum fuerint, o, brachia, si te
Nostra suum poterunt brachia ferre Deum.

_The blessed Virgin seeks Jesus._

Ah, to Thy mother, ah, return,
my fair, beloved Son;
Return not to Thy native skies,
my heaven-descended One.
Thy mother's arms Thy heaven would be,
enfolding Thee around;
If thus within these innocent arms
the great God might be found.[51] G.

XLII.

_Non sum dignus ut sub tecta mea venias._ Matt. viii. 8.

In tua tecta Deus veniet: tuus haud sinit illud
Et pudor atque humili in pectore celsa fides.
Illum ergo accipies, quoniam non accipis: ergo
In te jam veniet, non tua tecta Deus.[52]

_I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roofe._

Thy God was making hast into thy roofe;
Thy humble faith and feare keepes him aloofe.
Hee'll be thy guest, because He may not be;
Hee'll come--into thy house? No, into thee. CR.

XLIII.

_Christus accusatus nihil respondet._ Matt. xxvii. 12.

Nil ait: o sanctae pretiosa silentia linguae!
Ponderis o quanti res nihil illud erat!
Ille olim verbum qui dixit, et omnia fecit,
Verbum non dicens omnia nunc reficit.

_And He answered them nothing._

O mighty Nothing! unto thee,
Nothing, wee owe all things that bee.
God spake once when Hee all things made,
Hee sav'd all when Hee Nothing said.
The world was made of Nothing then;
'Tis made by Nothing now againe. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

'Nothing He said.'
O precious silence of that sacred tongue!
O what vast interests on that Nothing hung!
He who once spoke the word, and all things made,
Now re-makes all, when not a word is said. G.

XLIV.

_Nunc dimittis._ Luc. ii. 29.

Spesne meas tandem ergo mei tenuere lacerti?
Ergo bibunt oculos lumina nostra tuos?
Ergo bibant: possintque novam sperare juventam:
O possint senii non meminisse sui!
Immo mihi potius mitem mors induat umbram,
Esse sub his oculis si tamen umbra potest.
Ah, satis est. Ego te vidi, puer auree, vidi:
Nil post te, nisi te, Christe, videre volo.[53]

_Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace._

And is my hope grasp'd in these arms of mine
At last, and do these eyes drink light from Thine?
There let them drink with a new youth in store,
And feel the dimming touch of age no more.
Nay rather, if Thine eyes can give it room,
Let Death's soft shadow gently o'er them come.
Thee have I seen, O Child: enough for me:
I care not to behold aught else but Thee. CL.

XLV.

_Verbum inter spinas._ Luc. viii. 7.

Saepe Dei verbum sentes cadit inter, et atrum
Miscet spina procax, ah, male juncta! latus.
Credo quidem: nam sic spinas, ah, scilicet inter
Ipse Deus verbum tu quoque, Christe, cadis.

_The Word among thorns._

Often and often 'good words' fall
Where thorns and briars rankly crawl;
Their spines lay hold, and choke, and pierce--
Like to wild beast in hunger fierce.
I know it: for like flash of sword
I read 'twas so with Thee THE WORD:
God, e'en my God, Thou wast in truth;
But fell'st 'mong thorns, which show'd no ruth. G.

XLVI.

_Sabbatum Judaicum et Christianum._ Luc. xiv. 5.

Res eadem vario quantum distinguitur usu:
Nostra hominem servant sabbata, vestra bovem.
Observent igitur, pacto quid justius isto?
Sabbata nostra homines, sabbata vestra boves.

_The Judaic and Christian Sabbath._

How diff'rent grows a thing through diff'rent use!
_Our_ Sabbaths serve men, _yours_ give oxen truce,
Be this agreed--arrangement fitter none--
_Our_ Sabbath men keep, _yours_ oxen alone. G.

XLVII.

_Ad verbum Dei sanatur caecus._ Marc. x. 52.

Christe, loquutus eras, o sacra licentia verbi:
Jamque novus caeci fluxit in ora dies.
Jam credo, Nemo[54] est, sicut Tu, Christe, loquutus:
Auribus? immo oculis, Christe, loquutus eras.

_The blind cured by the word of our Saviour._

Thou spak'st the word--Thy word's a law;
Thou spak'st, and straight the blind man saw.
To speak and make the blind to see,
Was never man, Lord, spake like Thee.
To speak thus was to speak, say I,
Not to his eare, but to his eye. CR.

XLVIII.

_Onus meum leve est._ Matt. xi. 30.

Esse levis quicunque voles, onus accipe Christi:
Ala tuis humeris, non onus, illud erit.
Christi onus an quaeris quam sit grave? scilicet audi,
Tam grave, ut ad summos te premat usque polos.

_My burden is light._

Askest how thou may'st lightly loaded be?
Christ's _burden_ take from me:
A wing to lift, no load to press thee down,
Thou it wilt feel and own.
Dost ask how heavy may Christ's _burden_ be?
Then list, O man, to me:
So _heavy_, that whoe'er 'neath it enrolls,
It lifts to the highest poles. G.

XLIX.

_Miraculum quinque panum._ Joan. vi. 1-13.

Ecce, vagi venit unda cibi; venit indole sacra
Fortis, et in dentes fertilis innumeros.
Quando erat invictae tam sancta licentia coenae?
Illa famem populi poscit, et illa fidem.

_On the miracle of loaves._

Now, Lord, or never, they'l beleeve on Thee;
Thou to their teeth hast prov'd Thy deity. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

See, loaves in heaps, blest growth, spread far and wide,
For mouths innumerable multiplied.
Feast holy, free, invincible like this,
Claims the crowd's hunger, and their faith, I wis. R. WI.

L.

_Nunc scimus te habere daemonium._ Joan. viii. 52.

Aut Deus, aut saltem daemon tibi notior esset,
Gens mala, quae dicis daemona habere Deum.
Ignorasse Deum poteras, o caeca; sed oro,
Et patrem poteras tam male nosse tuum?

_Now we know Thee to have a devil._

God or the devil by you
ought better to be known,
Ye wicked ones, who charge
your God a devil to own.
Ign'rant of God, indeed,
ye well might be; but O,
The devil, your own father,
how could ye fail to know? G.

LI.

_In beatae Virginis verecundiam._

In gremio, quaeris, cur sic sua lumina Virgo
Ponat? ubi melius poneret illa, precor?
O ubi, quam coelo, melius sua lumina ponat?
Despicit, at coelum sic tamen illa videt.

_On the blessed Virgin's bashfulness._

That on her lap she casts her humble eye,
'Tis the sweet pride of her humility.
The faire starre is well fixt, for where, O, where,
Could she have fixt it on a fairer spheare?
'Tis Heav'n, 'tis Heav'n she sees, Heaven's God there lyes;
She can see Heaven, and ne're lift up her eyes.
This new guest to her eyes new lawes hath given:
'Twas once looke up, 'tis now looke downe to Heaven. CR.

LII.

_In vulnera Dei pendentis._

O frontis, lateris, manuumque pedumque cruores;
O quae purpureo flumina fonte patent:
In nostram, ut quondam, pes non valet ire salutem,
Sed natat; in fluviis, ah, natat ille suis.
Fixa manus; dat, fixa: pios bona dextera rores
Donat, et in donum solvitur ipsa suum.
O latus, o torrens; quis enim torrentior exit
Nilus, ubi pronis praecipitatur aquis?
Mille et mille simul cadit et cadit undique guttis
Frons: viden' ut saevus purpuret ora pudor?
Spinae hoc irriguae florent crudeliter imbre,
Inque novas sperant protinus ire rosas.
Quisque capillus it exiguo tener alveus amne,
Hoc quasi de rubro rivulus oceano.
O nimium vivae pretiosis amnibus undae:
Fons vitae nunquam verior ille fuit.

_On the wounds of our crucified Lord._

O bleeding wounds of brow, feet, hands, and side;
Rivers which from a purple fount spread wide.
No more to save us now that foot can go,
But swims in streams which from its own wounds flow.
Transfix'd His hand yet gives--gives dewdrops holy,
And into its own gift is melted wholly.
O side, O torrent; for with torrent strong
What flooded Nile more swift is driven along?
Drops from His brow in thousands fall and fall;
See to His face a cruel blush they call.
By this sad shower the thorns unkindly nurst
Soon into new-blown roses hope to burst.
Each hair becomes a slender streamlet's bed,
As if a rivulet from this ocean red.
O waves too much alive with precious streams,
Nowhere a fount of life more truly gleams.[55] R. WI.

LIII.

_Quare cum Publicanis manducat Magister vester?_ Matt. ix. 11.

Ergo istis socium se peccatoribus addit?
Ergo istis sacrum non negat ille latus?
Tu, Pharisaee, rogas, Jesus cur fecerit istud?
Nae dicam: Jesus, non Pharisaeus, erat.

_Wherefore eateth your Master with Publicans?_

Wherefore associates He with sinners vile?
Why hides He not His holy self the while?
Askest thou, Pharisee, how this can be?
Because 'tis Jesus, not a Pharisee. G.

LIV.

_Ecce locus ubi jacuit Dominus._

Ipsum, ipsum, precor, o potius mini, candide, monstra:
Ipsi, ipsi o lacrymis oro sit ire meis.
Si monstrare locum satis est, et dicere nobis,
En, Maria, hic tuus en hic jacuit Dominus;
Ipsa ulnas monstrare meas, et dicere possum,
En, Maria, hic tuus en hic jacuit Dominus.

{Phaidime, moi auton mallon moi deiknythi auton.
Autos mou, deomai, autos eche dakrya.
Ei de topon moi deiknynai halis esti, kai eipein,
Hode teos, Mariam, enide, keito anax;
Ankoinas mou deiknynai dynamai ge kai eipein,
Hode teos, Mariam, enide, keito anax.}

_Come, see the place where the Lord lay._

Show me Himselfe, Himselfe, bright Sir, O show
Which way my poore tears to Himselfe may goe.
Were it enough to show the place, and say,
Looke, Mary, here, see where thy Lord once lay;
Then could I show these armes of mine, and say,
Looke, Mary, here, see where thy Lord once lay.

_Vpon the sepulchre of our Lord._

Here, where our Lord once laid His head,
Now the grave lies buried. CR.

LV.

_Leprosi ingrati._ Luc. xvii. 11-19.

Lex jubet ex hominum coetu procul ire leprosos:
At mundi a Christo cur abiere procul?
Non abit, at sedes tantum mutavit in illis;
Et lepra, quae fuerat corpore, mente sedet.
Sic igitur digna vice res variatur; et a se
Quam procul ante homines, nunc habuere Deum.

_The unthankful lepers. (Where are the nine?)_

The Lord commands the lepers
far off from men to stay:
But cleansed by the Lord,
why went the Nine away?
The leprosy remaineth,
chang'd only in its seat:
Expelled from the body,
to the soul it makes retreat.
Now by fit retribution
a change is brought about:
Before shut out from men,
from God they're now shut out. G.

LVI.

_In cicatrices quas Christus habet in se adhuc superstites._ Joan. xx.

Quicquid spina procax, vel stylo clavus acuto,
Quicquid purpurea scripserat hasta nota,
Vivit adhuc tecum; sed jam tua vulnera non sunt:
Non, sed vulneribus sunt medicina meis.

_On the still-surviving markes of our Saviour's wounds._

Whatever story of their crueltie,
Or naile, or thorne, or speare have writ in Thee,
Are in another sence
Still legible;
Sweet is the difference:
Once I did spell
Every red letter
A wound of Thine;
Now, what is better,
Balsome for mine. CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

Each bloody, cruel character,
Thorn, nail, and spear had written,
When here, as man's great Arbiter,
On Calvary Thou wert smitten,
Thou wearest still above, O Lord:
But now no longer wounds they are;
According to Thy Holy Word,
They med'cine for my wounds declare. G.

LVII.

_Aeger implorat umbram D. Petri._ Act. v. 15.

Petre, tua lateam paulisper, Petre, sub umbra:
Sic mea me quaerent fata, nec invenient.
Umbra dabit tua posse meum me cernere solem;
Et mea lux umbrae sic erit umbra tuae.

_The sick implore St. Peter's shadow._

Under thy shadow may I lurke awhile,
Death's busie search I'le easily beguile:
Thy shadow, Peter, must show me the sun;
My light's thy shadowe's shadow, or 'tis done. CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

O Peter, Peter, let thy shadow fall
Where I in wretchedness a-weary crawl:
Here vainly shall my fates upon me call.
Thy shadow me shall guide unto my sun--
Whoe'er sought Him in truth, and was undone?--
And so my light, thy shadow, shall be one. G.

LVIII.

_Quid turbati estis? Videte manus meas et pedes, quia ego ipse sum._ Luc. xxiv. 39.

En me et signa mei, quondam mea vulnera: certe,
Vos nisi credetis, vulnera sunt et adhuc.
O nunc ergo fidem sanent mea vulnera vestram:
O mea nunc sanet vulnera vestra fides.

_Why are ye troubled?... Behold My hands and My feet, that it is I myself._

'Tis I; behold My proofs, My wounds of old;
Wounds which still bleed, if you will not believe.
O, now to heal your faith My wounds behold,
And healing from your faith My wounds receive.

LIX.

_In vincula Petro sponte delapsa, et apertas fores._ Act. xii. 7, 10.

Ferri non meminit ferrum: se vincula Petro
Dissimulant: nescit carcer habere fores.
Quam bene liber erit, carcer quem liberat! ipsa
Vincula quem solvunt, quam bene tutus erit!

_The chains spontaneously fell from Peter, and the (prison)-doors opened._

Iron forgets 'tis iron;
the chains dissemble too;
Nor has the prison doors
for Peter now.
Free truly is that pris'ner
who by the prison's freed;
Whom chains themselves unbind
free is indeed.

LX.

_Deferebantur a corpore ejus sudaria, &c._ Act. xix. 12.

Imperiosa premunt morbos, et ferrea fati
Jura ligant, Pauli lintea tacta manu.
Unde haec felicis laus est et gloria lini?
Haec, reor, e Lachesis pensa fuere colo.

_From his body there were brought unto the sick handkerchiefs, &c._

They quell disease, and sway Fate's iron bands,
These lordly linen cloths touched by Paul's hands.
Whence rose the glory of their happy fame?
From the Fates' distaff, sure, these kerchiefs came. R. WI.

LXI.

_Christus vitis ad vinitorem Patrem._ Joan. xv. 1-6.

En serpit tua, purpureo tua palmite vitis
Serpit, et, ah, spretis it per humum foliis.
Tu viti succurre tuae, mi Vinitor ingens:
Da fulcrum; fulcrum da mihi: quale? crucem.

_Christ the Vine to the Vinedresser-Father._

Lo, Thy vine trails, trails with a purple shoot,
Scatt'ring its leaves before it beareth fruit.
Succour Thy vine, great Vinedresser, from loss:
Support, support me, Lord: how? With Thy cross. G.

LXII.

_Pene persuades mihi ut fiam Christianus._ Act. xxvi. 28.

Pene? quid hoc pene est? Vicinia saeva salutis!
O quam tu malus es proximitate boni!
Ah, portu qui teste perit, bis naufragus ille est;
Hunc non tam pelagus, quam sua terra premit.
Quae nobis spes vix absunt, crudelius absunt:
Pene sui felix, emphasis est miseri.

_Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian._

_Almost?_ What word is this we hear?
O doubly lost, with heaven so near!
To perish in the neighbourhood
Of vast but unavailing good!
He shipwreck undergoes twice o'er
Who perishes in sight of shore,
And less by ocean is o'ercome
Than by that hopeless glimpse of home.
The hopes that almost seem our own
Leave all the keener sting when gone;
And just to miss felicity
Is but emphatic misery. CL.

LXIII.

_Lux venit in mundum, sed dilexerunt homines magis tenebras quam lucem._ Joan. iii. 19.

Luce sua venit ecce Deus, mundoque refulget;
Pergit adhuc tenebras mundus amare suas.
At Stygiis igitur mundus damnabitur umbris:
Pergit adhuc tenebras mundus amare suas?