The Metaphysical Poets

II. A STUDY OF THE LIFE AND POETRY OF RICHARD CRASHAW.

The outward facts of our 'sweet Singer's' story are given with comparative fulness in our Memorial-Introduction (vol. i. pp. xxvii.-xxxviii.). In the present brief Essay we wish to look into some of these, so as to arrive at a true estimate of them and of the Poetry, now fully (and for the first time) collected.

I think I shall be able to say what has struck myself as worth saying about Crashaw, under these three things:

I. His change from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, using the terms as historic words, not polemically.

II. His friends and associates, as celebrated in his Writings.

III. His characteristics and place as a Poet. These successively.

I. His change from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism. From our Memoir of his Father it will be apparent to all that he was a Protestant of Protestants; and it is an inevitable assumption that his son from infancy would be indoctrinated with all vigilance and fervour in the paternal creed, which may be designated Puritan, as opposed to Laudian High-Churchism within the Church of England.[15] I think we shall not err either, in concluding that the younger Crashaw had a very impressionable and plastic nature; so that the strong and self-assertive character of his Father could not fail to mould his earliest thinking, opinions, beliefs, and emotion. Still it will not do to pronounce our Poet's change to have been a revolt and rebound from the narrowness of the paternal teaching and writing, seeing that his Father died in 1626, when he was only passing into his 13-14th year.[16] It is palpable that the elder Crashaw was spared the distress of the apostacy (as he should most trenchantly have named it) of his only son. Moreover, the very notable poems from the Tanner MSS. on the Gunpowder Treason (vol. i. pp. 188-194) are pronounced and intense in their denunciations of (to quote from them) that 'vnmated malice,' that 'vnpeer'd despight' and 'very quintessence of villanie,' for 'singing' of which he feels he must have not 'inke' but 'the blood of Cerberus, or Alecto's viperous brood,' and demonstrate that he carried with him to, and kept in, Cambridge all his father's wrath, and more than even his father's vocabulary of vituperation, with too his own after-epithets, instinct with poetic feeling, as a thoughtful reading reveals. These poems belong to 1631-3. Even in the Latin Epigrams of 1634 there is (to say the least) a 'slighting' allusion to the Pope in the 'Umbra S. Petri,' being 'Nunc quoque, Papa, tuum sustinet illa decus' (see Epigram xix. p. 47). That volume, also, is dedicated in the most glowing words of affection and indebtedness to Dr. Benjamin Lany (vol. ii. pp. 7-15), afterwards, as we shall find onward, a distinguished bishop in the Church of England. And he was a man after the elder Crashaw's own heart, as we shall now have revealed in a little overlooked poem addressed to Crashaw senior, which is appended to the 'Manvall for True Catholicks' (as before). Here it is; and let the Reader ponder its anti-papal sentiment:

A CONCLUSION TO THE AUTHOR AND HIS BOOKE.

Tradition and antiquitie, the ground Whereon that erring Church doth so relye, Breakes out to light, from darknesse, to confound The novel doctrine of their heresie, Which plaine by these most sensible degrees Doth point the wayes it hath digrest to fall; Where each observing iudgement plainely sees, From good to bad, from bad to worst of all It is arriv'd: so that it can aspire, Obscure, deface, suppresse, doe what it may, To blinde this truth; to no step any higher By any policie it can essay. These holy Hymnes stuft with religious zeale And meditations of most pious use, Able their whole to wound, our wounded heale: Free from impiety, or least abuse, Blot out all merit in ourselves we have, And onely, solely, doe on Christ relye: Offer not prayers for those are in the grave, Nor unto saints, that heare not, doe not cry. Then in a word, since God hath thee preserv'd From the Inquisitors' most cruel rage, Though in their worth they else might have deserv'd To passe among the good things of this Age, Yet are in this respect of more regard, Since God would have them to these times appeare, So many having perisht; and be heard With more true zeale, that God hath kept so deare. By all which I conclude, from thine owne heart, Thou wicked servant, that might know and would not, He hath discharg'd himselfe in all and part, That would have cur'd your Babel, but hee could not.

B.L.

There is some obscurity in these Donne- or Ben-Jonson-like rugged lines, but none as to the opinions of their writer on Popery. Thus up to 1634 at least, or until his twenty-second or twenty-third year, Crashaw the younger was as thoroughly Protestant, in all probability, as his father could have desired. The 'change' accordingly was a radical one when he left his mother-Church, and one laments that our light is so dim and our view so distant. Anthony a-Wood (as before) and the usual authorities state that our Crashaw became famous as a preacher: he became, says Willmott, 'a preacher of great energy and power,' id est, in England, and therefore while still belonging to the Church of England. I have an impression that somehow the son has been confounded with the father, whose renown as a preacher was lasting; just as it seems certain that son and father have been confounded by the continuous editors of Selden's 'Table-Talk,' wherein the illustrious Thinker recounts somewhat proudly that he had converted Crashaw from his opposition to stage-plays. We may as well expiscate this point here. The younger Crashaw, then, never expressed himself, so far as is known, against stage-plays: contrari-wise, in his fine Epigram on Ford's 'Love's Sacrifice' and 'Broken Heart' he is in sympathy with these 'stage-plays.' On the other hand, in one of his most impassioned sermons, his father had, with characteristic pungency, condemned 'Plaies and Players'--as given below.[17] To return: be this as it may in the matter of 'preaching,' the matter-of-fact is, that our Crashaw retained his Fellowship up to his ejection on the 11th of June 1644 (vol. i. pp. xxxiii.-iv.), or when he was in his 32d-33d year; or, as gentle Father Southwell gently put it, about his 'dear Lord's' age. We get a glimpse of his religious life while a Protestant, in the original 'Preface to the Reader' of 'Steps to the Temple,' &c. as follows: 'Reader, we stile his Sacred Poems, Steps to the Temple, and aptly; for in the Temple of God, under His wing, he led his life, in St. Marie's Church neere St. Peter's Colledge: there he lodged under Tertullian's roofe of angels; there he made his nest more gladly than David's swallow neere the house of God, where, like a primitive saint, he offered more prayers in the night than others usually offer in the day; there he penned these poems, STEPS for happy soules to climbe heaven by' (vol. i. p. xlvii.). Coinciding with this is the love he had for the writings of 'Sainte Teresa,' when (in his own words) 'the Author' of 'A Hymn to the Name and Honor of the admirable Sainte Teresa' was 'yet among the Protestants.' In his 'Apologie for the foregoing Hymn'--than which, for subtle, delicate, fin_est_ mysticism, in words that are not so much words as music, and yet definite words too, changing with the quick bright changes of a dove's neck, there is hardly anything truer--the Poet traces up his devotion to her to his 'reading' of her books; as thus:

'Thus haue I back again to thy bright name, Fair floud of holy fires! transfus'd the flame I took from reading thee.... ... O pardon, if I dare to say Thine own dear bookes are guilty.' (vol. i. p. 150.)

The words of the Preface (as above) remind us also that Crashaw took his part in the Fasts and Vigils and austerities of the Ferrars and the saintly, if ascetic, 'Little Gidding' group.[18] Going back on the 'Hymn,' such lines as these show how even then the Poet had drunk-in the very passion of Teresa: e.g.

'Loue toucht her heart, and, lo, it beates High, and burnes with such braue heates, Such thirsts to dy, as dares drink vp A thousand cold deathes in one cup. Good reason: for she breathes all fire; Her white breast heaues with strong desire. . . . . . Sweet, not so fast! lo, thy fair Spouse, Whom thou seekst with so swift vowes, Calls thee back, and bidds thee come T'embrace a milder martyrdom. Blest powres forbid thy tender life Should bleed vpon a barbarous knife: Or some base hand have power to raze Thy brest's chast cabinet, and vncase A soul kept there so sweet: O no, Wise Heaun will neuer haue it so. Thou art Love's victime, and must dy A death more mystical and high: Into Loue's armes thou shalt let fall A still-suruiuing funerall. His is the dart must make the death Whose stroke shall tast thy hallow'd breath; A dart thrice dipt in that rich flame Which writes thy Spouse's radiant name Vpon the roof of Heau'n, where ay It shines; and with a soueraign ray Beates bright vpon the burning faces Of soules which in that Name's sweet graces Find everlasting smiles. . . O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain; Of intolerable ioyes; Of a death, in which who dyes Loues his death, and dyes again, And would for ever so be slain, And liues and dyes; and knowes not why To live, but that he thus may neuer leaue to dy.'

It is deeply significant to find such a Hymn as that written while 'yet among the Protestants.' Putting the two things together--(a) his recluse, shy, meditative life 'under Tertullian's roofe of angels,' and his prayers THERE in the night; (b) his passionately sympathetic reading, as of Teresa, and going forth of his most spiritual yearnings after the 'sweet and subtle pain,' and Love's death 'mystical and high'--we get at the secret of the 'change' now being considered. However led to it, Crashaw's reading lay among books that were as fuel to fire brought to a naturally mystical and supersensitive temperament; and however formed and nurtured, such self-evidently was his temperament. His innate mysticism drew him to such literature, and the literature fed what perchance demanded rather to be neutralised.[19] I feel satisfied one main element of the attraction of Roman Catholicism for him was the nutriment and nurture for his profoundest though most perilous spiritual experiences in its Writers. His great-brained, strong-thewed father would have dismissed such 'intolerable ioyes' as morbid sentimentalism; but the nervous, finely and highly-strung organisation of his son was as an Aeolian harp under their touch. To all this must be added certain local influences, and ultimately the crash of the Ejection. The history of the University during the period of Crashaw's residence makes it plain that there was then, as later, a revival of what may be technically called Ritualism--as an intended help-meet to Faith--and that by some of the most cultured and gracious scholars of the Colleges. I am not vindicating, much less judging such, any more than would I 'sit in judgment' on the Ritualist revival of our own day, i.e. of its adherents. For myself, I find it a diviner and grander thing to 'walk by faith' rather than by 'sight,' and not 'bodied' but 'disembodied truth' the more spiritual. But to not a few--and to such as Crashaw--the sensible, the visible, the actually looked-at--sanctified with the hoar of centuries--light up and etherealise. Contemporary records show that the chapel of Peterhouse--Crashaw's college--which was built in 1632, and consecrated by Francis White, Bishop of Ely, was a 'handsome' one, having a beautiful ceiling and a noble east window--its glass 'hid away in the troublesome times.' Among the benefactors to its building were (afterwards bishops) Cosin and Wren, and also Shelford, whose 'Five learned Discourses' were graced with a noticeable 'commendatory poem' by Crashaw (vol. ii. pp. 162-5). Before this chapel was built the society made use of the chancel of the adjacent church of Little St. Mary's, into which there was a door from Peterhouse College. The reader may at this point turn to our poet's heart-broken 'pleadings' for the 'restoration' of his College, now made 'to speak English.' On all which, and the like, dear old Fuller, in his History of the University, thus speaks, under a somewhat later date (1642), but the very turning-period with Crashaw: 'Now began the University to be much beautified in buildings; every college, after casting its skin with the snake, or renewing its bill with the eagle, having their courts, or at least their fronts and gatehouse, repaired and adorned. But the greatest attention was in their chapels, most of them being graced with the accession of organs,' &c.

Contemporary records farther lead us to Peterhouse and Pembroke Colleges as specially 'visited' and 'spoiled' in the Commission from the Parliament in 1643 to remove crosses. We may read one 'report' out of many. 'Mr. Horscot: We went to Peterhouse, 1643, Dec. 21, with officers and soldiers, and [in] the presence [of] Mr. Wilson, of the president Mr. Francis, Mr. Maxy and other Fellows, Dec. 20 and 23, we pulled down two mighty great angells with wings, and divers other angells and the four Evangelists and Peter with his keies, over the Chappell Dore, and about a hundred cherubims and angells and divers superstitious letters in gold; and at the upper end of the chancel these words were written as followeth: "Hic locus est Domini Dei, nil aliud et Porta coeli." Witness, Will. Dowsing, Geo. Long.' Farther: 'These words were written at Keie's Coll. and not at Peterhouse, but about the walls were written in Latin, "We prays thee ever;" and on some of the images was written "Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus;" or other, "Gloria Dei et Gloria Patri," and "Non nobis Domine;" and six angells in the windowes.' So at Pembroke, 'We brake and pulled down 80 superstitious pictures;' and so at Little St. Mary's, 'We brake down 60 superstitious pictures, some Popes and crucifixes and God the Father sitting in a chayer and holding a glass in his hand.' Looking on the since famous names of Peterhouse and Pembroke (Spenser's college)--Cosin, Wren, Shelford, Tournaye, Andrewes--they at once suggest ritualistic, if not Roman Catholic, proclivities.

Thus from all sides came potent influences of personal friendship--of his friends and associates more onward--to give impulse and momentum to Crashaw's mystical Roman-Catholic sympathies. The 'Ejection' of 1644 found Crashaw in the very heart of these influences, not swayed simply, but mastered by them. To one so secluded and unworldly, a crisis in which the pillars of the throne were shattered, and in which not the many for the one, but the one rather than the many, must be sacrificed, was a dazing bewilderment, and terror, and agony. All was chaos and weltering confusion; no resting-place in England for his dove-feet: dissonance, blasphemy as he weened, came to his shuddering heart: he saw the lifting-up of anchors never before lifted, and the Church drifting, drifting away aimlessly and helplessly (as he misjudged). Moses-like, he looked this way and that way, and saw no man--saw not The Man--and failed, I fear, to look UP, because of his very agony of looking down and in. And so, in his tremor and sorrow and weariness, he passed over to Roman Catholicism as the 'ideal' of his reading, and as the 'home' of the sainted ones whose words were as manna to his spirit. Not a strong, defiant, masterful soul, by any means--frail, timorous, shrinking, rather--he would 'fly away,' even if out to the wilderness, to be 'at rest.' The very 'inner life' of God was in his soft gentle heart, and that he carried with him through after-years, as Cowley bore brave witness by his magnanimous title of 'Saint.' Conscience too--ill-instructed possibly, yet true to its light, if true also to feelings that ought to have been wrestled with, not succumbed to--went with him: and what of God's grace is in a man keeps him, wherever ecclesiastically he may abide.

Such is our solution of the 'change' of Crashaw from Protestantism to Catholicism. It is sheer fanaticism to rave against the 'change,' and to burrow for ignoble motives. Gross ignorance of the facts of the period is betrayed by any one who harshly 'judges' that the humble 'ejected Fellow' made a worldly 'gain' by his 'change.' Nay verily, it was no 'gain,' in that paltry sense, for an Englishman then to become a Roman Catholic. It was to invite obloquy, misconstruction, 'evil-speaking.' In Crashaw's case he had wealthy uncles and aunts, and other relatives, who should have amply provided for him, and 'sheltered' him through the 'troublous times.' Prynne's 'Legenda Lignea, with an Answer to Mr. Birchley's Moderator (pleading for a Toleration of Popery) and a Character of some hopeful saints revolted to the Church of Rome' (1653), is brutal as it is inaccurate; but it must be adduced as an example of what 'Revolters' (so called) had to endure, albeit Crashaw was gone into the silences whither no clamour reaches, when the bitter book came forth. 'Master Richard Crashaw (son to the London divine, and sometime Fellow of St. Peterhouse in Cambridge) is another slip of the times that is transplanted to Rome. This peavish sillie seeker glided away from his principles in a poetical vein of fancy and impertinent curiosity, and finding that verses and measured flattery took and much pleased some female wits, Crashaw crept by degrees into favour and acquaintance with some court ladies, and with the gross commendations of their parts and beauties (burnished and varnished with some other agreeable adulations) he got first the estimation of an innocent, harmless convert; and a purse being made by some deluded, vain-glorious ladies and their friends, the poet was despatched on a pilgrimage to Rome, where, if he had found in the see Pope Urban the Eighth instead of Pope Innocent, he might possibly have received a greater quantity and a better number of benedictions; for Urban was as much a pretender to be prince and oecumenical patron of poets as head of the Church; but Innocent being more harsh and dry, the poor small poet Crashaw met with none of the generation and kindred of Mecaenas, nor any great blessing from his Holiness; which misfortune puts the pitiful wier-drawer to a humour of admiring his own raptures; and in this fancy (like Narcissus) he is fallen in love with his own shadow, conversing with himself in verse, and admiring the birth of his own brains; he is only laughed at, or at most but pitied, by his few patrons, who, conceiving him unworthy of any preferment in their Church, have given him leave to live (like a lean swine almost ready to starve) in a poor mendicant quality; and that favour is granted only because Crashaw can rail as satirically and bitterly at true religion in verse as others of his grain and complexion can in prose and loose discourses: this fickle shuttlecock, so tost with every changeable puff and blast, is rather to be laughed at and scorned for his ridiculous levity than imitated in his sinful and notorious apostacy and revolt' (cxxxviii.).

The short and crushing answer to all this Billingsgate is: The poems of Crashaw are now fully before the reader, and he will not find, from the first page to the last, one line answering to Prynne's jaundiced representations: 'flatteries,' 'adulations,' 'railings,' you look for in vain. The wistfulness of persuasion of the Verse-Letter to the Countess of Denbigh would have been trampled on as a blind man or a boor tramples on a bed of pansies, by the grim lawyer-Puritan. Then, the very lowliness and (alleged) mendicancy of his post in the Church of Rome might have suggested a grain of charity, seeing that worldly advancement could not be motive to an all-but friendless scholar. As to the 'birth of his own brains,' and 'conversing with himself in verse,' would that we had more such 'births' and 'conversings'! Other accusations are malignant gossip, where they are not nonsense. Far different is the spirit of Dr. John Bargrave; whose MS. has at last been worthily edited and published for the Camden Society.[20] His notice of Crashaw at Rome is as follows: 'When I went first of my four times to Rome, there were there four revolters to the Roman Church that had been Fellows of Peterhouse in Cambridge with myself. The name of one of them was Mr. R. Crashaw, who was one of the Seguita (as their term is): that is, an attendant or of the followers of this Cardinal, for which he had a salary of crowns by the month (as the custom is), but no diet. Mr. Crashaw infinitely commended his Cardinal, but complained extremely of the wickedness of those of his retinue; of which he, having the Cardinal's ear, complained to him. Upon which the Italians fell so far out with him that the Cardinal, to secure his life, was fain to put him from his service, and procuring him some small employ at the Lady's of Loretto; whither he went on pilgrimage in summer time, and, overheating himself, died in four weeks after he came thither, and it was doubtful whether he was not poisoned' (p. 37). That brings before us a true, white-souled Man 'of God,' resolute to 'speak out,' whoever sinned in his sight; and it is blind sectarianism to deny that, from the noble and holy Loyola to our own Faber and Spencer and the living Newman, the Church of Rome has never been without dauntless preachers of the very righteousness of God, or unhesitant rebukers of the wickedness, immoralities, and frivolities of their co-religionists. The suspicion of 'poyson' I am unwilling to accept. Onward I shall give our recovered record of his death. Summarily, then, the 'change' of Crashaw from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism had its root and carries its solution in his 'mystical' dreamy temperament and yearnings, as these were over-encouraged instead of controlled; and as formative influences there were--(a) his reading in Teresa and kindred literature, until not 'hands,' but brain and heart, imagination and fancy, grew into the elements wherein they wrought--as one finds sprays of once-green moss and delicate-carven ferns changed by the dripping limestone into limestone: (b) the ritualistic revival being in the hands of those most loved and trusted, and from whom he fetched whatever of spiritual life and peace and joy and hope was in him--these too being of stronger will, and decisive in opinion and action--his vague 'feeling-after' rest was centred in the Rest of ideal Roman Catholicism: (c) the confusions and strifes of the transition-period of the Commonwealth terrified and wounded him; he mistook the crash of falling scaffolding, whose end was served, for the falling of the everlasting skies; saw not their serene shining beyond the passing clouds, lightning-charged for divine clarifying; and a 'quiet retreat,' which Imagination beckoned him to, won him to 'hide' there his weeping and dismay. Nothing sordid or expedient, or facing-both-ways, or unworthy, moved him to 'change.' Every one who has self-respect based on self-knowledge, and who thus has experienced the mystery of his deepest beliefs, will make all gentlest allowances, hold all tenderest sympathies with him, and feel the coarse abuse of Prynne and later as a personal wrong. Richard Crashaw was a true 'man of God,' and acted, I believe, in sensitive allegiance to his conscience as it spake to him. 'Change,' even fundamental change, in such a man is to be accepted without reserve as 'honest' and righteous and God-fearing. He dared not sign the 'Solemn League and Covenant,' however 'solemn' it might be to others; and so he went out.[21] I pass to--

II. His friends and associates, as celebrated in his writings. I use the word 'Writings' here rather than 'Poems,' because in his Epistles, e.g. to the 'Epigrammata' and those printed by us for the first time, as well as in his Poetry, names are found over which one pauses instinctively. Commencing with his school-days at the Charterhouse, there is Robert Brooke, 'Master' ('Preceptor') from 1628 to 1643.[22] Very little has come down to us concerning him, and the present head of the renowned School has been unable to add to Alexander Chalmers' testimony, 'A very celebrated Master.' All the more have I pleasure in inviting attention to the new 'Epistola' and related poems addressed to him, and which must be studied along with the previous poem, 'Ornatissimo viro praeceptori suo colendissimo, Magistro Brook' (vol. ii. pp. 319); and perhaps the humorous and genial serio-comic celebration of 'Priscianus' grew from some school-incident (vol. ii. pp. 308, 315) having in the latter year, like Crashaw, been 'ejected' from the Charterhouse for not taking the 'Solemn League and Covenant.' He had been usher from 1626 to 1628. An apartment in the building is still called from him Brooke Hall ('Chronicles,' pp. 129, 159).

The next prominent name is that of Benjamin Lany--sometimes Laney, as in Masson's Milton (i. 97)--afterwards successively Bishop of Peterborough and Lincoln and Ely. We have already noted his marked Protestantism in the verse-eulogy of the elder Crashaw, so that probably it was as his father's son, Lany, then Master of Pembroke, received our Worthy there. Lany was of the 'ejected' in 1644. The present Bishop of Ely, with all willingness to help us, found no MSS. or biographic materials in his custody. When may we hope each bishopric will find a qualified historian-biographer? A portrait of Lany is in the Master's Lodge at the Charterhouse ('Chronicles,' 1847, p. 140).

Crashaw's tutor at Pembroke was 'Master Tournay,' to whose praise and friendship he dedicates a Latin poem (vol. ii. pp. 371 et sqq.). Dr. Ward, Master of Sidney College, writes to Archbishop Usher thus of him: 'We have had some doings here of late about one of Pembroke Hall, who, preaching in St. Mary's, about the beginning of Lent, upon that text, James ii. 22, seemed to avouch the insufficiency of faith to justification, and to impugn the doctrine of our 11th Article, of Justification by faith only; for which he was convented by the Vice-Chancellor, who was willing to accept of an easy acknowledgment; but the same party preaching his Latin sermon, pro Gradu, the last week, upon Rom. iii. 28, he said he came not palinodiam canere, sed eandem cantilenam canere; which moved our Vice-Chancellor, Dr. Love, to call for his sermon, which he refused to deliver. Whereupon, upon Wednesday last, being Barnaby Day, the day appointed for the admission of the Bachelors of Divinity, which must answer Die Comitiorum, he was stayed by the major part of the suffrages of the Doctors of the faculty.... The truth is, there are some Heads among us that are great abettors of M. Tournay, the party above mentioned, who, no doubt, are backed by others' (June 14, 1643. Life of Parr, p. 470: Willmott, 1st series, pp. 302-3). In relation to Tournay's heresy on 'Justification,' it is profoundly interesting, biographically, to remember Crashaw's most striking Latin poems--so carelessly overlooked, if not impudently suppressed, by Turnbull--first published by Crashaw in the volume of 1648, viz. 'Fides, quae sola justificat, non est sine spe et dilectione,' and 'Baptismus non tollit futura peccata.' The student will do well to turn to these two poems in their places (vol. ii. pp. 209, 216).[23]

Robert Shelford, 'of Ringsfield in Suffolk, Priest,' was another 'suspect:' as in Huntley's [ = Prynne] Breviate (3d ed. 1637, p. 308) we read, 'Master Shelford hath of late affirmed in print, that the Pope was never yet defined to be the Antichrist by any Synods.' More vehemently writes Usher to Dr. Ward (Sept. 15, 1635): 'But while we strive here to maintain the purity of our ancient truth, how cometh it to pass that you at Cambridge do cast such stumbling-blocks in our way, by publishing unto the world such rotten stuff as Shelford hath vented in his Five Discourses; wherein he hath so carried himself ut famosi Perni amanuensem possis agnoscere. The Jesuits of England sent over the book hither to assure them that we are now coming home to them as fast as we can. I pray God this sin be not deeply laid to their charge, who give an occasion to our blind thus to stumble' (as before). It was to these 'Five Discourses' our Poet furnished a 'commendatory' poem--given by us unmutilated from the volume (vol. i. pp. 162-5). Shelford, like his friend, was of Peterhouse. Another college-friend was William Herrys (or Herries or Harris), who was of Essex. He died in October 1631. He was of Pembroke and Christ's. The poems and 'Epitaph' consecrated to his memory are in various ways remarkable. But beyond a few college-dates, I have failed to recover notices of him. He seems to have been to Crashaw what young King was to Milton and his fellow-students (vol. i. pp. 220-30; vol. ii. pp. 378 et sqq.).[24] So with James Stanninow (or Staninough), 'fellow of Queene's Colledge'--the poem on whose death was first printed by us (vol. i. pp. 290-92). He has a Latin poem prefixed to Isaacson's 'Chronology' (our vol. i. pp. 246-49).[25] So too with 'Master Chambers,' of the fine pathetic hitherto anonymous poem 'Vpon the death of a Gentleman' (vol. i. pp. 218-19). Neither have I been able to add one syllable to the name and heading: 'An Epitaph vpon Mr. Ashton, a conformable citizen.' Wren, Cosin, and others of Cambridge, not being named by Crashaw, do not come under these remarks. The new poems on Dr. Porter (vol. i. pp. 293-4), Dr. Mansell (vol. ii. p. 323), and others, explain themselves--with our notes. Of Cardinal Palotta, or Palotto, we get most satisfying glimpses in Dr. Bargrave's volume (already quoted). The Protestant Canon's testimony is: 'He is very papable [placable], and esteemed worthy by all, especially the princes that know his virtue and qualities, being a man of angelical life; and Rome would be glad to see him Pope, to pull down the pride of the Barberini. Innocent the Xth, now reigning, hath a great regard for him, though his kindred care not for him, because he speaketh his mind freely of them to the Pope' (p. 36).[26]

It only remains that I notice our Crashaw's friendship with (a) Abraham Cowley; (b) the Countess of Denbigh.

(a) ABRAHAM COWLEY. Of the alternate-poem on Hope, composed by Cowley and Crashaw (vol. i. pp. 175-181), and that 'Vpon two greene Apricockes sent to Cowley by Sir Crashaw' (ib. pp. 269-70), more in our next division. These remain as the ever-enduring 'memorial' of their friendship, while the thought-full, love-full 'Elegy,' devoted by the survivor to the memory of his Friend, can never pale of its glory (vol. i. pp. xxxvi.-viii.). All honour to Cowley that he kept the traduced 'Apostate' and 'Revolter' in his heart-of-hearts, and 'sought' him out in his lowly 'lodgings' in the gay, and yet (to him) sad Paris. It is my purpose one day worthily to reproduce the Works of this in form fantastic, but in substance most intellectual, of our Poets; and I shall have then, perhaps, something additional to communicate on this beautiful Friendship. They had appeared together as Poets in the 'Voces Votivae.' The various readings show that Cowley's portion of Hope was revised in Paris; and this, with the gift of the 'apricockes,' expresses that they had some pleasant intercourse.[27]

(b) COUNTESS OF DENBIGH. By the confiding goodness of the present Earl and Countess of Denbigh, I have, among my 'Sunny Memories,' most pleasant hours of a long summer day spent in examining the Library and family MSS. and portraits at Newnham Paddox, and a continued and sympathetic correspondence, supplemented with kindred helpfulness on the part of the good Father-priest of the house. It is one of the anomalies of our national historic Biography that the sister of Buckingham--Susan, daughter of Sir George Villiers, of Brokesby, first Countess of Denbigh--should have died and made no 'sign,' and left no memorial; for it is absolutely unknown when or where she did die. But as it is known that she became a Roman Catholic,[28] while it is not known that Elizabeth, daughter and co-heir of Edward Bourchier, Earl of Bath, who became third wife (of four) of Basil, second Earl of Denbigh, so 'changed,' we must conclude that Turnbull and others are mistaken in regarding the latter as Crashaw's 'patron' and friend. The family-papers show that Susan Countess of Denbigh was a lady of intellect and force; equally do they show that Elizabeth Bourchier was (to say the least) un-literary. I have from Newnham Paddox a sheaf of rarely-vivid and valuable Letters of 'Susan'--with some of 'Elizabeth;' and if I can only succeed in discovering the date of the former's death, so as to determine whether she was living up to Crashaw's death in 1650, or thereby--as dowager-countess--I intend to prepare a short Monograph on her, wherein I shall print, for the first time, such a series of Letters as will compare with any ever given to the world; and I should greatly like to engrave her never-yet engraved magnificent face at Newnham Paddox. For the present, a digression may be allowed, in order to introduce, as examples of these recovered Letters, a short and creditable one from Buckingham to his mother, and one from Susan, Countess of Denbigh, to her son; others, that are long and fact-full, hereafter (as supra). These in order:

I. Buckingham to his Mother [undated]:

Dere Mother,--Give me but as many blessings and pardons as I shall make falts, and then you make happie

Your most obedient Sonne,

For my Mother. BUCKINGHAM.

II. Susan, Countess of Denbigh, to Lord Fielding:

My deere Sone,--The king dothe approve well of your going into Spane, and for my part I thinke it will be the best of your traviles by reson that the king doth discours moust of that plase. I am much afflicted for feare of Mr. Mason, but I hope our Lord well send him well home againe. I pray do not torment me with your going into the danger of the plauge any more. So with my blessing I take my leave.

Your loveing Mother,

For my deare Sonne theise. SU. DENBIGH.

The Verse-Letters to the Countess of Denbigh (vol. i. pp. 295-303) will be read with renewed interest in the light of the all-but certain fact that it was Susan, sister of Buckingham--every way a memorable woman--who was 'persuaded' by Crashaw to 'join' Roman Catholicism, as did her mother.[29] Reverting to the names which I have endeavoured to commemorate, where hitherto scarcely anything has been known, it will be perceived that the circle of Crashaw's friendships was a narrow one, and touched mainly the two things--his University career, and his great 'change' religiously or rather ecclesiastically. Of the Poets of his period, except Cowley and Ford, no trace remains as known to or influential over him. When Crashaw entered Cambridge, Giles Fletcher had been dead ten years; Phineas Fletcher and Herrick had left about the same number of years; Herbert, for four or five; and Milton was just going. His most choice friends were among the mighty dead. Supreme names later lay outside of his access. I wish he had met--as he might have done--Milton. I pass next to

III. His characteristics and place as a Poet. It is something 'new under the sun' that it should be our privilege well-nigh to double the quantity of the extant Poetry of such a Singer as Richard Crashaw, by printing, for the first time, the treasure-trove of the Sancroft-Tanner MSS.; and by translating (also for the first time) the whole of his Latin poetry. Every element of a true poetic faculty that belongs to his own published Poems is found in the new, while there are new traits alike of character and genius; and our Translations must be as the 'raising' of the lid of a gem-filled casket, shut to the many for these (fully) two hundred years. The admirer of Crashaw hitherto has thus his horizon widened, and I have a kind of feeling that perchance it were wiser to leave the completed Poetry to make its own impression on those who come to it. Nevertheless I must, however briefly, fulfil my promise of an estimate of our Worthy. Four things appear to me to call for examination, in order to give the essentials of Crashaw as a Poet, and to gather his main characteristics: (a) Imaginative-sensuousness; (b) Subtlety of emotion; (c) Epigrams; (d) Translations and (briefly) Latin and Greek Poetry. I would say a little on each.

(a) Imaginative-sensuousness. Like 'charity' for 'love,' the word 'sensuous' has deteriorated in our day. It is, I fear, more than in sound and root confused with 'sensual,' in its base application. I use it as Milton did, in the well-known passage when he defined Poetry to be 'simple, sensuous, and passionate;' and I qualify 'sensuousness' with 'imaginative,' that I may express our Poet's peculiar gift of looking at everything with a full, open, penetrative eye, yet through his imagination; his imagination not being as spectacles (coloured) astride the nose, but as a light of white glory all over his intellect and entire faculties. Only Wordsworth and Shelley, and recently Rossetti and Jean Ingelow, are comparable with him in this. You can scarcely err in opening on any page in your out-look for it. The very first poem, 'The Weeper,' is lustrous with it. For example, what a grand reach of 'imaginative' comprehensiveness have we so early as in the second stanza, where from the swimming eyes of his 'Magdalene' he was, as it were, swept upward to the broad transfigured sky in its wild ever-varying beauty of the glittering silver rain!

'Heauns thy fair eyes be; Heauens of ever-falling starres. 'Tis seed-time still with thee; And starres thou sow'st whose haruest dares Promise the Earth to counter-shine Whateuer makes heaun's forehead fine.'

How grandly vague is that 'counter-shine whatever,' as it leads upwards to the 'forehead'--superb, awful, God-crowned--of the 'heauns'! Of the same in kind, but unutterably sweet and dainty also in its exquisiteness, is stanza vii.:

'The deaw no more will weep dew The primrose's pale cheek to deck: The deaw no more will sleep Nuzzel'd in the lily's neck; Much rather would it be thy tear, And leaue them both to tremble there.'

Wordsworth's vision of the 'flashing daffodils' is not finer than this. A merely realistic Poet (as John Clare or Bloomfield) would never have used the glorious singular, 'thy tear,' with its marvellous suggestiveness of the multitudinous dew regarding itself as outweighed in everything by one 'tear' of such eyes. Every stanza gives a text for commentary; and the rapid, crowding questions and replies of the Tears culminate in the splendid homage to the Saviour in the conclusion, touched with a gentle scorn:

'We goe not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head, Though the feild's eyes too Weepers be, Because they want such teares as we. Much lesse mean to trace The fortune of inferior gemmes, Preferr'd to some proud face, Or pertch't vpon fear'd diadems: Crown'd heads are toyes. We goe to meet A worthy object, our Lord's feet.'

'Feet' at highest; mark the humbleness, and the fitness too. Even more truly than of Donne (in Arthur Wilson's Elegy) may it be said of Crashaw, here and elsewhere, thou 'Couldst give both life and sense unto a flower,'--faint prelude of Wordsworth's 'meanest flower.'

Dr. Macdonald (in 'Antiphon') is perplexingly unsympathetic, or, if I may dare to say it, wooden, in his criticism on 'The Weeper;' for while he characterises it generally as 'radiant of delicate fancy,' he goes on: 'but surely such tones are not worthy of flitting moth-like about the holy sorrow of a repentant woman! Fantastically beautiful, they but play with her grief. Sorrow herself would put her shoes off her feet in approaching the weeping Magdalene. They make much of her indeed, but they show her little reverence. There is in them, notwithstanding their fervour of amorous words, a coldness, like that which dwells in the ghostly beauty of icicles shining in the moon' (p. 239). Fundamentally blundering is all this: for the Critic ought to have marked how the Poet's 'shoes' are put off his feet in approaching the weeping Magdalene; but that she is approached as far-back in the Past or in a Present wherein her tears have been 'wiped away,' so that the poem is dedicate not so much to The Weeper as to her Tears, as things of beauty and pricelessness. Mary, 'blessed among women,' is remembered all through; and just as with her Divine Son we must 'sorrow' in the vision of His sorrows, we yet have the remembrance that they are all done, 'finished;' and thus we can expatiate on them not with grief so much as joy. The prolongation of 'The Weeper' is no 'moth-like flitting about the holy sorrow of a repentant woman,' but the never-to-be-satisfied rapture over the evidence of a 'godly sorrow' that has worked to repentance, and in its reward given loveliness and consecration to the tears shed. The moon 'shining on icicles' is the antithesis of the truth. Thus is it throughout, as in the backgrounds of the great Portrait-painters as distinguished from Land-scapists and Sea-scapists and Sky-scapists--Crashaw inevitably works out his thoughts through something he has looked at as transfigured by his imagination, so that you find his most mystical thinking and feeling framed (so to say) with images drawn from Nature. That he did look not at but into Nature, let 'On a foule Morning, being then to take a Journey,' and 'To the Morning; Satisfaction for Sleepe,' bear witness. In these there are penetrative 'looks' that Wordsworth never has surpassed, and a richness almost Shakesperean. Milton must have studied them keenly. There is this characteristic also in the 'sensuousness' of Crashaw, that while the Painter glorifies the ignoble and the coarse (as Hobbima's Asses and red-cloaked Old Women) in introducing it into a scene of Wood, or Way-side, or Sea-shore, his outward images and symbolism are worthy in themselves, and stainless as worthy (passing exceptions only establishing the rule). His epithets are never superfluous, and are, even to surprising nicety, true. Thus he calls Egypt 'white Egypt' (vol. i. p. 81); and occurring as this does 'In the glorious Epiphanie of ovr Lord God,' we are reminded again how the youthful Milton must have had this extraordinary composition in his recollection when he composed his immortal Ode.[30] Similarly we have 'hir'd mist' (vol. i. p. 84); 'pretious losse' (ib.); 'fair-ey'd fallacy of Day' (ib. p. 85); 'black but faithfull perspectiue of Thee' (ib. p. 86); 'abased liddes' (ib. p. 88); 'gratious robbery' (ib. p. 156); 'thirsts of loue' (ib.); 'timerous light of starres' (ib. p. 172); 'rebellious eye of Sorrow' (ib. p. 112); and so in hundreds of parallels. Take this from 'To the Name above every Name' (ib. p. 60):

'O come away ... O, see the weary liddes of wakefull Hope-- Love's eastern windowes--all wide ope With curtains drawn, To catch the day-break of Thy dawn. O, dawn at last, long-lookt-for Day, Take thine own wings, and come away.'

Comparing Cowley's and Crashaw's 'Hope,' Coleridge thus pronounces on them: 'Crashaw seems in his poems to have given the first ebullience of his imagination, unshapen into form, or much of what we now term sweetness. In the poem Hope, by way of question and answer, his superiority to Cowley is self-evident;' and he continues, 'In that on the Name of Jesus, equally so; but his lines on St. Teresa are the finest.' 'Where he does combine richness of thought and diction, nothing can excel, as in the lines you so much admire,

Since 'tis not to be had at home . . . . . She'l to the Moores and martyrdom.'[31]

And then as never-to-be-forgotten 'glory' of the Hymn to Teresa, he adds: 'these verses were ever present to my mind whilst writing the second part of the Christabel; if indeed, by some subtle process of the mind, they did not suggest the first thought of the whole poem' (Letters and Conversations, 1836, i. 196). Coleridge makes another critical remark which it may be worth while to adduce and perhaps qualify. 'Poetry as regards small Poets may be said to be, in a certain sense, conventional in its accidents and in its illustrations. Thus [even] Crashaw uses an image "as sugar melts in tea away;" which although proper then and true now, was in bad taste at that time equally with the present. In Shakespeare, in Chaucer, there was nothing of this' (as before). The great Critic forgot that 'sugar' and 'tea' were not vulgarised by familiarity when Crashaw wrote, that the wonder and romance of their gift from the East still lay around them, and that their use was select, not common. Thus later I explain Milton's homeliness of allusion, as in the word 'breakfast,' and 'fell to,' and the like; words and places and things that have long been not prosaic simply, but demeaned and for ever unpoetised. I am not at all careful to defend the 'sugar' and 'tea' metaphor; but it, I think, belongs also to his imaginative-sensuousness, whereby orient awfulness almost, magnified and dignified it to him.

Moreover the canon in 'Antiphon' is sound: 'When we come, in the writings of one who has revealed master-dom, upon any passage that seems commonplace, or any figure that suggests nothing true, the part of wisdom is to brood over that point; for the probability is that the barrenness lies in us, two factors being necessary for the result of sight--the thing to be seen, and the eye to see it. No doubt the expression may be inadequate; but if we can compensate the deficiency by adding more vision, so much the better for us' (p. 243).

I thank Dr. George Macdonald[32] (in 'Antiphon') for his quaint opening words on our Crashaw, and forgive him, for their sake, his blind reading of 'The Weeper.' 'I come now to one of the loveliest of our angel-birds, Richard Crashaw. Indeed, he was like a bird in more senses than one; for he belongs to that class of men who seem hardly ever to get foot-hold of this world, but are ever floating in the upper air of it' (p. 238). True, and yet not wholly; or rather, if our Poet ascends to 'the upper air,' and sings there with all the divineness of the skylark, like the skylark his eyes fail not to over-watch the nest among the grain beneath, nor his wings to be folded over it at the shut of eve. Infinitely more, then, is to be found in Crashaw than Pope (in his Letter to his friend Henry Cromwell) found: 'I take this poet to have writ like a gentleman; that is, at leisure hours, and more to keep out of idleness than to establish a reputation: so that nothing regular or just can be expected of him. All that regards design, form, fable (which is the soul of poetry), all that concerns exactness, or consent of parts (which is the body), will probably be wanting; only pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse (which are properly the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry), may be found in these verses.' Nay verily, the form is often exquisite; but 'neat' and 'pretty conceptions' applied to such verse is as 'pretty' applied to Niagara--so full, strong, deep, thought-laden is it. I have no wish to charge plagiarism on Pope from Crashaw, as Peregrine Phillips did (see onward); but neither is the contemptuous as ignorant answer by a metaphor of Hayley to be received. The two minds were essentially different: Pope was talented, and used his talents to the utmost; Crashaw had absolute as unique genius.[33]

(b) Subtlety of emotion. Dr. Donne, in a memorable passage, with daring originality, sings of Mrs. Drury rapturously:

'Her pure and eloquent soul Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, That one might almost say her body thought.'

I have much the same conception of Crashaw's thinking. It was so emotional as almost always to tremble into feeling. Bare intellect, 'pure' (= naked) thought, you rarely come on in his Poems. The thought issues forth from (in old-fashioned phrase) the heart, and its subtlety is something unearthly even to awfulness. Let the reader give hours to the study of the composition entitled 'In the glorious Epiphanie of ovr Lord God, a Hymn svng as by the three Kings,' and 'In the holy Nativity of ovr Lord God.' Their depth combined with elevation, their grandeur softening into loveliness, their power with pathos, their awe bursting into rapture, their graciousness and lyrical music, their variety and yet unity, will grow in their study. As always, there is a solid substratum of original thought in them; and the thinking, as so often in Crashaw, is surcharged with emotion. If the thought may be likened to fire, the praise, the rapture, the yearning may be likened to flame leaping up from it. Granted that, as in fire and flame, there are coruscations and jets of smoke, yet is the smoke that 'smoak' of which Chudleigh in his Elegy for Donne sings:

'Incense of love's and fancie's holy smoak;'

or, rather, that 'smoke' which filled the House to the vision of Isaiah (vi. 4). The hymn 'To the admirable Sainte Teresa,' and the 'Apologie' for it, and related 'Flaming Heart,' and 'In the glorious Assvmption of our Blessed Lady,' are of the same type. Take this from the 'Flaming Heart' (vol. i. p. 155):

'Leaue her ... the flaming heart: Leaue her that, and thou shalt leaue her Not one loose shaft, but Loue's whole quiver. For in Loue's feild was neuer found A nobler weapon than a wovnd. Loue's passiues are his actiu'st part, The wounded is the wounding heart. . . . . . Liue here, great heart; and loue and dy and kill, And bleed and wound; and yeild and conquer still.'

His homage to the Virgin is put into words that pass the bounds which we Protestants set to the 'blessed among women' in her great renown, and even while a Protestant Crashaw fell into what we must regard as the strange as inexplicable forgetfulness that it is The Man, not The Child, who is our ever-living High-Priest 'within the veil,' and that not in His mother's bosom, but on the Throne of sculptured light, is His place. Still, you recognise that the homage to the Virgin-mother is to the Divine Son through her, and through her in fine if also mistaken humility. 'Mary' is the Muse of Crashaw; the Lord Jesus his 'Lord' and hers. I would have the reader spend willing time, in slowly, meditatively reading the whole of our Poet's sacred Verse, to note how the thinking thus thrills into feeling, and feeling into rapture--the rapture of adoration. It is miraculous how he finds words wherewith to utter his most subtle and vanishing emotion. Sometimes there is a daintiness and antique richness of wording that you can scarcely equal out of the highest of our Poets, or only in them. Some of his images from Nature are scarcely found anywhere else. For example, take this very difficult one of ice, in the Verse-Letter to the Countess of Denbigh (vol. i. p. 298, ll. 21-26), 'persuading' her no longer to be the victim of her doubts:

'So, when the Year takes cold, we see Poor waters their own prisoners be; Fetter'd and lock'd-up fast they lie In a cold self-captivity. Th' astonish'd Nymphs their Floud's strange fate deplore, To find themselves their own severer shoar.'

Young is striking in his use of the ice-metaphor:

'in Passion's flame Hearts melt; but melt like ice, soon harder froze.'

(Night-Thoughts, N. II. l. 522-3.)

But how strangely original is the earlier Poet in so cunningly working it into the very matter of his persuasion! Our quotation from Young recalls that in the 'Night-Thoughts' there are evident reminiscences of Crashaw: e.g.

'Midnight veil'd his face: Not such as this, not such as Nature makes; A midnight Nature shudder'd to behold; A midnight new; a dread eclipse, without Opposing spheres, from her Creator's frown.'

(Night IV. ll. 246-250.)

So in 'Gilt was Hell's gloom' (N. VII. l. 1041), and in this portrait of Satan:

'Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll His baleful eyes!' (N. IX. ll. 280-1.) and

'the fiery gulf, That flaming bound of wrath omnipotent;' (Ib. ll. 473-4)

and

'Banners streaming as the comet's blaze;' (Ib. l. 323)

and

'Which makes a hell of hell,' (Ib. l. 340)

we have the impress and inspiration of our Poet.

How infinitely soft and tender and Shakesperean is the 'Epitaph vpon a yovng Married Covple dead and bvryed together' (with its now restored lines), thus!--

'Peace, good Reader, doe not weep; Peace, the louers are asleep. They, sweet turtles, folded ly In the last knott that Loue could ty. And though they ly as they were dead, Their pillow stone, their sheetes of lead (Pillow hard, and sheetes not warm), Loue made the bed; they'l take no harm: Let them sleep; let them sleep on, Till this stormy night be gone, And the aeternall morrow dawn; Then ...' (vol. i. pp. 230-1.)

The hush, the tranquil stillness of a church-aisle, within which 'sleep' old recumbent figures, comes over one in reading these most pathetically beautiful words. Of the whole poem, Dodd in his 'Epigrammatists' (as onward) remarks, 'after reading this Epitaph, all others on the same subject must suffer by comparison. Yet there is much to be admired in the following by Bishop Hall, on Sir Edward and Lady Lewkenor. It is translated from the Latin by the Bishop's descendant and editor, the Rev. Peter Hall (Bp. Hall's Works, 1837-9, xii. 331):

'In bonds of love united, man and wife, Long, yet too short, they spent a happy life; United still, too soon, however late, Both man and wife receiv'd the stroke of fate: And now in glory clad, enraptur'd pair, The same bright cup, the same sweet draught they share. Thus, first and last, a married couple see, In life, in death, in immortality.'

There is much beauty also in an anonymous epitaph in the 'Festoon' 143, 'On a Man and his Wife:'

'Here sleep, whom neither life nor love, Nor friendship's strictest tie, Could in such close embrace as thou, Their faithful grave, ally; Preserve them, each dissolv'd in each, For bands of love divine, For union only more complete, Thou faithful grave, than thine.' (p. 253.)

His 'Wishes to his (supposed) Mistresse' has things in it vivid and subtle as anything in Shelley at his best; and I affirm this deliberately. His little snatch on 'Easter Day' with some peculiarities, culminates in a grandeur Milton might bow before. The version of 'Dies Irae' is wonderfully severe and solemn and intense. Roscommon undoubtedly knew it. And so we might go on endlessly. His melody--with exceptional discords--is as the music of a Master, not mere versification. Once read receptively, and the words haunt almost awfully, and, I must again use the word, unearthlily. Summarily--as in our claim for Vaughan, as against the preposterous traditional assertions of his indebtedness to Herbert poetically, while really it was for spiritual benefits he was obligated--we cannot for an instant rank George Herbert as a Poet with Crashaw. Their piety is alike, or the 'Priest' of Bemerton is more definite, and clear of the 'fine mist' of mysticism of the recluse of 'Little St. Mary's;' but only very rarely have you in 'The Temple' that light of genius which shines as a very Shekinah-glory in the 'Steps to the Temple.' These 'Steps' have been spoken of as 'Steps' designed to lead into Herbert's 'Temple,' whereas they were 'Steps' to the 'Temple' or Church of the Living God. Crashaw 'sang' sweetly and generously of Herbert (vol. i. pp. 139-140); but the two Poets are profoundly distinct and independent. Clement Barksdale, probably, must bear the blame of foolishly subordinating Crashaw to Herbert, in his Lines in 'Nympha Libethris' (1651):

'HERBERT AND CRASHAW.

When unto Herbert's Temple I ascend By Crashaw's Steps, I do resolve to mend My lighter verse, and my low notes to raise, And in high accent sing my Maker's praise. Meanwhile these sacred poems in my sight I place, that I may learn to write.'

(c) Epigrams. The title-page of the Epigr. Sacra of 1670 marks out for us their main dates; that is to say, as it designates him 'Collegii Petrensis Socius,' which he was not until 1637, the only portion that belongs to that period must be the additions made in the 1670 edition (see vol. ii. pp. 3-4). Dr. Macdonald (in 'Antiphon') observes: 'His Divine Epigrams are not the most beautiful, but they are to me the most valuable, of his verses, inasmuch as they make us feel afresh the truth which he sets forth anew. In them some of the facts of our Lord's life and teaching look out upon us as from clear windows of the Past. As epigrams, too, they are excellent--pointed as a lance' (p. 240). He limits himself to the 'English' Epigrams, and quotes after above, Nos. LIV. (2) and XI.; and continues with No. XIV., and next LIV. (1); on which he says: 'I value the following as a lovely parable. Mary is not contented; to see the place is little comfort. The church itself, with all its memories of the Lord, the Gospel-story, and all theory about Him, is but His tomb until we find Himself;' and he closes with one which he thinks is 'perhaps his best,' viz. No. I.[34] We too may give it:

'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.' (vol. ii. p. 35.)

The admiring critic on this proceeds: 'This appears to me perfect. Here is the true relation between the forms and the end of religion. The priesthood, the altar and all its ceremonies, must vanish from between the sinner and his God. When the priest forgets his mediation of a servant, his duty of a door-keeper to the temple of truth, and takes upon him the office of an intercessor, he stands between man and God, and is a satan, an adversary. Artistically considered, the poem could hardly be improved' (p. 241). 'Artistically,' nevertheless, it is a wonder Dr. Macdonald did not detect Turnbull's mis-reading of 'lend' for 'send' (l. 4). Bellew in his Poet's Corner reads 'bend,' which is equally poor for 'tendit.' There follows No. XLII., 'containing a similar lesson;' and finally No. XLV. p. 196, whereof he says: 'The following is a world-wide intercession for them that know not what they do. Of those that reject the truth, who can be said ever to have truly seen it? A man must be good to see truth. It is a thought suggested by our Lord's words, not an irreverent opposition to the truth of them' (p. 242).

Now that, besides the (relatively) few Epigrams which were translated by Crashaw himself, the whole are translated (for the first time), and now too that, exclusive of longer Latin poems, a goodly addition has been made by us to them, the reader will find it rewarding to turn and return on this remarkable section of Crashaw's poetry. Conceits there are, grotesque as gargoyles of a cathedral, oddities of symbolism, even passing into unconscious playing with holy words and things never to be played with; but each has a jewel of a distinct thought or sentiment, and often the wording is felicitous, albeit, as in all his Latin verse, not invariably without technical faults of quantity and even syntax. I had marked very many for specific criticism; but I must refrain. Our translation is perhaps a better commentary. To my co-workers and myself it has been a labour of love. I must close our notice of Crashaw as an Epigrammatist with some parallels from 'The Epigrammatists' of the Rev. Henry Philip Dodd, M.A. (1870). Under No. CXVII., 'On Pontius Pilate washing his hands,' he has this: 'In Elsum's Epigrams on Paintings, 1700, is one on a picture by Andrea Sacchi of Pilate washing his hands, translated from Michael Silos, De Romana Pictura et Sculptura' (Ep. 17):

'O cursed Pilate, villain dyed in grain, A little water cannot purge thy stain; No, Tanais can't do't, nor yet the main. Dost thou condemn a Deity to death, Him whose mere love gave and preserv'd thy breath?'

Similarly, under No. LI. 'On the Blessed Virgin's Bashfulness,' he has this: 'Some lines "To the Blessed Virgin at her Purification," by the old epigrammatist Bancroft, are almost as beautiful in sentiment as this exquisite piece (Book ii. 86):

Why, favourite of Heaven, most fair, Dost thou bring fowls for sacrifice? Will not the armful thou dost bear, That lovely Lamb of thine, suffice?'

Of the exceptionally celebrated, not exceptionally superior Epigram on 'The Water turned Wine,' which somehow has been given by a perverse continued blunder to Dryden, Aaron Hill's masterly translation may be read along with those given by us in the place (vol. ii. pp. 96-7):

'When Christ at Cana's feast by pow'r divine Inspir'd cold water with the warmth of wine; See! cried they, while in red'ning tide it gush'd, The bashful stream hath seen its God, and blush'd.'

Dryden's 'The conscious water saw its God, and blush'd,' is a mere remembrance of Crashaw.[35]

(d) Translations and (briefly) Latin and Greek Poetry. It may seem semi-paradoxical to affirm it, but in our opinion the genius of Crashaw shines with its fullest splendour in his Translations, longer and shorter. Even were there not his wonderful 'Suspicion of Herod' and 'Musick's Duell,' this might be said; for in his 'Dies Irae,' and 'Hymne out of Sainte Thomas,' and others lesser, there are felicities that only a genuine Maker could have produced. His 'Dies Irae' was the earliest version in our language. Roscommon and Scott alike wrote after and 'after' it. But it is on the two truly great Poems named we found our estimate. Turning to 'Musick's Duell,' as we ask the reader to do now (vol. i. 197-203), we have only to read critically the Latin of Strada, from whence it is drawn, to discern the creative gift of our Poet. Here it is:

Jam Sol a medio pronus deflexerat orbe Mitius, e radiis vibrans crinalibus ignem. Cum Fidicen, propter Tiberina fluenta, sonanti Lenibat plectra curas, aestumque levabat, Ilice defensus nigra scenaque virenti. Audiit hunc hospes silvae Philomela propinquae Musa loci, nemoris siren, innoxia siren; Et prope succedens stetit abdita frondibus, alte Accipiens sonitum, secumque remurmurat, et quos Ille modos variat digitis, haec gutture reddit. Sensit se Fidicen Philomela imitante referri, Et placuit ludum volucri dare; plenius ergo Explorat citharam, tentamentumque futurae Praebeat ut pugnae, percussit protinus omnes Impulsu pernice fides, nec segnius illa. Mille per excurrens variae discrimina vocis, Venturi specimen praefert argutula cantus. Tunc Fidicen per fila movens trepidantia dextram, Nunc contemnenti similis diverberat ungue, Depectitque pari chordas, et simplice ductu: Nunc carptim replicat, digitisque micantibus urget Fila minutatim, celerique repercutit ictu. Mox silet. Illa modis totidem respondet, et artem Arte refert. Nunc seu rudis aut incerta canendi Projicit in longum, nulloque plicatile flexu Carmen init, simili serie, jugique tenore, Praebet iter liquidum labenti e pectore voce; Nunc caesim variat, modulisque canora minutis. Delibrat vocem, tremuloque reciprocat ore. Miratur Fidicen parvis e faucibus ire Tam varium, tam dulce melos; majoraque tentans Alternat mira arte fides; dum torquet acutas Inciditque, graves operoso verbere pulsat, Permiscetque simul certantia rauca sonoris, Ceu resides in bella viros clangore lacessat. Hoc etiam Philomela canit: dumque ore liquenti Vibrat acuta sonum, modulisque interplicat acquis; Ex inopinato gravis intonat, et leve murmur Turbinat introrsus, alternantique sonore Clarat, et infuscat ceu martia classica pulset. Scilicet erubuit Fidicen, ... Non imitabilibus plectrum concentibus urget. Namque manu per fila volat, simul hos, simul illos Explorat numeros, chordaque laborat in omni, Et strepit, et tinnit, crescitque superbius, et se Multiplicat religens, plenoque choreumate plaudit.[36]

It will be noted by the student that such word-painting as in these lines belongs to Crashaw, not Strada:

'and streightway she Carves out her dainty voyce as readily. . . . . . Through the sleeke passage of her open throat A clear unwrinckled song; . . . . . closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all, Hoarce, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands:' . . . . . staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetnesse, hovers o'er her skill, And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill . . . . . a tide Of streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth ride On the wav'd backe of every swelling straine, Rising and falling in a pompous traine. . . . . . Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voyce of War's hoarce bird.

... his hands sprightly as fire, he flings And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings. The sweet-lip't sisters, musically frighted, Singing their feares, are fearefully delighted, Trembling as when Appolo's golden haires Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayres Of his own breath: which marryed to his lyre Doth tune the spheares. . . . . . with nectar drop, Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup. . . . . . The lute's light genius now does proudly rise, Heav'd on the surges of swolne rapsodyes, . . . . . Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone.'

In the words of Willmott (as before), 'We shall seek in vain in the Latin text for the vigour, the fancy, and the grandeur of these lines. These remain with Crashaw, of whose obligations to Strada we may say, as Hayley [stupidly, if picturesquely] remarked of Pope's debt to Crashaw, that if he borrowed anything from him in this article, it was only as the sun borrows from the earth, when, drawing from thence a mere vapour, he makes it the delight of every eye, by giving it all the tender and gorgeous colouring of heaven' (vol. i. p. 323). The richness and fulness of our Poet as a Translator becomes the more clear when we place beside his interpretation of Strada the 'translations' of others, as given in the places (vol. i. pp. 203-6). A third (anonymous) version we discovered among the Lansdowne MSS. 3910, pt. lxvi., from which we take a specimen:

'Now the declininge sunn 'gan downward bende From higher heauene, and from his locks did sende A milder flame; when neere to Tyber's flowe A Lutaniste allayde his carefull woe, With sondinge charmes, and in a greeny seate Of shady oake, toke shelter from the heate.

A nitingale ore-hard hym that did use To soiourne in y^e neighbour groues, the Muse That files the place, the syren of the wood: Poore harmeles Syren, steling neere she stood Close lurkinge in the leaues attentiuely: Recordinge that vnwonted mellodye, She condt it to herselfe, and every straine His fingers playde, her throat return'd againe.'

And so to the end (MS. 3910, pp. 114-17). We have reserved until now incomparably the second, but only a far-off second, to Crashaw's, from John Ford's 'Lover's Melancholy' (1629); which probably was our Poet's guide to Strada. Here is the substance of the fine reminiscent version, from act i. scene 1:

Menaphon. A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather, Indeed, entranced my soul. As I stole nearer, Invited by the melody, I saw This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, With strains of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge To the clear choristers of the wood, the birds, That as they flocked about him all stood silent, Wondering at what they heard. I wondered too.

Amethus. And do so I: good, on.

Men. A nightingale, Nature's best-skilled musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own: He could not run division with more art Vpon his quaking instrument than she The nightingale did with her various notes Reply to: for a voice and for a sound, Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe That such they were, than hope to hear again.

Ameth. How did the rivals part?

Men. You term them rightly. For they were rivals, and their mistress, Harmony. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird, Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice. To end the controversy, in a rapture, Vpon his instrument he plays so swiftly So many voluntaries, and so quick, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full centre of delight.

Ameth. Now for the bird.

Men. The bird, ordained to be Music's first master, strove to imitate These several sounds; which when her warbling throat Failed in, for grief down dropped she on his lute, And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep.[37]

Comment is needless on such pale, empty literality, as compared with the vitality and elan of Crashaw, in all but Ford's; while even Ford's is surpassed in every way by the 'Musick's Duell.'

The 'Suspicion of Herod,' by Marino (c. i.), is a grand poem in the original. Milton knew it, and was taken by it. Our Poet had glorious materials whereon to work, accordingly, when he turned Translator of this all-too-little known Singer of Italy. But Crashaw's soul was more spacious, his imagination more imperial, his vocabulary wealthier, than even Marino's. The greatness and grandeur and force of the Italian roused the Englishman to emulation. Willmott (as before) has placed the original Italian beside Crashaw's interpretation, and the advance in the Translator on his original is almost startling. We prefer adducing Crashaw, and then giving a close rendering of the original: e.g.

'He saw Heav'n blossome with a new-borne light, On which, as on a glorious stranger, gaz'd The golden eyes of Night.' (st. xvii.)

literally in Marino:

'He sees also shining from heaven, With beauteous ray, the wondrous star, Which, brilliant and beautiful, goes Pointing the way straight towards Bethlehem.'

Again:

'He saw how in that blest Day-bearing Night, The Heav'n-rebuked shades made hast away; How bright a dawne of angels with new light Amaz'd the midnight world, and made a Day Of which the Morning knew not.' (st. xv.)

literally in Marino:

'He sees the quiet shades and the dark Horrors of the happy, holy Night Smitten and routed by heavenly voices, And vanquished by angelic splendours.'

Once more: when Alecto, the most terrible of the infernal sisters, ascends to Earth at the command of Satan:

'Heav'n saw her rise, and saw Hell in the sight: The fields' faire eyes saw her, and saw no more, But shut their flowry lids for ever;' (st. xlviii.)

for

'Parvero i fiori intorno e la verdura Sentir forza di peste, ira di verno;'

literally:

'soon as Hell had vomited out This monster from the dark abyss, The flowers all around and the verdure appeared To feel the strength of the plague, the fury of winter.'

This naked simplicity of wording is very fine: yet do Crashaw's adornments bring new charm to Marino. The soliloquy of Satan, though close as the skin to the body, has a ruddiness (so-to-say) from Crashaw. Nothing in Milton is grander than st. xxv. to xxx.; and in all there are touches from the cunning hand of Crashaw: e.g.

'And for the never-fading fields of light;' (st. xxvii.)

for Marino's

'Che piu puo farmi omai chi la celeste Reggia mi tolse, e i regni i miei lucenti?'

literally:

'What more can He now do to me, Who took From me the heavenly palace and my bright realms?'

Again:

'Bow our bright heads before a king of clay;' (st. xxviii.)

for Marino's

'Volle alle forme sue semplici e prime, Natura sovralzar corporea e bassa, E de' membri del ciel capo sublime Far di limo terrestre eterna massa;'

literally:

'He turns to his simple primitive forms, To raise Nature above the corporeal and low, And to make an unworthy mass of earthly clay The sublime head of the heavenly members.'

Compare also st. x. in Crashaw with the original as literally rendered:

'Disdainefull wretch, how hath one bold sinne cost Thee all the beauties of thy once bright eyes! How hath one black eclipse cancell'd and crost The glories that did gild thee in thy rise! Proud morning of a perverse day, how lost Art thou unto thy selfe, thou too selfe-wise Narcissus! foolish Phaeton, who for all Thy high-aym'd hopes, gaind'st but a flaming fall.'

Literally in Marino:

'O wretched Angel, once fairer than light, How thou hast lost thy primeval splendour! Thou shalt have from the eternal Requiter Deserved punishment for the unjust crime: Proud admirer of thy honours, Rebellious usurper of another's seat! Transformed, and fallen into Phlegethon, Proud Narcissus, impious Phaethon!'

Milton takes from Crashaw, not Marino, in his portrait of the Destroyer:

'From Death's sad shades to the life-breathing ayre This mortall enemy to mankind's good Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care, To become beautifull in humane blood.' (st. xi.)

Literally in Marino:

'He from the shades of death to the living air, Envious in truth of our human state, Lifted aloft his eyes by where The hollow vent-hole opened straight down.'

Well-nigh innumerable single lines and words are inevitably marked: e.g.

'the rebellious eye Of sorrow.' (st. xlix.)

So the eyes of Satan:

'the sullen dens of Death and Night Startle the dull ayre with a dismal red;' (st. vii.)

for Marino's

'Negli occhi ove mestizia alberga e morte, Luce fiammeggia torbida e vermiglia;'

literally:

'In the eyes where sadness dwells and death A turbid vermilion-coloured light shines.'

Again: the sun is seen by the Tempter to

Make proud the ruby portalls of the East;' (st. xvi.)

for 'la Reggia Oriental.' Crashaw has the same vivid fancy in the Hymn for Epiphany:

'Aurora shall set ope Her ruby casements.'

Finally, to show that even where our Translator keeps closest to the original, he yet gives the creative touches of which I have already spoken, read his st. v. beside this literal translation:

'Under the abysses, at the very core of the world, In the central point of the universe, Within the bowers of the darkest deep, There stands the fiendly perverse Spirit: With sharp thongs an impure group Binds him with a hundred snakes athwart: With such bonds girds him for ever, The great champion who conquered HIM in Paradise.'

Thus we might go over the entire poem, and everywhere we should gather proofs that he was himself all he conceived in his splendid portraiture of the true Poet's genius:

'no rapture makes it live Drest in the glorious madnesse of a Muse, Whose feet can walke the Milky Way, Her starry throne, and hold up an exalted arm To lift me from my lazy urn and climbe Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time, And trace eternity.' (vol. i. p. 238.)[38]

Fully to estimate Crashaw's own grander imaginative faculty the Reader must study here the now-first-printed and very Miltonic poems on Apocalypse xii. 7 (Vol. II. pp. 231-3) and 'Christe, veni' (ib. pp. 223-5). It is profoundly to be regretted that our Poet should have limited himself to Book I. of the 'Strage degli Innocenti,' viz. 'Sospetto d'Herode.' Book VII. especially, 'Della Gerusalemme Distruta,' would have demanded all his powers. The entire poem was 'done in English,' and it is 'done' (by T.R. 1675).

With reference to our own Translations of Crashaw, if in some instances we have enlarged on our original, and adventured to fill-in what in the Latin the Poet is fettered in uttering, may we apologise by pleading his own example as a Translator, though with unequal steps and far off? I would specify the very remarkable 'Bulla,' in which, indeed, I find Crashaw's highest of pure poetic faculty within the region of Fancy in its delicatest and subtlest symbolisms; also the scarcely less remarkable address 'To the Reader' ('Lectori'); and his 'Fides &c. &c.' and his classical legends of 'Arion,' and his University 'Laments' and 'Appeals' for Peterhouse. Throughout, my co-workers and myself have aimed to give the thought of Crashaw; and, unless I egregiously mistake, we have together earned some gratitude from admirers of our Worthy.

I leave to other Scholars to deal critically with the Latin and Greek of these Poems and Epigrams now first translated. Read unsympathetically, I fear that very often his quantities and versification will be regarded as barbarous; but we have done something, it is believed, to neutralise Turnbull's most discreditable misprints herein, as in the English Poems. In the places (vol. ii. pp. 5-6, 244, and 332) we have recorded some of his more flagrant blunders; but besides we have silently corrected as many more of the original and early editions.

That Crashaw was not an accurate scholar the Greek Epigrams (as well as some of the Latin ones) furnish sufficient proof. Of the many obvious errors in quantity and construction, I have only corrected such as may have been mere oversights, some of them perhaps caused by his MS. having been misread; in other cases I have followed the original editions, and corrected the numerous errors made by Turnbull from his not being able to read the Greek ligatures &c. It may be well to indicate a few of the typical corrections that I felt obliged to make, and note other lapses which I did not feel justified in altering.

In XI. last line, {aperrhipton} for {aporrhipton}; CXXI. last line, {een} for {ee}; CXXV. line 5. {kein'} for {kein}; CLXXX. line 1 has {plane} as if the penult were long instead of short, and {alemi} an unused form, so that the line offends both quantity and usage--it might be amended thus, {Heis men ego, he mou te plane periegen, alomai}; CLXXXII. line 1, {epeballen} for {epiballen}; CLXXXIII. line 2, {sykomore} should be {sykomore}, but altered for scansion; line 3, {ekkremnes} should perhaps be {ekkremnas}; line 4, unscanable; and in CXXV. line 4, {dasiois} should be {dasesin}. {ouranos}, the penult of which is short, he uses as either long or short.

I must add, that the accentuation was as often wrong as right. I have carefully corrected it throughout. And this seems to me to be the only allowable way of reproducing Crashaw. An Editor cannot be held responsible for his Author writing imperfect Greek or Latin, any more than for his mistakes either in opinion or in matters-of-fact or taste.

Anderson's and Chalmers' Poets, and Peregrine Phillip's Selections, and Turnbull's edition in Russell Smith's 'Old Authors' and that in Gilfillan's Poets (a selection only), are our predecessors in furnishing Crashaw's Poetry. We confess to a feeling of just pride (shall we say?) in being the first worthily and adequately to present as remarkable Poetry, in its own region, as is anywhere to be found. RICHARD CRASHAW has assuredly not yet gathered all his fame.[39]

ALEXANDER B. GROSART.

Latin Poems.

PART FIRST. SACRED. I.

PART FIRST. SACRED.

I.

EPIGRAMMATA SACRA.

(1634-1670.)

NOTE.

The earliest appearance of CRASHAW as a poet was in the University Collections of Latin Verse on the (then) usual conventional occasions of royal births and deaths, and the like. These pieces will be found in their places in the present volume. The place of honour herein we assign to his own published volume of 1634, of which the following is the title-page, within a neat woodcut border:

EPIGRAM-

MATUM

SACRORUM

LIBER.

University Printer's ornament, with legend, 'Hinc. Lvcem. Et. Pocula. Sacra.' and 'Alma Mater.'

Cantabrigiae, Ex Academiae celeberrimae typographeo. 1634.

This is a small duodecimo. Collation: Title-page--Epistle-dedicatory to LANY, with the poems, 'Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis,' &c.--Venerabili viro Magistro Tournay, Tutori suo summe observando--Ornatissimo viro Praeceptori suo colendissimo, Magistro Brook--Lectori (verse and prose), seven leaves: Epigrammata Sacra, pp. 79.

A second edition of this volume appeared in 1670. Its title-page is as follows:

RICHARDI CRASHAWI

POEMATA

et

EPIGRAMMATA,

Quae scripsit Latina & Graeca, Dum Aulae Pemb. Alumnus fuit, Et Collegii Petrensis Socius.

Editio Secunda, Auctior & emendatior.

{Heineken eumathies pinytophronos, hen ho Melichros Eskesen, Mouson ammiga kai Chariton.} {Anthol.}

[Printer's ornament, as before.]

Cantabrigiae, Ex Officina Joan. Hayes, Celeberrimae Academiae Typographi. 1670.

This is an 8vo. Collation: Title-page--and to Brook, as before; then these additional Latin poems: In Picturam Reverendissimi Episcopi D. Andrews--Votiva Domus Petrensis pro Domo Dei--In caeterorum Operum difficili Parturitione Gemitus--Epitaphium in Gulielmum Herrisium--In Eundem--Natalis Principis Mariae--In Serenissimae Reginae partum hyemalem--Natalis Ducis Eboracensis--In faciem Augustiss. Regis a morbillis integram--Ad Carolum Primum, Rex Redux--Ad Principem nondum natum, Regina gravida. Bastard-title, 'Epigrammata Sacra, quae scripsit Graeca et Latina'--Lectori (as before), nine leaves: Epigrammata Sacra, pp. 67.

The additions to the second edition--besides the Latin poems enumerated--were in the Epigrams these: No. 1, Pharisaeus et Publicanus, Greek version--No. 11, Obolum Viduae, ib.--No. 53, Ecce locus ubi jacuit Dominus, ib.--No. 120, In descensum Spiritus sancti, ib.--No. 124, In S. Columbam ad Christi caput sedentem, ib.--No. 141, Ad D. Lucam medicum, ib.--No. 148, In stabulum ubi natus est Dominus, ib.--No. 161, Hic lapis fiat panis, ib.--No. 177, In die Ascensionis Dominicae, ib.--No. 178, Caecus implorat Christum, Latin and Greek--No. 179, Quis ex vobis, &c. ib.--No. 180, Herodi D. Jacobum obtruncati, ib.--No. 181, Caeci receptis, &c. ib.--and No. 182, Zaccheus in sycomoro.

A third edition was issued in 1674. It is identical with that of 1670, save in the date on title-page, printer's ornament, and this line at bottom: 'Prostant venales apud Joann. Creed.' Probably consisted of 'remainders' of 1670 edition.

As the edition of 1634 was published during the author's residence in the University, and so under his own eye, I have made it the basis of our text, though with a vigilant eye on the later corrections; but have given from the edition of 1670 the Greek versions of certain of the Epigrams, and those added (as above). The Epistle-dedicatory to Lany, and related introductory poems of 1634, alone, I prefix to the Epigrammata Sacra, assigning the other poems more fittingly to the Secular Poems (as annotated in the places). The Editor of the second edition, 'auctior et emendatior,' has not been transmitted. For more on the editions of the Epigrammata Sacra, see our Essay and Notes and Illustrations. As explained in our Prefatory Note, the translations of the Latin Poemata et Epigrammata, as of the others, follow the originals successively. A. denotes the translator to be THOMAS ASHE, M.A., Ipswich; B., CLEMENT BARKSDALE (from 'Epigrammata Sacra selecta, cum Anglica Versione. Sacred Epigrams Englished. London: Printed for John Barksdale, Bookseller in Cirencester. 1682.' 12mo); CL., Rev. J.H. CLARK, M.A., West Dereham, Norfolk; CR., CRASHAW himself; G., myself; W., Rev. W. ARIS WILLMOTT (from his 'Lives of the Sacred Poets,' s.n. Crashaw); and R. WI., Rev. RICHARD WILTON, M.A., Londesborough Rectory, Market Weighton. In the present and succeeding division those Epigrams translated by Crashaw himself are given under the related Latin--all from the original text of 1646, as before. They consist of Nos. 1, 2, 8, 9, 11, 14, 15, 20, 21, 26, 29, 36, 40, 42, 43, 47, 49, 51, 54 (two), 56, 57, 63, 64, 68, 85, 91, 93, 101, 104, 106, 108, 115, 117, 140, 157, 160, 164, 169, 184, and 185 in the present, and of Nos. 21, 22, 28, 42, 46, and 55 in next section.

It only remains that I add here, instead of noticing in their places, the following more flagrant errors of Turnbull in the 'Epigrammata' and related 'Poemata Latina et Graeca.' Similar lists will be found in the introductory notes to the several divisions of this volume.

In the Epistle to Lany, line 18, avidi for avide; line 29, amore for amare; in the Ode, st. ii. line 1, ipsi for ipse. In the address 'Lectori,' line 7, abi for alis; line 29, putre for putri; line 48, mens for meus; line 53, fingit for finget; line 70, graves for gravis; line 97, tota dropped out; line 120, negat for neget; in succeeding prose, line 29, Acygmanos for acygnianos.

The misprints in the Epigrammata are so numerous, that it is deemed expedient to tabulate them according to our numbering. On the errors in the Greek, see our Preface to the present Volume.

No.

1, line 4, ille for hic.

2, heading, Victorem for vectorem.

3, l. 1, ori for oris.

6, l. 2, meae for mea.

7, l. 4, tanto for tanti.

8, l. 1, vulnere for vulnera.

10, l. 1, tumidus for timidus.

12, heading, Luc. x. 30 for x. 39; and so often.

19, l. 4, decas for decus.

30, l. 3, Te ne for Tene.

31, heading, credebunt for credebant.

44, l. 1, tumere for tenuere.

45, l. 2, mala for male.

48, l. 1, Christe for Christi.

60, l. 4, fecere for fuere.

65, l. 7, adnixus for ad nixus.

67, l. 1, Infantes for infantis.

69, heading, meditur for medetur.

78, l. 2, pati for peti.

101, l. 4, aqua for aquas.

108, l. 8, oculos for oculus.

111, l. 3, natalis for natales.

114, l. 2, utere for uteri.

115, l. 4, queas for queat.

120, heading, Domini for Dominicam.

" l. 6, Phoebe for Phoebo.

122, heading, traduit for traderet.

123, l. 2, nescis for nescio.

125, l. 1, volueris for volucris.

126, heading, Divi for Divo.

132, heading, Christo for Christi.

135, heading left out.

140, l. 2, illa for ille.

149, l. 2, quae for qua.

153, l. 3, colubres for colubros.

155, heading, Domini for Dominicae.

158, l. 3, par for per.

161, l. 8, fieris for fieres.

" l. 12, solis for solio.

164, l. 1, Daemone for Daemona.

169, heading, lavante for lavanti.

" l. 2, virginea for virgineae.

170, l. 5, decies for denis.

172, l. 1, vidis for vides.

176, l. 16, dominum for dominam.

" l. 73, ista for iste.

177, l. 20, metu for nutu.

182, l. 2, fide for fida.

The whole of these, with others belonging to Crashaw himself and his first editors, are carefully corrected in our edition. G.

REVERENDO ADMODUM VIRO

BENJAMINO LANY,[40]

SS. THEOLOGIAE PROFESSORI, AULAE PEMBROCHIANAE CUSTODI DIGNISSIMO, EX SUORUM MINIMIS MINIMUS,

R. C[RASHAW]

CUSTODIAM COELESTEM

P.

Suus est et florum fructus; quibus fruimur, si non utilius, delicatius certe. Neque etiam rarum est quod ad spem Veris, de se per flores suos quasi pollicentis, adultioris anni, ipsiusque adeo Autumni exigamus fidem. Ignoscas igitur, vir colendissime, properanti sub ora Apollinis sui, primaeque adolescentiae lascivia exultanti Musae. Tenerae aetatis flores adfert, non fructus serae: quos quidem exigere ad seram illam et sobriam maturitatem, quam in fructibus expectamus merito, durum fuerit; forsan et ipsa hac praecoci importunitate sua placituros magis: tibi praesertim quem paternus animus, quod fieri solet, intentum tenet omni suae spei diluculo, quo tibi de tuorum indole promittas aliquid. Ex more etiam eorum, qui in praemium laboris sui pretiumque patientiae festini, ex iis quae severunt ipsi et excoluerunt, quicquid est flosculi prominulum, prima quasi verecundia auras et apertum Jovem experientis arripiunt avide, saporemque illi non tam ex ipsius indole et ingenio quam ex animi sui affectu, foventis in eo curas suas et spes, affingunt. Patere igitur, reverende custos, hanc tibi ex istiusmodi floribus corollam necti; convivalem vero: nec aliter passuram sidus illud oris tui auspicatissimum, nisi, qua est etiam amoenitate, remissiore radio cum se reclinat, et in tantum de se demit. Neque sane hoc scriptionis genere, modo partes suas satis praestiterit, quid esse potuit otio theologico accommodatius, quo nimirum res ipsa theologica poetica amoenitate delinita majestatem suam venustate commendat. Hoc demum quicquid est, amare tamen poteris, et voles, scio: non ut magnum quid, non ut egregium, non ut te dignum denique, sed ut tuum: tuum summo jure, utpote quod e tua gleba, per tuum radium, in manum denique tuam evocatum fuerit. Quod restat hujus libelli fatis, exorandus es igitur, vir spectatissime, ut quem sinu tum facili privatum excepisti, eum jam ore magis publico alloquentem te non asperneris. Stes illi in limine, non auspicium modo suum, sed et argumentum. Enimvero Epigramma sacrum tuus ille vultus vel est, vel quid sit docet; ubi nimirum amabili diluitur severum, et sanctum suavi demulcetur. Pronum me vides in negatam mihi provinciam; laudum tuarum, intelligo: quas mihi cum modestia tua abstulerit, reliquum mihi est necessario ut sim brevis; imo vero longus nimium; utpote cui argumentum istud abscissum fuerit, in quo unice poteram, et sine taedio, prolixus esse. Vale, virorum ornatissime, neque dedigneris quod colere audeam Genii tui serenitatem supplex tam tenuis, et, quoniam numen quoque hoc de se non negat, amare etiam. Interim vero da veniam Musae in tantum sibi non temperanti; quin in hanc saltem laudis tuae partem, quae tibi ex rebus sacris apud nos ornatis meritissima est, istiusmodi carmine involare ausa sit, qualicunque:

Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis, Per quem erudito exhalat in otio; Seu frigus udi captet antri, Sive Jovem nitidosque soles.

Non ipse custos pulchrior invias Egit sub umbras Aemonios greges; Non ipse Apollo notus illis Lege suae meliore cannae.

Tu, si sereno des oculo frui, Sunt rura nobis, sunt juga, sunt aquae, Sunt plectra dulcium sororum (Non alio mihi nota Phoebo).

Te dante, castos composuit sinus; Te dante, mores sumpsit; et in suo Videnda vultu, pulveremque Relligio cineremque nescit.

Stat cincta digna fronde decens caput: Suosque per te fassa palam Deos, Comisque, Diva, vestibusque Ingenium dedit ordinemque.

Jamque ecce nobis amplior es modo Majorque cerni. Quale jubar tremit Sub os! verecundusque quanta Mole sui Genius laborat!

Jam qui serenas it tibi per genas, Majore coelo sidus habet suum; Majorque circum cuspidatae Ora comis tua flos diei.

Stat causa. Nempe hanc ipse Deus, Deus, Hanc ara, per te pulchra, diem tibi Tuam refundit, obvioque It radio tibi se colenti.

Ecce, ecce! sacro in limine, dum pio Multumque prono poplite amas humum, Altaria annuunt ab alto; Et refluis tibi plaudit alis

Pulchro incalescens officio, puer Quicunque crispo sidere crinium, Vultuque non fatente terram, Currit ibi roseus satelles.

Et jure. Nam cum fana tot inviis Moerent ruinis, ipsaque, ceu preces Manusque non decora supplex Tendat, opem rogat, heu negatam!

Tibi ipsa voti est ora sui rea. Et solvet. O quam semper apud Deum Litabis illum, cujus arae Ipse preces prius audiisti!

[TRANSLATION. Prose G.; verse CL.]

To the very reverend man BENJAMIN LANY, Doctor of Divinity, most worthy Master of Pembroke College [Cambridge], the least of the least of those that are his, R[ichard] C[rashaw] implores the divine protection.[41]

Even flowers have their own peculiar fruit, which we enjoy, if not so profitably, yet in a manner more refined. Nor is it unusual that, in accordance with the hope of Spring, making promises for herself as it were by her flowers, we demand credit for the maturer year, and even for Autumn itself. Forgive, then, most Reverend Sir, the Muse hastening into the presence of her Apollo, and exulting in the wantonness of earliest youth. She offers the flowers of a tender age, not the fruits of a late one, which flowers indeed it were unreasonable to demand in accordance with that late and sober maturity which we rightly look for in fruits--flowers which are more likely to be pleasing from the very fact of their precocious importunity,--to thee above all, whom a fatherly mind, as it is wont to happen, holds watching for every dawning of its hope, by which you may give yourself assurance of anything respecting the genius of your sons; after the manner also of those who, in haste for the reward of their labour and the price of their patience, from what they have themselves sown and tended, snatch greedily whatever part may project a little of a floweret, which, as with early bashfulness, is making trial of the airs and the open sky, and attach an odour to it, not so much from its own nature and character as from the inclination of their own mind, which fosters in it their own anxieties and hopes. Suffer then, Reverend Master, this little garland, made of flowers of such a sort, to be bound on thee; a festal one assuredly, and not able to endure that most auspicious star of thy countenance in any other way than--for it is even of such a graciousness--when it draws back with milder ray, and so far subtracts from itself. Nor assuredly than this kind of writing, provided it have sufficiently discharged its proper functions, could anything be more suitable to theological leisure; for in it without doubt the very substance of theology being overlaid with poetic grace, sets off its grandeur by loveliness. Finally, whatever this may be, you will nevertheless, I know, be able and willing to be lovingly disposed towards it; not as anything great or uncommon; not, in short, as anything worthy of you, but as your own--your own by highest right as having been called forth from your soil, by your light, and, in fine, into your hand. As for what fortune awaits this little book, deign to be persuaded, most worshipful Sir, not to scorn when addressing you now in a more public style him whom you have welcomed in private with so ready an affection. May you stand on its threshold, not only as its good omen but also as its subject! In very truth that countenance of yours is a Sacred Epigram, or teaches what it should be, where forsooth severity is tempered with love, and sanctity is mellowed by sweetness. You see me inclined towards a sphere denied to me--that of sounding your praises, I mean; which since your modesty has taken from me, it remains of necessity that I should be brief: yes indeed, I am too diffuse, seeing that the very subject is cut off from me in which alone I was, and even without irksomeness, able to be prolix. Farewell, most cultured of men, and do not disdain me, so insignificant a suppliant, for daring to honour your tranquil genius, and, since divinity even does not forbid this respecting itself, also to love it. But in the mean while give pardon to the Muse, to such a degree unrestrained as to have dared for this part at least of your praise, which is most due to you on account of sacred things that have been honoured amongst us, to fly towards you with a strain of such kind as this, whatever it may be:

Kind Guardian of the Muses' flock, Through whom it breathes in learn'd repose, Whether it choose the dripping rock, Or where the open sunshine glows.

Not fairer he through trackless shade Who led Aemonia's flocks of old; Not even Apollo, when he play'd, With defter touch could charm the fold.

If thou the eye serene dost grant, Green fields are ours, and streams and hills, And, since no Phoebus else we want, The Muses with their dulcet quills.

Religion too with modest grace Through thee assumes a gentler mien; Through thee again can show her face, No more in dust and ashes seen.

Her brows crown'd meetly, and, through thee, Her God in sight of all confess'd, She gives in her divinity Meaning and law to garb and vest.

Lo, while we gaze, an ample state Adorns thee; what a lustrous sheen Plays on thy lips! with what a weight Thy reverent Genius toils within!

For him on whom thy calm glance flows His star sheds down a fuller ray; The light that o'er thine aspect glows Is brighter than the shafts of Day.

And there is cause. The Lord of heaven, Whose altar thou hast made so fair, Pours back the light that thou hast given, With glory meets His worshipper.

Lo, on the threshold of thy God While thou dost stoop on bended knee, The altar from on high doth nod, Its plausive wings are bent to thee.

And, glowing with his duty's worth, Each starry-tressed chorister With look that savours not of earth Tends like a rosy cherub there.

And rightly. For, when ruin-wreck'd, With prayers and outstretch'd hands the fane Bemoan'd itself in all neglect, And sought elsewhere for help in vain,--

To thee by its own vows 'tis bound, And now repays thee. At the shrine Whose cry so well thy ears hath found Long, long may prayer and praise be thine!

LECTORI.

Salve. Jamque vale. Quid enim quis pergeret ultra? Qua jocus et lusus non vocat, ire voles? Scilicet hic, Lector, cur noster habebere, non est; Deliciis folio non faciente tuis. Nam nec Acidalios halat mihi pagina rores; Nostra Cupidineae nec favet aura faci. Frustra hinc ille suis quicquam promiserit alis: Frustra hinc illa novo speret abire sinu. Ille e materna melius sibi talia myrto; Illa jugis melius poscat ab Idaliis. Quaerat ibi suus in quo cespite surgat Adonis, Quae melior teneris patria sit violis. Illinc totius Florae, verisque, suique Consilio, ille alas impleat, illa sinus. Me mea, casta tamen, si sit rudis, herba coronet: Me mea, si rudis est, sit rudis, herba juvat. Nulla meo Circaea tument tibi pocula versu: Dulcia, et in furias officiosa tuas. Nulla latet Lethe, quam fraus tibi florea libat, Quam rosa sub falsis dat malefida genis. Nulla verecundum mentitur mella venenum: Captat ab insidiis linea nulla suis. Et spleni, et jecori foliis bene parcitur istis. Ah, male cum rebus staret utrumque meis! Rara est quae ridet, nulla est quae pagina prurit, Nulla salax, si quid norit habere salis. Non nudae Veneres, nec, si jocus, udus habetur: Non nimium Bacchus noster Apollo fuit. Nil cui quis putri sit detorquendus ocello; Est nihil obliquo quod velit ore legi. Haec coram atque oculis legeret Lucretia justis; Iret et illaesis hinc pudor ipse genis. Nam neque candidior voti venit aura pudici De matutina virgine thura ferens: Cum vestis nive vincta sinus, nive tempora fulgens, Dans nive flammeolis frigida jura comis, Religiosa pedum sensim vestigia librans, Ante aras tandem constitit, et tremuit. Nec gravis ipsa suo sub numine castior halat Quae pia non puras summovet ara manus. Tam Venus in nostro non est nimis aurea versu: Tam non sunt pueri tela timenda dei. Saepe puer dubias circum me moverat alas, Jecit et incertas nostra sub ora faces; Saepe vel ipse sua calamum mihi blandus ab ala, Vel matris cygno de meliore dedit; Saepe Dionaeae pactus mihi serta coronae; Saepe: Meus vates tu, mihi dixit, eris. I procul, i cum matre tua, puer improbe, dixi: Non tibi cum numeris res erit ulla meis. Tu Veronensi cum passere pulchrior ibis: Bilbilicisve queas comptius esse modis. Ille tuos finget quocunque sub agmine crines: Undique nequitiis par erit ille tuis. Ille nimis, dixi, patet in tua proelia campus: Heu, nimis est vates et nimis ille tuus! Gleba illa, ah, tua quam tamen urit adultera messis! Esset Idumaeo germine quanta parens! Quantus ibi et quantae premeret puer ubera matris! Nec coelos vultu dissimulante suos. Ejus in isto oculi satis essent sidera versu; Sidereo matris quam bene tuta sinu! Matris ut hic similes in collum mitteret ulnas, Inque sinus niveos pergeret, ore pari; Utque genis pueri haec aequis daret oscula labris, Et bene cognatis iret in ora rosis; Quae Mariae tam larga meat, quam disceret illic Uvida sub pretio gemma tumere suo! Staret ibi ante suum lacrymatrix Diva Magistrum: Seu levis aura volet, seu gravis unda cadat; Luminis haec soboles, et proles pyxidis illa, Pulchrius unda cadat, suavius aura volet. Quicquid in his sordet demum, luceret in illis. Improbe, nec satis est hunc tamen esse tuum? Improbe, cede, puer: quid enim mea carmina mulces? Carmina de jaculis muta futura tuis. Cede, puer, qua te petulantis fraena puellae; Turpia quae revocant pensa procacis herae; Qua miseri male pulchra nitent mendacia limi; Qua cerussatae, furta decora, genae; Qua mirere rosas, alieni sidera veris; Quas nivis haud propriae bruma redempta domat. Cede, puer, dixi et dico; cede, improba mater: Altera Cypris habet nos; habet alter Amor. Scilicet hic Amor est; hic est quoque mater Amoris. Sed Mater virgo; sed neque caecus Amor. O Puer! o Domine! o magnae reverentia Matris, Alme tui stupor et relligio gremii! O Amor, innocuae cui sunt pia jura pharetrae, Nec nisi de casto corde sagitta calens! Me, Puer, o certa, quem figis, fige sagitta; O tua de me sit facta pharetra levis! Quodque illinc sitit et bibit, et bibit et sitit usque; Usque meum sitiat pectus, et usque bibat. Fige, Puer, corda haec. Seu spinis exiguus quis, Seu clavi aut hastae cuspide magnus ades; Seu major cruce cum tota; seu maximus ipso Te corda haec figis denique; fige, Puer. O metam hanc tuus aeternum inclamaverit arcus: Stridat in hanc teli densior aura tui. O tibi si jaculum ferat ala ferocior ullum, Hanc habeat triti vulneris ire viam. Quique tuae populus cunque est, quae turba, pharetrae; Hic bene vulnificas nidus habebit aves. O mihi sis bello semper tam saevus in isto! Pectus in hoc nunquam mitior hostis eas. Quippe ego quam jaceam pugna bene sparsus in illa! Quam bene sic lacero pectore sanus ero! Haec mea vota. Mei sunt haec quoque vota libelli. Haec tua sint, Lector, si meus esse voles. Si meus esse voles, meus ut sis, lumina, Lector, Casta, sed o nimium non tibi sicca, precor. Nam tibi fac madidis meus ille occurrerit alis, Sanguine, seu lacryma diffluat ille sua: Stipite totus hians, clavisque reclusus, et hasta: Fons tuus in fluvios desidiosus erit? Si tibi sanguineo meus hic tener iverit amne, Tune tuas illi, dure, negabis aquas? Ah durus! quicunque meos, nisi siccus, amores Nolit, et hic lacrymae rem neget esse suae. Saepe hic Magdalinas vel aquas vel amaverit undas; Credo nec Assyrias mens tua malit opes. Scilicet ille tuos ignis recalescet ad ignes; Forsan et illa tuis unda natabit aquis. Hic eris ad cunas, et odoros funere manes: Hinc ignes nasci testis, et inde meos. Hic mecum, et cum matre sua, mea gaudia quaeres: Maturus Procerum seu stupor esse velit; Sive per antra sui lateat, tunc templa, sepulchri: Tertia lux reducem, lenta sed illa, dabit. Sint fidae precor, ah, dices, facilesque tenebrae; Lux mea dum noctis, res nova! poscit opem. Denique charta meo quicquid mea dicat amori, Illi quo metuat cunque, fleatve, modo, Laeta parum, dices, haec, sed neque dulcia non sunt: Certe et amor, dices, hujus amandus erat.

Si nimium hic promitti tibi videtur, Lector bone, pro eo cui satisfaciendo libellus iste futurus fuerit; scias me in istis non ad haec modo spectare quae hic habes, sed ea etiam quae olim, haec interim fovendo, habere poteris. Nolui enim, si hactenus deesse amicis meis non potui, flagitantibus a me, etiam cum dispendii sui periculo, paterer eos experiri te in tantum favorem tuum, nolui, inquam, fastidio tuo indulgere. Satis hic habes quod vel releges ad ferulam suam, neque enim maturiores sibi annos ex his aliqua vendicant, vel ut pignus plurium adultiorumque in sinu tuo reponas. Elige tibi ex his utrumvis. Me interim quod attinet, finis meus non fefellit. Maximum meae ambitionis scopum jamdudum attigi: tunc nimirum cum quale-cunque hoc meum pene infantis Musae murmur ad aures istas non ingratum sonuit, quibus neque doctiores mihi de publico timere habeo, nec sperare clementiores; adeo ut de tuo jam plausu, dicam ingenue et breviter, neque securus sim ultra neque solicitus. Prius tui, quisquis es, Lector, apud me reverentia prohibet; de cujus judicio omnia possum magna sperare: posterius illorum reverentia non sinit, de quorum perspicacitate maxima omnia non possum mihi non persuadere. Quanquam o quam velim tanti me esse in quo patria mea morem istum suum deponere velit, genio suo tam non dignum; istum scilicet quo, suis omnibus fastiditis, ea exosculatur unice, quibus trajecisse Alpes et de transmarino esse, in pretium cessit! Sed relictis hisce, nimis improbae spei votis, convertam me ad magistros acygnianos; quos scio de novissimis meis verbis, quanquam neminem nominarim, iratos me reliquisse: bilem vero componant; et mihi se hoc debere, ambitioso juveni verbum tam magnum ignoscant--debere, inquam, fateantur: quod nimirum in tam nobili argumento, in quo neque ad foetida de suis sanctis figmenta, neque ad putidas de nostris calumnias opus habeant confugere, de tenui hoc meo dederim illorum magnitudini unde emineat. Emineat vero; serius dico, sciantque me semper se habituros esse sub ea, quam mihi eorum lux major affuderit, umbra, placidissime acquiescentem.

[TRANSLATION. Verse and Prose, G.]

TO THE READER.

'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?

But men loved darkness rather than light.

The world's Light shines: shine as it will, The world will love its darknesse still. I doubt though, when the world's in hell, It will not love its darknesse halfe so well. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Behold the day of Christ! God comes with light; Yet the world loves the darkness of the night. Therefore the world to Stygian darkness will Be damn'd: and doth the world love darkness still? B.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

Lo, God comes girt with light, and all the world o'ershines: The world abides in night, nor watcheth for the signs. To Stygian darkness hurl'd on the great Day of Doom, Shalt thou, night-loving world, still love thy lightless gloom? G.

LXIV.

Dives implorat guttam. Luc. xvi. 24.

O mihi si digito tremat et tremat unica summo Gutta! o si flammas mulceat una meas! Currat opum quocunque volet levis unda mearum; Una mihi haec detur gemmula, Dives ero.

Dives asking a drop.

A drop, one drop! how sweetly one faire drop Would tremble on my pearle-tipt finger's top! My wealth is gone: O, goe it where it will, Spare this one iewell, I'le be Dives still. CR.

LXV.

Quomodo potest homo gigni qui est senex? Joan. iii. 4.

Dic, Phoenix unde in nitidos novus emicat annos, Plaudit et elusos aurea penna rogos? Quis colubrum dolus insinuat per secula retro, Et jubet emeritum luxuriare latus? Cur rostro pereunte suam praedata senectam Torva ales, rapido plus legit ore diem? Immo, sed ad nixus praestat Lucina secundos? Natales seros unde senex habeat. Ignoras, Pharisaee? sat est: jam credere disces: Dimidium fidei, qui bene nescit, habet.

How can a man be born when he is old?

See how new Phoenix into bright life springs, And fans the unhurting flames with golden wings. O'er snake what subtle change creeps as months flow, Bidding its faded frame with beauty glow. Why, on itself with worn beak having prey'd, Is raven old more youthful swift array'd? O'er second birth-throes bears Lucina sway, Whence an old man may have late natal day? Pharisee, know'st not? Well, now faith thou'lt learn: Wisely to know not, half faith's crown doth earn. R. WI.

LXVI.

Arbor Christi jussu arescens. Marc. xi. 13.

Ille jubet: procul ite mei, mea gloria, rami: Nulla vocet nostras amplius aura comas. Ite, nec o pigeat; nam vos neque fulminis ira, Nec trucis ala Noti verberat: ille jubet. O vox, o Zephyro vel sic quoque dulcior omni; Non possum Autumno nobiliore frui.

The tree dried up by the word of Christ.

He speaks: hence, leaves; my glory hence, away; Thou Zephyr 'mid my leaves no longer play; Begone: nor grieve: 'tis not the lightning's wrath, Nor wing of the storm-wind that smites: HE saith. O voice, than Zephyr sweeter far to me; More noble autumn-fruit could never be. G.

LXVII.

Zacharias minus credens. Luc. i. 12.

Infantis fore te patrem, res mira videtur; Infans interea factus es ipse pater. Et dum promissi signum, nimis anxie, quaeris, Jam nisi per signum quaerere nulla potes.

Zacharias incredulous.

To have a child thou deem'st so strange a thing, That thou art made a child for wondering. Whilst for a sign too eagerly thou dost call, Except by sign thou can'st not ask at all. CL.

LXVIII.

In aquam baptismi Dominici. Matt. iii. 13-16.

Felix o, sacros cui sic licet ire per artus; Felix, dum lavat hunc, ipsa lavatur aqua. Gutta quidem sacros quaecunque perambulat artus, Dum manet hic, gemma est; dum cadit hinc, lacryma.

On the water of our Lord's baptisme.

Each blest drop on each blest limme Is washt itselfe in washing Him: 'Tis a gemme while it stayes here; While it falls hence 'tis a teare. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Happy the water washt His sacred side; In washing Christ itself is purify'd. Each drop that trickled down His body, there Staying a gem, thence falling was a tear. B.

LXIX.

Mulieri incurvatae medetur Dominus, indignante Archisynagogo. Luc. xiii. 11.

In proprios replicata sinus quae repserat, et jam Daemonis, infelix, nil nisi nodus erat, Solvitur ad digitum Domini: sed strictior illo Unicus est nodus; cor, Pharisaee, tuum.

The bowed-down woman healed by the Lord, the Synagogue-ruler is displeased.

Creeping and doubled erewhile in her woe, Lo, now she stands erect: Christ willed it so. Daemonic knots are loos'd beneath His hands; But thy heart, Pharisee, still rigid stands. G.

LXX.

Neque ausus fuit quisquam ex illo die eum amplius interrogare. Matt. xxii. 46.

Christe, malas fraudes, Pharisaica retia, fallis: Et miseros sacro discutis ore dolos. Ergo tacent tandem, atque invita silentia servant: Tam bene non aliter te potuere loqui.[56]

Neither durst any man from that day forth ask Him any more questions.

Nets, frauds of Pharisees, the Lord beguiles; His sacred lips disperse the wretched wiles. So they were silent--enforc'd so to be: Such silence, Lord, their best address to Thee. G.

LXXI.

S. Joannes matri suae. Matt. xx. 20.

O mihi cur dextram, mater, cur, oro, sinistram Poscis, ab officio mater iniqua tuo? Nolo manum Christi dextram mihi, nolo sinistram: Tam procul a sacro non libet esse sinu.

St. John and his mother.

Mother, why ask you right or left for me? The benefit would be an injury. Nor right nor left for me convenient are: From His sweet bosome either is too far. B.

LXXII.

Si filius Dei es, dejice te. Matt. iv. 6.

Ni se dejiciat Christus de vertice Templi, Non credes quod sit Filius ille Dei? At mox te humano de pectore dejicit: heus tu, Non credes quod sit Filius ille Dei?

If Thou be the Son of God, cast Thyself down.

Cast Thyself from the pinacle whereon I set Thee, or I think Thee not God's Son. No; but He'l cast thee from the hearts of men, Satan. Wilt not believe He's God's Son then? B.

LXXIII.

Dominus flens ad Judaeos. Luc. xix. 41.

Discite, vos miseri, venientes discite flammas; Nec facite o lacrymas sic periisse meas. Nec periisse tamen poterunt: mihi credite, vestras Vel reprimet flammas haec aqua, vel faciet.

The Lord weeping over the Jews.

Think on the coming flames I would prevent; Let not My tears for you in vain be spent. And yet they can't be spent in vain; for sure This water flames will quench, or else procure. B.

LXXIV.

Nec velut hic Publicanus. Luc. xviii. 11.

Istum? vile caput! quantum mihi gratulor, inquis, Istum quod novi tam mihi dissimilem! Vilis at iste abiit sacris acceptior aris: I nunc, et jactes hunc tibi dissimilem.

Nor even as this publican.

Him, 'vile wretch!' Ah, myself how much I pride That I am utterly unlike to him! The 'vile wretch' leaves God's altar justified: Now go and boast thou art unlike to him. G.

LXXV.

In Saulum fulgore nimio excaecatum. Act. ix. 3.

Quae lucis tenebrae? quae nox est ista dici? Nox nova, quam nimii luminis umbra facit. An Saulus fuerit caecus, vix dicere possum; Hoc scio, quod captus lumine Saulus erat.[57]

On Saul blinded with too much light.

What darken'd noon is here? what mid-day night? It is the shadow cast by too much light. Saul may be blind or not; all I can say, Ta'en within Heaven's light earth's light fades away. R. WI.

LXXVI.

Beati oculi qui vident. Luc. x. 23.

Cum Christus nostris ibat mitissimus oris, Atque novum caecos jussit habere diem, Felices, oculos qui tunc habuere, vocantur? Felices, et qui non habuere, voco.

Blessed are the eyes which see.

When Christ with us on Earth did sympathize, And to the poor blind men restor'd their eyes, Happy they who had eyes. Not they alone; I call them also happy who had none. B.

ANOTHER VERSION.

When Christ on earth moved on His pitying way, And bade the blind look up and find new day, Was eyesight then such bliss to every one? Yet I will deem them happy who had none. G.

LXXVII.

Filius e feretro matri redditur. Luc. vii. 15.

Ergone tam subita potuit vice flebilis horror In natalitia candidus ire toga? Quos vidi, matris gemitus hos esse dolentis Credideram; gemitus parturientis erant.

Her son is delivered to his mother from the bier.

With such quick change could tear-bedew'd Dismay Give birthday smiles, and walk in white array? Heard I bereaved mother's wailings wild? No; the blest cries of one who bears a child! R. WI.

LXXVIII.

In seculi sapientes. Matt. xi. 25.

Ergone delicias facit, et sibi plaudit ab alto Stultitia, ut velit hac ambitione peti? Difficilisne adeo facta est, et seria tandem? Ergo et in hanc etiam quis sapuisse potest? Tantum erat, ut possit tibi doctior esse ruina? Tanti igitur cerebri res, periisse, fuit? Nil opus ingenio; nihil hac opus arte furoris: Simplicius poteris scilicet esse miser.

On the wise of this world.

With such complacent joys is Folly fraught, That with this trouble she must needs be sought? So difficult and grave is she turn'd now, Can any one for her be wise enow? Must Ruin to be deeper taught aspire? To perish, does it so much brain require? Genius and skill in madness who would see? Forsooth, more simply you may wretched be! R. WI.

LXXIX.

In Judaeos Christum praecipitare conantes. Luc. iv. 29.

Dicite, quae tanta est sceleris fiducia vestri, Quod nequiit daemon, id voluisse scelus? Quod nequiit daemon scelus, id voluisse patrare: Hoc tentare ipsum daemona, credo, fuit.

The Jews seeking to cast Christ headlong from a precipice.

What daring leads you on, ungodly crew, To that which ev'n the Devil durst not do? Ye dare what he dares not? If truth be told, Ye tempt the Devil's self to be more bold. G.

LXXX.

In draconem praecipitem. Rev. xii. 9.

I, frustra truculente; tuas procul aurea rident Astra minas, coelo jam bene tuta suo. Tune igitur coelum super ire atque astra parabas? Ascensu tanto non opus ad barathrum.

The casting-down of the dragon.

Go, Dragon! the fair stars smile at thy threat, Secure, serene, in native skies a-glow. Thy throne o'er sky and stars thou fain would'st set; Thou need'st not vault so high to plunge so low. G.

LXXXI.

Beatae Virgini credenti. Luc. ii. 19.

Miraris, quid enim faceres? sed et haec quoque credis: Haec uteri credis dulcia monstra tui. En fidei, Regina, tuae dignissima merces: Fida Dei fueras filia; mater eris.

The blessed Virgin believing.

Thou wondered'st! how else could'st thou so guarded? Yet thou believ'dst the mighty coming birth; Queen! thy faith's working is full well rewarded; God's daughter, thou God's mother art on earth. G.

LXXXII.

Licetne Caesari censum dare? Marc. xii. 14.

Post tot Scribarum, Christe, in te proelia, tandem Ipse venit Caesar; Caesar in arma venit. Pugnant terribiles non Caesaris ense, sed ense Caesare: quin Caesar vinceris ipse tamen. Hoc quoque tu conscribe tuis, Auguste, triumphis. Sic vinci dignus quis nisi Caesar erat?

Is it lawful to give tribute to Caesar?

After so many battles with the Scribes, O Lord, Caesar himself comes; Caesar with his sword. They fight not arm'd with Caesar's sword indeed; But Caesar as their sword with craft they plead. Conquer'd thyself, O Caesar, make it known-- Who save thee, worthy so to be o'erthrown. G.

LXXXIII.

In tibicines et turbam tumultuantem circa defunctam. Matt. ix. 23.

Vani, quid strepitis? nam quamvis dormiat illa,[58] Non tamen e somno est sic revocanda suo. Expectat solos Christi sopor iste susurros: Dormit enim; sed non omnibus illa tamen.

The minstrels and crowd making a noise about the dead.

Vain mourning this; why make ye such loud noise? She sleeps indeed, but so will not awake. Her sleep waits for the whisper of His voice Who a great promise to her father spake. G.

LXXXIV.

Piscatores vocati. Matt. iv. 19.

Ludite jam, pisces, secura per aequora: pisces Nos quoque, sed varia sub ratione, sumus. Non potuisse capi, vobis spes una salutis: Una salus nobis est, potuisse capi.

The fishermen called.

Play, fishes, in your waters, safely play: We become fishes too, another way. Not to be taken, to you safety brought: But we are then most safe when we are caught. B.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

Careless, aneath the waves, ye fishes, play: We too are fishes, in a different way; Ye die, we live, being caught; and that for aye. G.

ANOTHER.

Sport, fishes, now, within the secure sea: Lo, fishes too, in different kind, are we. In shunning nets your hope of safety lay; Our safety is to be the netter's prey. A.

LXXXV.

Date Caesari. Marc. xii. 17.

Cuncta Deo debentur: habet tamen et sua Caesar; Nec minus inde Deo est, si sua Caesar habet. Non minus inde Deo est, solio si caetera dantur Caesareo, Caesar cum datur ipse Deo.

Give to Caesar ... and to God....

All we have is God's, and yet Caesar challenges a debt; Nor hath God a thinner share, Whatever Caesar's payments are. All is God's; and yet 'tis true All we have is Caesar's too. All is Caesar's; and what ods, So long as Caesar's selfe is God's? CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

All things belong to God, yet Caesar has his all; Not due the less to God that they to Caesar fall. Not less they're God's because they're giv'n to Caesar's throne; For Caesar's throne itself belongs to God alone. G.

LXXXVI.

Dominus asino vehitur. Matt. xxi. 7.

Ille igitur vilem te, te dignatur asellum, O non vectura non bene digne tua! Heu, quibus haud pugnat Christi patientia monstris! Hoc quod sic fertur, hoc quoque ferre fuit.

The Lord borne on the ass.

Does He, base ass, thus deign to honour thee, Unworthy thus to bear th' incarnate God? Alas, Thy patience strangely tried I see, Thee carried thus who bear'st sin's awful load! B.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

A common ass does the Lord dignify? O, how unworthy such a burden high! With the Lord's patience, ah, what can compare? So to be borne, this also was to bear. R. WI.

LXXXVII.

Videbunt Filium hominis venientem in nube. Luc. xxi. 27.

Immo, veni: aerios, o Christe, accingere currus, Inque triumphali nube coruscus ades. Nubem quaeris? erunt nostra, ah! suspiria nubes: Aut sol in nubem se dabit ipse tuam.

They shall see the Son of Man coming in a cloud.

Come, yoke Thy chariots of the air, O Lord; Triumphal honours let bright clouds afford. Dost seek a cloud? Our sighs a cloud will be, Or the sun melt into a cloud for Thee. G.

LXXXVIII.

Nisi digitum immisero, &c. Joan. xx. 25.

Impius ergo iterum clavos? iterum impius hastam? Et totum digitus triste revolvet opus? Tune igitur Christum, Thoma, quo vivere credas, In Christum faceres, ah truculente! mori?

CHRIST TO THOMAS.

Except I shall put my finger, &c.

Thy impious finger, would it, then, re-borrow The nails, the spear, each circumstance of sorrow? That on a living Christ thou mayst rely, Cruel, wouldst thou thy Christ re-crucify? G.

LXXXIX.

Ad Judaeos mactatores S. Stephani. Act. vi. 9-12.

Quid datis, ah miseri! saxis nolentibus iras? Quid nimis in tragicum praecipitatis opus? In mortem Stephani se dant invita: sed illi Occiso faciunt sponte sua tumulum.

To the Jews stoning St. Stephen.

Wretches, do ye put rage into cold stones? Why rush so eagerly to work so vile? Your stones unwilling add to Stephen's moans, But gladly heap a tomb for him the while. G.

XC.

Sancto Joanni dilecto discipulo.

Tu fruere, augustoque sinu caput abde, quod o tum Nollet in aeterna se posuisse rosa. Tu fruere; et sacro dum te sic pectore portat, O sat erit tergo me potuisse vehi.

To St. John the beloved disciple.

Upon His breast thy happy head reposes, Nor would that pillow change for Heaven's own roses: While thus His bosom bears up happy thee, To press His shoulders were enough for me. G.

XCI.

In lactentes martyres. Matt. ii. 16, 17.

Vulnera natorum qui vidit et ubera matrum, Per pueros fluviis, ah! simul ire suis: Sic pueros quisquis vidit, dubitavit an illos Lilia coelorum diceret, anne rosas.

Upon the infant martyrs.

To see both blended in one flood, The mothers' milk, the childrens' blood, Makes me doubt if Heaven will gather Roses hence, or lillies rather. CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

Who saw the infants' blood and milk of mother Flowing, alas, in a commingl'd tide, Doubtingly ask'd, and gaz'd from one to other, Whether Heav'n's rose or lily they espy'd. G.

XCII.

Deus nobiscum. Matt. i. 23.

Nobiscum Deus est? vestrum hoc est, hei mihi! vestrum: Vobiscum Deus est, o asini atque boves. Nobiscum non est; nam nos domus aurea sumit: Nobiscum Deus est, et jacet in stabulo? Hoc igitur nostrum ut fiat, dulcissime Jesu, Nos dandi stabulis, vel tibi danda domus.

God with us.

Is God with us? Woe's me, God is with you, ye beasts, I see. God is with you, ye beasts; God comes not to our golden feasts. That God may be with us, We must provide a lowly house. God comes to the humble manger, While to the great house a stranger. G.

XCIII.

Christus circumcisus ad Patrem.

Has en primitias nostrae, Pater, accipe mortis; Vitam ex quo sumpsi, vivere dedidici. Ira, Pater, tua de pluvia gustaverit ista: Olim ibit fluviis hoc latus omne suis. Tunc sitiat licet et sitiat, bibet et bibet usque: Tunc poterit toto fonte superba frui. Nunc hastae interea possit praeludere culter: Indolis in poenas spes erit ista meae.[59]

XCIV.

In Epiphaniam Domini. Matt. ii. 2.

Non solita contenta dies face lucis Eoae, Ecce micat radiis caesariata novis. Persa sagax, propera: discurre per ardua regum Tecta, per auratas marmoreasque domus: Quaere o, quae intepuit Reginae purpura partu; Principe vagitu quae domus insonuit. Audin' Persa sagax? Qui tanta negotia coelo Fecit, Bethlemiis vagiit in stabulis.

The Epiphany of our Lord.

Scorning her wonted herald, lo, the Day Now decks her forehead with a brighter ray. Sage Persian, haste; ask where high roofs unfold Their royal wealth of marble and of gold; In what rich couch an Empress-mother lies; What halls have heard a new-born Prince's cries. Wouldst know, sage Persian? He for whom Heaven keeps Such festival, in Bethlehem's manger weeps. CL.

XCV.

Ecce quaerebamus te, &c. Luc. ii. 49.

Te quaero misera, et quaero: tu nunc quoque tractas Res Patris; Pater est unica cura tibi. Quippe quod ad poenas tantum et tot nomina mortis, Ad luctum et lacrymas, hei mihi! mater ego.

Lo, we have sought Thee, &c.

I seek Thee mourning, and I seek again: Thou still Thy Father's business dost attend; And me, alas, sad mother of all pain, Of grief and tears, Thou surely wilt befriend. G.

XCVI.

Aquae in vinum versae. Joan. ii. 1-11.

Unde rubor vestris, et non sua purpura lymphis? Quae rosa mirantes tam nova mutat aquas? Numen, convivae, praesens agnoscite Numen: Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.[60]

Water turned into wine.

Whence that blush upon thy brow, Fair Nymph of the waters, now? Mark the glow all rosy-red Of the stream astonied. All the guests in tumult rush'd: The shy Nymph saw her God, and blush'd. G.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Whence to your waters comes the glow of wine? What strange new rose their mazed streams hath flush'd? Haste, guests, and own your Visitant divine; For the chaste Nymph hath seen her God, and blush'd. CL.

ANOTHER.

Whence comes this rose, this ruddy colour strange? What blushes new the wondering water change? Mark, mark, gay guests, a present Deity! The conscious water blush'd its God to see. A.

XCVII.

Absenti Centurionis filio Dominus absens medetur. Matt. viii. 13.

Quam tacitis inopina salus illabitur alis! Alis quas illi vox tua, Christe, dedit. Quam longas vox ista manus habet! haec medicina Absens et praesens haec medicina fuit.

The Lord at a distance heals the absent servant of the Centurion.

Safety unlook'd-for! silent 'light the wings Wherewith Thy voice, O Christ, swift-healing brings: Far-reaching hand Thy word has, and Thou healest Absent and present, even as Thou willest. G.

XCVIII.

Quid timidi estis? Marc. iv. 40.

Tanquam illi insanus faceret sua fulmina ventus; Tanquam illi scopulos norit habere fretum. Vos vestri scopuli, vos estis ventus et unda: Naufragium cum illo qui metuit, meruit.

Why are ye so fearful?

As if to Him the winds their thunder threw; As if to Him hard rocks the water knew. Ye are your rocks, ye are your wind and wave: Shiprack with Him who fear, deserve to have. B.

XCIX.

Nunc dimittis. Luc. ii. 29.

Ite mei, quid enim ulterius, quid vultis, ocelli? Leniter obductis ite superciliis. Immo et adhuc et adhuc, iterumque iterumque videte; Accipite haec totis lumina luminibus. Jamque ite; et tutis o vos bene claudite vallis: Servate haec totis lumina luminibus. Primum est, quod potui te, Christe, videre: secundum, Te viso, recta jam potuisse mori.[61]

Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.

Begone, mine eyes; what would ye see beside? Go now in peace 'neath darkening brows to hide. Once and again, and yet again; behold; With one long gaze His beams in yours enfold. Then go, and guard your treasure safe from foes, And fast in yours those beams of His enclose. To look on Thee, O Christ, this first have I; Then, having look'd on Thee, straightway to die. CL.

C.

In segetem sacram. Matt. xiii. 24.

Ecce suam implorat, demisso vertice, falcem: Tu segeti falcem da, Pater alme, suam. Tu falcem non das? messem tu, Christe, moraris? Hoc ipsum falx est; haec mora messis erit.

Good seed in the field.

Its sickle it implores with head bow'd low; Its sickle on the corn-field, Lord, bestow. Refusest Thou? The harvest dost delay? The sickle this--hence fuller harvest-day. G.

CI.

Coepit lacrymis rigare pedes ejus, et capillis extergebat. Luc. vii. 37.

Unda sacras sordes lambit placidissima: flavae Lambit et hanc undam lucida flamma comae. Illa per has sordes it purior unda; simulque Ille per has lucet purior ignis aquas.

She began to wash His feet with teares, and wipe them with the haires of her head.

Her eyes' flood lickes His feets' faire staine; Her hair's flame lickes up that againe. This flame thus quencht hath brighter beames; This flood thus stained fairer streames. CR.

ANOTHER RENDERING.

With placid force the gentle wave That consecrated dust doth lave, And a bright flame of golden hair Doth lave in light those waters fair. Purer the trickling waters shine Through contact with that dust divine; And purer through the waters' flow That flame of lucent fire doth glow. CL.

CII.

Quid vis tibi faciam? Luc. xviii. 41.

Quid volo, Christe, rogas? quippe ah volo, Christe, videre: Quippe ad te, dulcis Christe, videre volo. At video, fideique oculis te nunc quoque figo: Est mihi, quae nunquam est non oculata, fides. Sed quamvis videam, tamen ah volo, Christe, videre: Sed quoniam video, Christe, videre volo.

What seekest that I do to thee?

Askest, O Christ, my wish? My Christ I wish to see: To see Thee, O my sweet Christ, to see Thee. But, lo, I see; for now on Thee I fix faith's eye, And gazing so, dimness and darkness fly. But though I see, yet, ah, my Christ I wish to see; And since I see, O Christ, I would see Thee. G.

CIII.

Christus mulieri Canaaneae difficilior. Matt. xv. 21.

Ut pretium facias dono, donare recusas: Usque rogat supplex, tutamen usque negas. Hoc etiam donare fuit, donare negare. Saepe dedit quisquis saepe negata dedit.

The silence of Christ to the woman of Canaan.

That He a gift more precious might bestow, While she implor'd, discouragements He used. This was to give thus not to give; for, lo, He giveth oft who gives what's oft refused.[62] G.

CIV.

Beatus venter et ubera, &c. Luc. ii. 27.

Et quid si biberet Jesus vel ab ubere vestro? Quid facit ad vestram, quod bibit ille, sitim? Ubera mox sua et hic, o quam non lactea! pandet; E nato mater tum bibet ipsa suo.

Blessed be the paps which Thou hast sucked.

Suppose He had been tabled at thy teates, Thy hunger feeles not what He eates: He'l have His teat ere long--a bloody one; The mother then must suck the Son. CR.

CV.

In Christum vitem. Joan. xv. 1.

Ulmum vitis amat, quippe est et in arbore flamma, Quam fovet in viridi pectore blandus amor: Illam ex arboribus cunctis tu, vitis, amasti; Illam, quaecunque est, quae crucis arbor erat.

Christ the true Vine (including the branches).

The vine clings lovingly unto the elm; Love's flame draws thus a tree within its realm: But most, O vine, thou lov'st, whate'er its name, That tree from which the cross of Calvary came. G.

CVI.

Vos flebitis et lamentabimini. Joan. xvi. 20.

Ergo mihi salvete mei, mea gaudia, luctus: Quam charum, o Deus, est hoc mihi flere meum! Flerem, ni flerem: solus tu, dulcis Jesu, Laetitiam donas tunc quoque quando negas.

Verily I say unto you, Yee shall weep and lament.

Welcome, my griefe, my joy; how deare's To me my legacy of teares! I'll weepe and weepe, and will therefore Weepe 'cause I can weepe no more. Thou, Thou, deare Lord, even Thou alone, Giv'st joy, even when Thou givest none. CR.

CVII.

In gregem Christi Pastoris. Joan. x. 11.

O grex, o nimium tanto Pastore beatus; O ubi sunt tanto pascua digna grege? Ne non digna forent tanto grege pascua, Christus Ipse suo est Pastor, pascuum et ipse gregi.

Christ the good Shepherd.

O flock, O too much in thy Sheepherd blest, Where are fields worthy thee to feed and rest? Lest worthy pastures nowhere should be found, Christ is to thee the Sheepherd and the ground. B.

ANOTHER VERSION.

O flock, in your great Shepherd all too blest, Where shall fit pasturage be found for you? That His fair flock may ne'er want food or rest, Christ is the Pastor and the pasture too. CL.

CVIII.

In vulnera pendentis Domini. Matt. xxviii. 26-53.

Sive oculos, sive ora vocem tua vulnera; certe Undique sunt ora, heu, undique sunt oculi. Ecce ora, o nimium roseis florentia labris! Ecce oculi, saevis ah madidi lacrymis! Magdala, quae lacrymas solita es, quae basia sacro Ferre pedi, sacro de pede sume vices. Ora pedi sua sunt, tua quo tibi basia reddat: Quo reddat lacrymas scilicet est oculus.[63]

On the wounds of the crucified Lord.

Thy wounds, O Lord, are mouths and eyes-- Let not the strange words breed surprise: Where'er I look, wounds seem to speak; Where'er I look, wounds in tears break; Mouths with ruddy lips disparted, Eyes as of the broken-hearted. Thou, Mary, on His sacred feet Rainedst thy tears and kisses sweet. Now retake thy kisses, tears; Cling thee there, there hush thy fears. See, mouths and eyes are here also; Swift they'll pay back thy loving woe. G.

CIX.

Paralyticus convalescens. Marc. ii. 1-13.

Christum, quod misero facilis peccata remittit, Scribae blasphemum dicere non dubitant. Hoc scelus ut primum Paralyticus audiit: ira Impatiens, lectum sustulit atque abiit.

The paralytic healed.

The Scribes audaciously blaspheme the Lord, That He a poor man pardon'd with a word. The Paralytic hears all that they say; Indignant takes his bed, and walks away. G.

CX.

Tunc sustulerunt lapides. Joan. viii. 59.

Saxa? illi? quid tam foedi voluere furores? Quid sibi de saxis hi voluere suis? Indolem, et antiqui agnosco vestigia patris: Panem de saxis hi voluere suis.

Then took they up stones.

'They took up stones:' What meant they by such rage? What wanted they with them? Their meaning's plain: 'Tis their old father's way--O sad presage! He too took up the stones for bread amain.[64] G.

CXI.

In resurrectionem Domini. Matt. xxviii. 6.

Nasceris, en, tecumque tuus, Rex auree, mundus, Tecum[65] virgineo nascitur e tumulo. Tecum in natales properat natura secundos, Atque novam vitam te novus orbis habet. Ex vita, Sol alme, tua vitam omnia sumunt: Nil certe, nisi mors, cogitur inde mori. At certe neque mors: nempe ut queat illa sepulchro, Christe, tuo condi, mors volet ipsa mori.

On the Resurrection of the Lord.

Thou'rt born, and, lo, bright King, Thy world is born, Is born with Thee from virgin tomb this morn. Hastes Nature to its second day of birth, And a new life in Thee crowns a new earth. Dear Sun, from Thy life all things draw life's breath; Nought thence is forced to die, save only Death. Nor is Death forced--since in Thy grave to lie, Death will itself, O Christ, be glad to die. R. WI.

CXII.

Aliqui vero dubitabant. Matt. xxviii. 17.

Scilicet et tellus dubitat,[66] tremebunda: sed ipsum hoc, Quod tellus dubitat, vos dubitare vetat. Ipsi custodes vobis, si quaeritis, illud Hoc ipse dicunt,[67] dicere quod nequeunt.

But some doubted.

Earth, quaking, wavers: if that fact be true, The wavering earth forbids you waver too. The very keepers, if their voice you seek, Though speechless, even by their silence speak. R. WI.

CXIII.

In vulnerum vestigia quae ostendit Dominus, ad firmandam suorum fidem. Joan. xx. 20.

His oculis, nec adhuc clausis coiere fenestris, Invigilans nobis est tuus usus amor. His oculis nos cernit amor tuus: his et amorem, Christe, tuum gaudet cernere nostra fides.

The scars of the wounds which the Lord showed to the strengthening of His disciples' faith.

Thy love these eyes did open; They're watching for us still: These eyes, of love the token, Our faith with love do fill. G.

CXIV.

Mittit Joannes qui quaerant a Christo, an is sit. Luc. vii. 19.

Tu qui adeo impatiens properasti agnoscere Christum, Tunc cum claustra uteri te tenuere tui, Tu, quis sit Christus, rogitas? et quaeris ab ipso? Hoc tibi vel mutus dicere quisque potest.[68]

John sends to Jesus ... saying, Art Thou He that should come? or look we for another?

And dost thou ask, who in thy mother's womb So eager wast to hail Messiah come? Thou ask, and of Himself, if Christ He be? Why, even the very dumb can answer thee. CL.

CXV.

In Petrum auricidam. Joan. xviii. 10.

Quantumcunque ferox tuus hic, Petre, fulminat ensis, Tu tibi jam pugnas, o bone, non Domino. Scilicet in miseram furis implacidissimus aurem, Perfidiae testis ne queat esse tuae.

On St. Peter cutting off Malchus his eare.

Well, Peter, dost thou wield thy active sword; Well for thyselfe, I meane, not for thy Lord. To strike at eares is to take heed there bee No witnesse, Peter, of thy perjury. CR.

CXVI.

Manus arefacta sanatur. Marc. iii. 1-5.

Felix, ergo tuae spectas natalia dextrae, Quae modo spectanti flebile funus erat! Quae nec in externos modo dextera profuit usus, Certe erit illa tuae jam manus et fidei.[69]

The withered hand healed.

O happy man, thy right-hand's birth beholding, Erewhile a sad funereal sight enfolding! The hand of no use, by the word Christ saith, Restor'd, is now become the hand of faith. G. & B.

CXVII.

In Pontium male lautum. Matt. xxvii. 24.

Illa manus lavat unda tuas, vanissime judex: Ah tamen illa scelus non lavat unda tuum! Nulla scelus lavet unda tuum: vel si lavet ulla, O volet ex oculis illa venire tuis.

To Pontius washing his hands.

Thy hands are washt; but, O, the water's spilt That labour'd to have washt thy guilt: The flood, if any can, that can suffice, Must have its fountaine in thine eyes. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

The unjust judge washt his hands at the time: Ah, but no water can wash out thy crime. No water washt it out: if any will, 'Tis that which must from thy owne eyes distil. B.

CXVIII.

In piscem dotatum. Matt. xvii. 27.

Tu piscem si, Christe, velis, venit ecce, suumque Fert pretium: tanti est vel periisse tibi. Christe, foro tibi non opus est; addicere nummos Non opus est: ipsum se tibi piscis emet.

The stater-giving fish.

A fish Thou wishest, Lord; And without e'er a word, Behold, it swims to Thee, Fetching its own cost, free. Thou needest not to go In markets to and fro; Nor need'st Thou price to bring-- The fish owns Thee its king. G.

CXIX.

Ego vici mundum. Joan. xvi. 33.

Tu contra mundum dux es meus, optime Jesu? At tu, me miserum! dux meus ipse jaces. Si tu, dux meus, ipse jaces, spes ulla salutis? Immo, ni jaceas tu, mihi nulla salus.

I have overcome the world.

Jesus, my Captain, give me victories! Alas, Jesus Himself, my Captain, dies. And if my Captain fall, what hope have I? No hope at all, unless my Captain die. B.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Art Thou my Chief, best Lord, against the foe? But Thou, my Chief, me wretched! liest low. If Thou, my Chief, liest low, what help for me? Nay, if Thou liest not low, no help can be. A.

CXX.

In ascensionem Dominicam. Act. i. 10.

Vadit, io, per aperta sui penetralia coeli: It coelo, et coelum fundit ab ore novum. Spargitur ante pedes, et toto sidere pronus Jam propius solis sol bibit ora sui. At fratri debere negans sua lumina Phoebe, Aurea de Phoebo jam meliore redit. Hos, de te victo, tu das, Pater, ipse triumphos: Unde triumphares, quis satis alter erat?

On the ascension of our Lord.

Through open'd depths of His own heaven He soars, And from His face in heaven a new heaven pours. Scatter'd before Him down the welkin sinks The sun, and its own sun's near glory drinks. Moon unto sun for light no more beholden, Now from more lustrous sun returns all golden. These triumphs o'er Thyself Thou grantest, Lord; Triumphs no other could suffice to 'accord. R. WI.

CXXI.

In descensum Spiritus Sancti. Act. ii.

Jam coeli circum tonuit fragor: arma minasque Turbida cum flammis mista ferebat hiems. Exclamat Judaeus atrox: Venit ecce nefandis, Ecce venit meriti fulminis ira memor. Verum ubi composito sedit fax blandior astro, Flammaque non laesas lambit amica comas; Judaeis, fulmen quia falsum apparuit esse, Hoc ipso verum nomine fulmen erat.

{Ouranou ektypese bromos; polemon kai apeilas Ege trechon anemos syn phlogi smerdalee. Auen Ioudaios; miara stygeron ta karena Ephthase tes orges to prepon ouranies. Alla galenaio hote keitai hesychon astro Phlegma, kai abletous leiche philon plokamous, Hekthambei. hoti gar keinois ouk een alethes, Nyn eteon dioti tode keraunos een.}

The descent of the Holy Spirit.

Booms the thunder through the sky, Flash the lightnings, threats the storm; Cries the Jew with vengeful eye: See SIN doom'd in fitting form! But, lo, the lightning, paled to light Mild and calm as ev'ning's star, Binds their brows with nimbus bright, Playing softly i' their hair. To the Jews it is not lightning, Yet the more the name's enlightening.[70] G.

CXXII.

Sic dilexit mundum Deus, ut Filium morti traderet. Joan. iii. 16.

Ah nimis est, illum nostrae vel tradere vitae: Guttula quod faceret, cur facit oceanus? Unde et luxuriare potest, habet hinc mea vita: Ample et magnifice mors habet unde mori.

God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son....

Ah, 'tis too much to give Him for our sake: A drop might serve, why then an ocean take? Here may my life expatiate gloriously-- Amply, magnificently, Death may die. R. WI.

CXXIII.

Juga boum emi. Luc. xiv. 19.

Ad coenam voco te, domini quod jussa volebant; Tu mihi, nescio quos, dicis, inepte, boves. Imo vale, nobis nec digne nec utilis hospes; Coena tuos, credo, malit habere boves.

I have bought five yoke of oxen.

I call thee to His Supper, for so The Master spake: Thou sayest 'No,' pretending thou must thy oxen take. Farewell, O thou unworthy and wholly useless guest; Thy oxen for the Supper in truth were better prest. G.

CXXIV.

D. Paulum, verbo sanantem claudum, pro Mercurio Lystres adorant. Act. xiv. 8-18.

Quis Tagus hic, quae Pactoli nova volvitur unda? Non hominis vox est haec: Deus ille, Deus. Salve, mortales nimium dignate penates: Digna Deo soboles, digna tonante Deo. O salve, quid enim, alme, tuos latuisse volebas? Te dicit certe vel tua lingua Deum. Laudem hanc haud miror: meruit facundus haberi, Qui claudo promptos suasit habere pedes.

St. Paul, healing the lame man with a word, is worshipped by the Lystrians as Mercury.

What Tagus, what Pactolus here is rolled? 'Tis not man's voice: a God, a God behold. Hail, too much honour thou to men hast done, Of Jove, of thundering Jove the worthy son. Hail, Lord, for why wouldst hide thee from thine own? A God e'en by thy tongue assuredly art known. The praise of eloquence for him was meet Who could persuade the lame to use swift feet. R. WI.

CXXV.

In S. Columbam ad Christi caput sedentem.

Cui sacra siderea volueris suspenditur ala? Hunc nive plus niveum cui dabit illa pedem? Christe, tuo capiti totis se destinat auris, Qua ludit densae blandior umbra comae. Illic arcano quid non tibi murmure narrat, Murmure mortales non imitante sonos? Sola avis haec nido hoc non est indigna cubare: Solus nidus hic est hac bene dignus ave.[71]

{Pe tachyergos agei pteryg' asteroessan eretmos? E tini keina pherei ten poda chioneen? Christe, tee kephale pasais pterygessin epeigei; Pe skia toi dasiois paize mala plokamois. Poia soi arrheto psithyrismati kein' agoreuei? Arret', ouk eches isa men andromees. Mouna men hed' ornis kalias est' axia tautes. Axia d' ornithos mouna men he kalia.}

To the sacred Dove alighting on the head of Christ.

On whom doth this blest Bird its wings outspread? Where will it suffer its white feet to rest? O Jesus, hovering o'er Thy hallow'd head, Within Thy hair's sweet shade it seeks a nest. There does it breathe a mystic song to Thee, A melody unlike all earthly sound: That Bird alone to this pure nest may flee; This nest alone worthy the Bird is found. W.

CXXVI.

In fores divo Petro sponte apertas. Act. xii. 10.

Quid juvit clausisse fores, bone janitor, istas? Et Petro claves jam liquet esse suas. Dices, sponte patent: Petri ergo hoc scilicet ipsum Est clavis, Petro clave quod haud opus est.

The doors of the prison self-opening to Peter.

Good jailor, how is this, These doors thou lockest here? That Peter has the keys 'Tis now to all men clear. Thou say'st the doors self-open, And well thou sayest indeed; For by this very token He no other key doth need. G.

CXXVII.

Murmurabant Pharisaei, dicentes, Recipit peccatores, et comedit cum illis. Luc. xv. 2.

Ah male, quisquis is est, pereat, qui scilicet istis Convivam, saevus, non sinit esse suum! Istis cum Christus conviva adjungitur, istis O non conviva est Christus, at ipse cibus.[72]

The Pharisees murmured, saying, This man receiveth sinners, and eateth with them.

Ah, let him perish in his harsh protests Who sinners checks to be the Saviour's guests! Sinners do entertain Christ as a guest: They spread the table, but He is the feast. G. & B.

CXXVIII.

In trabem Pharisaicam. Matt. vii. 3.

Cedant, quae, rerum si quid tenue atque minutum est, Posse acie certa figere, vitra dabunt. Artis opus mirae! Pharisaeo en optica trabs est, Ipsum, vera loquor, qua videt ille nihil.

On the beam of the Pharisee.

Grant you can fix upon a needle's end Each smallest object microscopes will lend. Rare beam to look through has the Pharisee, Whereby, in sooth, nothing itself sees he! R. WI.

CXXIX.

Constituerunt ut si quis confiteretur eum esse Christum, synagoga moveretur. Joan. ix. 22.

Infelix, Christum reus es quicunque colendi; O reus infelix, quam tua culpa gravis! Tu summis igitur, summis damnabere coelis: O reus infelix, quam tua poena gravis!

They determined that if any man should confess Him to be Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue.

Alas, unhappy, own the Christ thou wilt; Unhappy culprit, fearful is thy guilt. The gates of heaven for aye should keep thee close: Unhappy culprit, fearful are thy woes. A.

CXXX.

De voto filiorum Zebedaei. Matt. xx. 20.

Sit tibi, Joannes, tibi sit, Jacobe, quod optas; Sit tibi dextra manus; sit tibi laeva manus. Spero alia in coelo est, et non incommoda, sedes; Si neque laeva manus, si neque dextra manus. Coeli hanc aut illam nolo mihi quaerere partem; O coelum, coelum da, Pater alme, mihi.

Concerning the prayer of the sons of Zebedee.

O brothers twain, may it be yours to fill At right and left your places as ye will! A seat remains, I trust--a fair one too-- Besides those high ones that were sought for you. I pray not that to me some part be given, But heaven itself, kind Father, grant me heaven. CL.

ANOTHER VERSION.

John and James, take your place at God's command: One at the right, th' other at the left hand. I ask not to be placed so, or so: To heaven, to heaven, good Father, let me go. B.

CXXXI.

Ad hospites coenae miraculosae quinque panum. Joan. vi. 9-13.

Vescere pane tuo, sed et, hospes, vescere Christo; Et panis pani scilicet ille tuo. Tunc pane hoc Christi recte satur, hospes, abibis, Panem ipsum Christum si magis esurias.[73]

To the guests at the miraculous supper of the five loaves.

Feed on thy bread, on Christ too feed, O guest; With Bread on bread forsooth thou shalt be blest. Then shalt thou go, with Christ's bread satisfied, If hungering for the living Bread beside. R. WI.

CXXXII.

De Christi contra mundum pugna. Joan. xvi. 33.

Tune, miser, tu, mundus ait, mea fulmina contra Ferre manus, armis cum tibi nuda manus? I, lictor, manibusque audacibus injice vinc'la: Injecit lictor vincula, et arma dedit.

Christ overcoming the world.

O wretched! the world mutters. I do wonder Thou dar'st lift unarm'd hands against my thunder. Go, tyrant; put thy chains upon these hands: 'Tis done; and now full-arm'd the prisoner stands. G.

CXXXIII.

Graeci disputatores divo Paulo mortem machinantur. Act. ix. 29.

Euge, argumentum! sic disputat: euge, sophista! Sic pugnum Logices stringere, sic decuit. Hoc argumentum in causam quid, Graecule, dicit? Dicit, te in causam dicere posse nihil.[74]

The Grecian disputants go about to kill St. Paul.

O noble argument, Sophister rare! Thus Logic's fist to double be your care. This argument, poor Greek, what does it weigh? It says that you have nought at all to say. R. WI.

CXXXIV.

Qui maximus est inter vos, esto sicut qui minimus. Luc. xxii. 26.

O bone, discipulus Christi vis maximus esse? At vero fies hac ratione minor. Hoc sanctae ambitionis iter, mihi crede, tenendum est, Haec ratio: Tu, ne sis minor, esse velis.

He that is greatest among you, let him be as the younger.

The greatest of disciples wouldst thou be? Whoever's so ambitious, less is he. That thou mai'st not go less, to every one Submit: this, this is Christ's ambition. B.

CXXXV.

In lacrymantem Dominum. Luc. xix. 41.

Vobis, Judaei, vobis haec volvitur unda; Quae vobis, quoniam spernitis, ignis erit. Eia faces, Romane, faces! seges illa furoris, Non nisi ab his undis, ignea messis erit.

He beheld the city, and wept over it.

For you, O Jews, is roll'd this tearful tide, Which as a flame shall glow, since ye deride. Torches, Rome's torches--those wild-waving ears A fiery crop shall prove, fed by these tears. R. WI.

CXXXVI.

Christus in Aegypto. Matt. ii. 19-21.

Hunc tu, Nile, tuis majori flumine monstra; Hunc, nimis ignotum, dic caput esse tibi. Jam tibi, Nile, tumes; jam te quoque multus inunda: Ipse tuae jam sis laetitiae fluvius.

Christ in Egypt.

With prouder stream, Nile, show Him to thine own; Call Him thy fountain-head, too little known: Now swelling for thyself, thyself o'erflow; And with its own joy let thy current glow. R. WI.

CXXXVII.

In caecos Christum confitentes, Pharisaeos abnegantes. Matt. ix. 27-31.

Ne mihi tu, Pharisaee ferox, tua lumina jactes: En caecus! Christum caecus at ille videt. Tu, Pharisaee, nequis in Christo cernere Christum: Ille videt caecus; caecus es ipse videns.[75]

The blind confessing Christ, the Pharisees denying.

Cast not thine eyes on me, proud Pharisee, Lo, this blind man, though blind, yet Christ can see. Thou, Pharisee, canst not in Christ Christ find; The blind man sees Him, and the seer's blind. G. & B.

CXXXVIII.

Si quis pone me veniet, tollat crucem et sequatur me. Matt. xvi. 24.

Ergo sequor, sequor, en, quippe et mihi crux mea, Christe, est: Parva quidem; sed quam non satis, ecce, rego. Non rego? non parvam hanc? ideo neque parva putanda est. Crux magna est, parvam non bene ferre crucem.

If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow Me.

Therefore I follow, lo, I follow on; My cross is with me, yet not rightly worn. It little is compar'd with Thine, I own; Yet little is not being wrongly borne. G.

CXXXIX.

Relictis omnibus sequutus est eum. Luc. v. 28.

Quas Matthaeus opes, ad Christi jussa, reliquit; Tum primum vere coepit habere suas.[76] Iste malarum est usus opum bonus, unicus iste; Esse malas homini, quas bene perdat, opes.

And he left all ... and followed Him.

To be rich, truly rich, Matthew did take The right way, when he left all for Christ's sake. This is the one good use of ill-got wealth; For ill-got 'tis which, leaving, bringeth health. B. & G.

CXL.

Aedificatis sepulchra Prophetarum. Matt. xxiii. 29.

Sanctorum in tumulis quid vult labor ille colendis? Sanctorum mortem non sinit ille mori. Vane, Prophetarum quot ponis saxa sepulchris, Tot testes lapidum, queis periere, facis.

Ye build the sepulchres of the Prophets.

Thou trim'st a Prophet's tombe, and dost bequeath The life thou took'st from him unto his death. Vain man! the stones that on his tombe doe lye Keepe but the score[77] of them that made him dye. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

What means this labour on the tombs of saints, Causing their holy memory be cherish'd? Vain men! each stone which consecrates their plaints Doth tell us of the stones by which they perish'd. G.

CXLI.

In manum aridam qua Christo mota est miseratio. Marc. iii. 3-5.

Prende, miser, Christum; et cum Christo prende salutem: At manca est, dices, dextera: prende tamen. Ipsum hoc, in Christum, manus est: hoc prendere Christum est, Qua Christum prendas, non habuisse manum.

The man with the withered hand, who excited Christ's compassion.

Take hold of Christ, O wretched one, And with Christ take salvation. But thy right hand, thou say'st, is dead; Yet take thee hold: His word is said. Take hold of Christ e'en without hand; Then safe in Christ, and well, thou'lt stand: Take hold of Christ in simple faith; This will be hand to thee, He saith. G.

CXLII.

Ad D. Lucam medicum. Coloss. iv. 14.

Nulla mihi, Luca, de te medicamina posco, Ipse licet medicus sis, licet aeger ego: Quippe ego in exemplum fidei dum te mihi pono, Tu, medice, ipse mihi es tu medicina mea.

{Ouden ego, Louka, para sou moi pharmakon aito, Kan sy d' iatros ees, kan men ego noseros. All' en hoso paradeigma peleis moi pistios, autos, Autos iatros emoi g' essi akestorie.}

Luke the beloved physician.

No medicine of thee, O Luke, I seek, Though thou art a physician, and I sick: Th' example of thy faith before my eyen, To me, physician, is the medicine. B.

ANOTHER VERSION.

To St. Luke as a physician.

No medicine will I crave, Saint Luke, of thee, Though I be sick, though thou physician be: Pattern of faith, I plant thee in my soul, And thou thyself the medicine makest me whole. A.

CXLIII.

Hydropicus sanatus, Christum jam sitiens. Luc. xiv. 4.

Pellitur inde sitis, sed et hinc sitis altera surgit; Hinc sitit ille magis, quo sitit inde minus. Felix o, et mortem poterit qui temnere morbus; Cui vitae ex ipso fonte sititur aqua.

The dropsical man thirsting now for Christ.

Thy dropsy's quench'd, but other thirst now rises, Which craves the more, the less the former thirsts. O happy malady, which death despises: Thirst for the stream which from life's fountain bursts. G.

CXLIV.

In coetum coelestem omnium Sanctorum.

Felices animae, quas coelo debita virtus Jam potuit vestris inseruisse polis: Hoc dedit egregii non parcus sanguinis usus, Spesque per obstantes expatiata vias. O ver, o longae semper seges aurea lucis; Nocte nec alterna dimidiata dies; O quae palma manu ridet, quae fronte corona; O nix virgineae non temeranda togae; Pacis inocciduae vos illic ora videtis; Vos Agni dulcis lumina; vos--quid ago?

To the assembly of all the Saints.

Thrice-happy souls, to whom the prize is given, Whom faith and truth have lifted into heaven: Gift of the heavenly Martyrs' dying breath, Gift of a Faith that burst the gates of Death. O Spring, O golden harvest of glad light; Sweet day, whose beauty never fades in night; The palm blooms in each hand, the garland on each brow, The raiment glitters in its undimm'd snow; The regions of unfading peace ye see, And the meek brightness of the Lamb: how different from me![78] W.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Thrice-happy, happy souls, to you heaven's debt Is paid; you in your heavenly spheres are set. Whence this to you? ah, noble blood ye shed, And your strong faith the strong world buffeted. O ever-ripening harvest of long light; O Spring, O day not halved with lingering night; O hands with laughing palms, O crowned brows; O spotless robes, whiter than virgin snows! The beauteous eyes of fadeless Peace ye see-- The eyes of the sweet Lamb; yea--woe is me! A.

CXLV.

Christus absenti medetur. Matt. viii. 13.

Vox jam missa suas potuit jam tangere metas? O superi, non hoc ire sed isse fuit. Mirac'lum fuit ipsa salus, bene credere possis, Ipsum, mirac'lum est, quando salutis iter.

Christ heals in absence.

Came, then, His voice with power, Himself unseen? Heavens! this, though not to go, was to have been. The cure miraculous we can credit well, When the mere going was a miracle. CL.

CXLVI.

Caecus natus. Joan. ix. 1, 2.

Felix, qui potuit tantae post nubila noctis, O dignum tanta nocte, videre diem: Felix ille oculus, felix utrinque putandus, Quod videt, et primum quod videt ille Deum.

The man born blind.

Happy the man who was endu'd with sight, And saw a day well worth so long a night: Happy the eye, twice happy is the eye, That sees, and at first look, a Deity. B.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Thrice-happy eye, that after such dark night-- Day worthy night so dark--couldst see the light: O happy eye, eye thrice and four times blest, At once to ope, and upon God to rest. A.

CXLVII.

Et ridebant illum. Matt. ix. 24.

Luctibus in tantis, Christum ridere vacabat? Vanior iste fuit risus, an iste dolor? Luctibus in tantis hic vester risus inepti, Credite mi, meruit maximus esse dolor.

And they laughed at Him.

Laughter at Christ the Saviour-- Laughter 'mid falling tears! O, which show'd greater folly, Vain laughter or vain fears? Such laughter 'mid such sorrow, O fools, ye may believe: Such laughter in such Presence Gave greatest cause to grieve. G.

CXLVIII.

In sapientiam seculi. Matt. xi. 25.

Noli altum sapere, hoc veteres voluere magistri, Ne retrahat lassos alta ruina gradus. Immo mihi dico, Noli sapuisse profundum: Non ego ad infernum me sapuisse velim.

The wisdom of the world.

'Aim not at things too high,' 'twas said of old, 'Lest ruin thence o'ertake thee, over-bold.' For me to dive too deep I think not well: I would not have my knowledge deep as hell. CL.

CXLIX.

In stabulum ubi natus est Dominus.

Illa domus stabulum? non est, Puer auree, non est: Illa domus, qua tu nasceris, est stabulum? Illa domus toto domus est pulcherrima mundo; Vix coelo dici vult minor illa tuo.[79] Cernis ut illa suo passim domus ardeat auro? Cernis ut effusis rideat illa rosis? Sive aurum non est, nec quae rosa rideat illic; Ex oculis facile est esse probare tuis.

{Oikos hod' est' aule? ou me. teos oikos, Iesou, En th' o ty tikte aulion ou peletai. Oikon men panton mala de kallistos ekeinos; Ouranou oude teou mikroteros peletai. Enide keino neo dom' empyrizeto chryso, Enide keino neois doma rhodoisi gela. En rhodon ouchi gela, en oude te chrysos ekeithen; Ek sou d' ophthalmon estin elenchemenai.}

On the stable where our Lord was born.

That house a stable? nay, bright Infant, nay: Where Thou art born--a stable do we say? Of mansions in this world fairest of all, That house but little less than heaven we call. Seest thou that house with golden splendour flush? Seest thou that house with scatter'd roses blush? There is no gold, no rose there laughing lies: It is the light that falls from His fair eyes. A.

CL.

S. Stephanus amicis suis, funus sibi curantibus. Act. vii. 57-60.

Nulla, precor, busto surgant mihi marmora: bustum Haec mihi sint mortis conscia saxa meae. Sic nec opus fuerit, notet ut quis carmine bustum, Pro Domino, dicens, occidit ille suo. Hic mihi sit tumulus, quem mors dedit ipsa; meique Ipse hic martyrii sit mihi martyrium.

St. Stephen to his friends, to raise no monument.

I pray you, raise, my friends, no tomb for me, But let these conscious stones my record be; Nor will there then be need of verse to tell That here for his dear Lord a martyr fell. That which brought death, a tomb shall also bring, And be the witness of my witnessing. CL.

CLI.

In D. Joannem, quem Domitianus ferventi oleo illaesum indidit.

Illum qui, toto currens vaga flammula mundo, Non quidem Joannes, ipse sed audit amor-- Illum ignem extingui, bone Domitiane, laboras? Hoc non est oleum, Domitiane, dare.[80]

On St. John, whom Domitian cast into a caldron of boiling oil, he unhurt.

That fire--which o'er the world a wandering flame, Bears not the name of John, but Love's own name-- To quench, my good Domitian, dost thou toil? Fire scarce is quench'd, methinks, by adding oil. CL.

CLII.

In tenellos martyres.

Ah, qui tam propero cecidit sic funere, vitae Hoc habuit tantum, possit ut ille mori. At cujus Deus est sic usus funere, mortis Hoc tantum, ut possit vivere semper, habet.

The infant-martyrs.

Fallen, alas, in life's most tender dawn, With only so much life as die they may. But they 'gainst whom Death's arrows thus are drawn, Only taste death that they may live for aye. G.

CLIII.

Attulerunt ei omnes male affectos daemoniacos, lunaticos: et sanavit eos. Matt. iv. 24.

Collige te tibi, torve Draco, furiasque facesque, Quasque vocant pestes nox Erebusque suas: Fac colubros jam tota suos tua vibret Erinnys; Collige, collige te fortiter, ut pereas.

They brought unto Him all sick people that were taken with divers diseases and torments, and those which were possessed with devils, and those which were lunatick, and those that had the palsy; and He healed them.

Gather thy powers, grim Dragon, furies, flames, All plagues which Erebus or midnight claims, Bid each Erinnys high her serpents flourish; Bring all, bring all, that thou mayst wholly perish.[81] R. WI.

CLIV.

Tuam ipsius animam pertransibit gladius. Luc. ii. 35.

Quando habeat gladium tua, Christe, tragoedia nullum, Quis fuerit gladius, Virgo beata, tuus? Namque nec ulla alias tibi sunt data vulnera, Virgo, Quam quae a vulneribus sunt data, Christe, tuis. Forsan quando senex jam caligantior esset, Quod Simeon gladium credidit, hasta fuit. Immo neque hasta fuit, neque clavus, sed neque spina: Hei mihi, spina tamen, clavus et hasta fuit. Nam queiscunque malis tua, Christe, tragoedia crevit, Omnia sunt gladius, Virgo beata, tuus.

A sword shall pierce through thy own soul.

Since in the tragedy Wrought upon Calvary, No sword, O Christ, hast Thou, Whence, then, shall come the blow To Mary, virgin-mother?

Not any wounds are given, Save as her Son is riven: No sword, O Christ, hast Thou; Whence, then, shall come the blow To Mary, virgin-mother?

Perchance the dim-ey'd seer By sword intended spear: No sword, O Christ, hast Thou; Whence, then, shall come the blow To Mary, virgin-mother?

Not spear or nail or thorn, Yet by all these I'm torn: No sword, O Christ, hast Thou; O whence, then, comes the blow To Mary, virgin-mother?

In the dread tragedy Wrought upon Calvary, Whate'er, O suff'ring Lord, Smote Thee, pierc'd as a sword Mary, the virgin-mother. G.

CLV.

In sanguinem circumcisionis dominicae. Ad convivas, quos haec dies apud nos solennes habet.

Heus, conviva! bibin'? Maria haec, Mariaeque puellus, Mittunt de prelo musta bibenda suo. Una quidem est, toti quae par tamen unica mundo, Unica gutta, suo quae tremit orbiculo. O bibite hinc; quale aut quantum vos cunque bibistis, Credite mi, nil tam suave bibistis adhuc. O bibite et bibite, et restat tamen usque bibendum: Restat, quod poterit nulla domare sitis. Scilicet hic, mensura sitis, mensura bibendi est: Haec quantum cupias vina bibisse, bibis.

On the blood of the Lord's circumcision.

Ah, friend, wilt drink? Mary and her Babe divine Send from their press, for drinking, this new wine. One drop, yet this round world in worth resembling, A single drop in tiny circlet trembling. Drink hence; whate'er ye've drunk, how much soever, Trust me, such pleasant drink ye've met with never. Drink, drink again; to drink is left for you-- Is left what mortal thirst can ne'er subdue. Thirst's limit here will drinking's bound define: You drink all that you would drink of this wine. R. WI.

CLVI.

Puer Jesus inter doctores. Luc. ii. 46.

Fallitur, ad mentum qui pendit quemque profundum, Ceu possint laeves nil sapuisse genae. Scilicet e barba male mensuratur Apollo; Et bene cum capitis stat nive, mentis hyems. Discat, et a tenero disci quoque posse magistro, Canitiem capitis nec putet esse caput.

The Child Jesus among the doctors.

To weigh a man by bearded chin is vain, As if smooth cheeks no wisdom could contain. Forsooth the beard is a poor gauge of wit; With mental winter snowy head may fit. Hear what wise words from a Child-teacher fall, Nor think a hoary head the head of all. R. WI.

CLVII.

Ad Christum, de aqua in vinum versa. Joan. ii. 1-11.

Signa tuis tuus hostis habet contraria signis: In vinum tristes tu mihi vertis aquas. Ille autem e vino lacrymas et jurgia ducens, Vina iterum in tristes, hei mihi! mutat aquas.

To our Lord, upon the water made wine.

Thou water turn'st to wine, faire friend of life; Thy foe, to crosse the sweet arts of Thy reigne, Distills from thence the teares of wrath and strife, And so turnes wine to water backe againe. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Blessing's in Thy every sign, But the Tempter each pollutes: Thou the water makest wine, He the wine to woe transmutes. G.

CLVIII.

Christus infans Patri sistitur in templo. Luc. ii. 22-33.

Agnus eat ludatque, licet, sub patre petulco; Cumque sua longum conjuge turtur agat. Conciliatorem nihil hic opus ire per agnum, Nec tener ut volucris non sua fata ferat. Hactenus exigua haec, quasi munera, lusimus; haec quae Multum excusanti sunt capienda manu. Hoc donum est; de quo, toto tibi dicimus ore, Sume, Pater: meritis hoc tibi sume suis. Donum hoc est, hoc est; quod scilicet audeat ipso Esse Deo dignum: scilicet ipse Deus.

The Infant Christ is presented to the Father in the temple.

Let the lamb go, by horned sire to play; The turtle, with its mate, flee far away: No need is here of lamb to mediate, Or tender bird to bear another's fate. At those poor offerings once, as 'twere, we play'd, Receiv'd by One who much allowance made. This is a gift the full-voic'd boast to wake, 'Take it, O Father, on its merits take.' A gift, a gift this is, which need not fear Being fit for God, since God Himself is here. R. WI.

CLIX.

Leprosus Dominum implorans. Matt. viii. 2.

Credo quod ista potes, velles modo: sed quia credo, Christe, quod ista potes, credo quod ista voles. Tu modo, tu faciles mihi, sol meus, exere vultus; Non poterit radios nix mea ferre tuos.[82]

The leper beseeching.

I believe, Lord, Thou'rt able if Thou'rt willing, And I believe Thou'rt willing as Thou'rt able. Shine on me, O my Sun: Thy rays distilling, Shall melt my snow, and give me healing stable. G.

CLX.

Christus in tempestate. Matt. viii. 23-27.

Quod fervet tanto circum te, Christe, tumultu, Non hoc ira maris, Christe, sed ambitio est. Haec illa ambitio est, hoc tanto te rogat ore, Possit ut ad monitus, Christe, tacere tuos.

Why are ye afraid, O ye of little faith?

As if the storme meant Him, Or 'cause Heaven's face is dim, His needs a cloud. Was ever froward wind That could be so unkind, Or wave so proud? The wind had need be angry, and the water black, That to the mighty Neptune's Self dare threaten wrack. There is no storm but this Of your own cowardise That braves you out; You are the storme that mocks Yourselves; you are the rocks Of your owne doubt: Besides this feare of danger there's no danger here, And he that here feares danger does deserve his feare. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

That the Sea with such violence falls on, 'Tis not his malice, but ambition: This the ambition, this the loud request, At Thy command, O Christ, to take his rest. B.

CLXI.

Annunciant ritus, quos non licet nobis suscipere, cum simus Romani. Act. xvi. 21.

Hoc Caesar tibi, Roma, tuus dedit, armaque? solis Romanis igitur non licet esse piis? Ah, melius, tragicis nullus tibi Caesar in armis Altus anhelanti detonuisset equo; Nec domini volucris facies horrenda per orbem Sueta tibi in signis torva venire tuis: Quam miser ut staret de te tibi, Roma, triumphus, Ut tanta fieres ambitione nihil. Non tibi, sed sceleri vincis: proh laurea tristis, Laurea, Cerbereis aptior umbra comis. Tam turpi vix ipse pater diademate Pluto, Vix sedet ipse suo tam niger in solio. De tot Caesareis redit hoc tibi, Roma, triumphis: Caesaree, aut, quod idem est, egregie misera es.

They teach customs which are not lawful for us to receive, neither to observe, being Romans.

Rome, have thy Caesar's arms wrought this for thee, That Romans only may not Christians be? Better for thee no Caesar had waged war, High-thundering on his fiery steed afar; Nor eagle's lordly form o'er all the world Had aye on thy stern ensigns been unfurl'd. How poor a triumph, Rome, o'er thyself wrought, By dint of such ambition to be--nought! Conquering for sin, not Rome; sad laurel-wreath, More fit to shadow Cerberus' locks beneath. Old Pluto scarce wears diadem so base, Sits scarce so swart enthron'd in his own place. Caesarean triumphs, Rome, win this for thee-- Caesarean, that is, highest misery. R. WI.

CLXII.

Hic lapis fiat panis. Matt. iv. 3.

Et fuit ille lapis, quidni sit dicere? panis, Christe, fuit: panis sed tuus ille fuit. Quippe Patris cum sic tulerit suprema voluntas, Est panis, panem non habuisse, tuus.

{Artos een toi det', eipein themis estin, ekeinos, Christe, toi artos een kai lithos, alla teos. En hou tos tou patros ee megalou to thelema, Artos hot' ouk en toi, Christe, toi artos een.}

Command that this stone become a loaf.

And so it was; bread was that stone; Such bread, Christ, as was all Thine own. Since God so will'd that it should be, To have no bread was bread to Thee. G.

CLXIII.

Mulier Canaanitis. Matt. xv. 22.

Quicquid Amazoniis dedit olim fama puellis, Credite: Amazoniam cernimus, ecce, fidem. Foemina, tam fortis fidei? jam credo fidem esse Plus quam grammatice foeminei generis.

The woman of Canaan.

Whate'er Fame tells of Amazons of old, Believe: here Amazonian faith behold. Of such strong faith a woman? Faith I see More than in grammar feminine to be. R. WI.

CLXIV.

Deus, post expulsum daemonem mutum, maledicis Judaeis os obturat. Luc. xi. 14.

Una pene opera duplicem tibi daemona frangis: Iste quidem daemon mutus; at ille loquax. Scilicet in laudes, quae non tibi laurea surgit? Non magis hic loquitur, quam tacet ille tuas.

Upon the dumbe devill cast out, and the slanderous Jewes put to silence.

Two devills at one blow Thou hast laid flat; A speaking devill this, a dumbe one that. Was't Thy full victorie's fairer increase, That th' one spake, or that th' other held his peace? CR.

CLXV.

Dicebant, Vere hic est Propheta. Joan. vi. 14.

Post tot quae videant, tot quae miracula tangant, Haec et quae gustent, Christe, dabas populo: Jam Vates, Rex, et quicquid pia nomina possunt, Christus erat: vellem dicere, venter erat. Namque his, quicquid erat Christus, de ventre repleto Omne illud vero nomine venter erat.

They said, This is of a truth that Prophet.

When Christ had given the multitude so much, So many miracles to see, taste, touch; Now Prophet, King, the holiest name Heaven wishes, Was Christ: I'd rather call it 'Loaves and fishes.' Whate'er Christ was, to their stay'd appetite 'Twas all more truly 'Loaves and fishes' dight. R. WI.

CLXVI.

Christus ambulabat in porticu Salomonis, et hyems erat. Joan. x. 22.

Bruma fuit? non, non; ah, non fuit ore sub isto: Si fuit, haud anni, nec sua bruma fuit. Bruma tibi vernis velit ire decentior horis, Per sibi non natas expatiata rosas. At tibi ne possit se tam bene bruma negare, Sola haec, quam vibrat gens tua, grando[83] vetat.

It was winter, and Jesus walked in Solomon's porch.

Was't winter? No, O no; beneath that Face: At least no natural winter there found place. Winter for Thee would breathe Spring's beauteous hours, With roses crowd its unaccustom'd bowers. But lest so sweetly Winter should retire, Lo, this hail hinders, hurl'd by Jewish ire. R. WI.

CLXVII.

Dederunt nummos militibus. Matt. xxviii. 12.

Ne miles velit ista loqui, tu munera donas? Donas, quod possit, cum tacet ipse, loqui. Quae facis a quoquam, pretio suadente, taceri; Clarius, et dici turpius ista facis.

They gave large money to the soldiers.

The soldiers' silence is't with money bought? Thy gift will tell a tale, though they say nought. Whatever with a bribe thou fain wouldst hide, More shamefully thou spreadest far and wide. R. WI.

CLXVIII.

Beatae Virgini: de salutatione angelica. Luc. i. 26-28.

{Chaire} suum neque Caesareus jam nuntiet ales; {Chaire} tuum penna candidiore venit. Sed taceat, qui {chaire} tuum quoque nuntiat, ales; {Chaire} meum penna candidiore venit. Quis dicat mihi {chaire} meum mage candidus autor, Quam tibi quae dicat candidus ille tuum? Virgo, rogas, quid candidius quam candidus ille Esse potest? Virgo, quae rogat, esse potest. {Chaire} tuum, Virgo, donet tibi candidus ille; Donas candidior tu mihi {chaire} meum. {Chaire} meum de {chaire} tuo quid differat, audi: Ille tuum dicit, tu paris, ecce, meum.

To the blessed Virgin: concerning the angelic salutation.

Its 'hail' Caesarean eagle need not bring; Thy 'hail' comes wafted on a whiter wing. But let the 'all-hail' angel e'en be still; My 'hail' comes flitting on a whiter quill. To say my 'hail' what whiter being can be Than that white being who utters thine to thee? Virgin, dost ask what whiter than that white Might be? The Virgin who is asking, might. That white one, Virgin, may give 'hail' to thee; But thou, more white, dost give my 'hail' to me. My 'hail' o'er thy 'hail,' wouldst thou know its worth; He utters thine, but mine thou bringest forth. R. WI.

CLXIX.

Pontio lavanti. Matt. xxvii. 24.

Non satis est caedes, nisi stuprum hoc insuper addas, Et tam virgineae sis violator aquae? Nympha quidem pura haec et honesti filia fontis Luget, adulterio jam temerata tuo. Casta verecundo properat cum murmure gutta, Nec satis in lacrymam se putat esse suam. Desine tam nitidos stuprare, ah desine, rores: Aut dic, quae miseras unda lavabit aquas.

To Pontius washing his blood-stained hands.

Is murther no sin? or a sin so cheape That thou need'st heape A rape upon't? Till thy adult'rous touch Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face, She was a nimph, the meadowes knew none such; Of honest parentage, of unstain'd race; The daughter of a faire and well-fam'd fountaine As ever silver-tipt the side of shady mountaine.

See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appeares Nothing but teares: Each drop's a teare that weeps for her own wast. Harke how at every touch she does complaine her; Harke how she bids her frighted drops make hast, And with sad murmurs chides the hands that stain her. Leave, leave, for shame; or else, good judge, decree What water shal wash this when this hath washed thee. CR.

CLXX.

In die passionis dominicae.

Tamne ego sim tetricus? valeant jejunia: vinum Est mihi dulce meo, nec pudet esse, cado. Est mihi quod castis, neque prelum passa, racemis Palmite virgineo protulit uva parens. Hoc mihi, ter denis sat enim maturuit annis, Tandem, ecce, e dolio praebibit hasta suo. Jamque it; et o quanto calet actus aromate torrens, Acer ut hinc aura divite currit odor! Quae rosa per cyathos volitat tam vina Falernos? Massica quae tanto sidere vina tremunt? O ego nescibam; atque ecce est vinum illud amoris, Unde ego sim tantis, unde ego par cyathis. Vincor: et o istis totus prope misceor auris: Non ego sum tantis, non ego par cyathis. Sed quid ego invicti metuo bona robora vini? Ecce est, quae validum diluit[84] unda merum.

On the day of the Lord's Passion.

Should I be dull? Fastings farewell! Sweet wine I have--nor am asham'd--in cask of mine, Which the full grape, unprest, from virgin shoot Produced for me in purest cluster'd fruit. This wine, now mellow'd by the thirtieth year, Lo, from the 'wood' will pour at touch of spear. It pours, and O how sweet the torrent glows, How sharp an odour on the rich air flows! What bouquet thus breathes from Falernian jars? What Massic wines tremble beneath such stars? O, I knew not; and, lo, this is Love's wine, Whence I such draughts, e'en I, need not decline. Vanquish'd, I wholly faint these airs along; I am no match, not I, for draughts so strong. But wherefore fear I their blest strength divine? Behold the water mingled with the wine! R. WI.

CLXXI.

In die resurrectionis dominicae venit ad sepulchrum Magdalena ferens aromata.

Quin et tu quoque busta tui Phoenicis adora; Tu quoque fer tristes, mens mea, delicias. Si nec aromata sunt, nec quod tibi fragrat amomum; Qualis Magdalina est messis odora manu. Est quod aromatibus praestat, quod praestat amomo: Haec tibi mollicula, haec gemmea lacrymula. Et lacryma est aliquid: neque frustra Magdala flevit: Sentiit haec, lacrymas non nihil esse suas. His illa, et tunc cum Domini caput iret amomo, Invidiam capitis fecerat esse pedes. Nunc quoque cum sinus huic tanto sub aromate sudet, Plus capit ex oculis, quo litet, illa suis. Christe, decent lacrymae: decet isto rore rigari Vitae hoc aeternum mane tuumque diem.

On the day of our Lord's resurrection, the Magdalene bearing spices cometh to the sepulchre. Marc. xvi. 1; Luc. xxiv. 1.

Come thou too, thou; kneel by thy Phoenix' tomb; Bring thy poor offerings too, my soul, and come. With thee no herbs and fragrant spice are seen-- Such odorous tribute gave the Magdalene; But these--no herbs nor spices equal them-- These little liquid drops, each tear a gem. One tear is much: thine did not fall in vain, Sweet Magdalene; thou knewest the tears were gain. With these--her Lord's head in amomum laid-- The humble feet the head's despair she made. Now, while her breast moist with such fragrance lies, She in a strife draws sweeter from her eyes. Lord Christ, these tears are well: well fits it too Life's everlasting morn drip with such dew. A.

CLXXII.

In cicatrices Domini adhuc superstites. Luc. xxiv. 31.

Arma vides; arcus, pharetramque levesque sagittas, Et quocunque fuit nomine miles Amor. His fuit usus Amor: sed et haec fuit ipse; suumque Et jaculum, et jaculis ipse pharetra suis. Nunc splendent tantum, et deterso pulvere belli E memori pendent nomina magna tholo. Tempus erit tamen, haec irae quando arma pharetramque, Et sobolem pharetrae spicula tradet Amor. Heu, qua tunc anima, quo stabit conscia vultu, Quum scelus agnoscet dextera quaeque suum? Improbe, quae dederis, cernes ibi vulnera, miles, Qua tibi cunque tuus luserit arte furor. Seu digito suadente tuo mala laurus inibat Temporibus; sacrum seu bibit hasta latus: Sive tuo clavi saevum rubuere sub ictu; Seu puduit jussis ire flagella tuis. Improbe, quae dederis, cernes ibi vulnera, miles: Quod dederis vulnus, cernere, vulnus erit. Plaga sui vindex clavosque rependet et hastam: Quoque rependet, erit clavus et hasta sibi. Quis tam terribiles, tam justas moverit iras? Vulnera pugnabunt, Christe, vel ipsa tibi.

On the scars of the Lord still remaining.

Arms see--bows, quiver, arrows flying far, And every style in which Love went to war. These arms Love used--nay, Himself was: His own Dart and darts' quiver was Himself alone. Now they but shine, and, dusty battle ended, In treasur'd glory are on high suspended. Time comes when unto Wrath these arms, both quiver And quiver's offspring, darts, Love will deliver. Ah, with what thoughts, what countenance wilt thou stand When its own guilt comes home to each right hand? Wretch, thou wilt see the wounds which thou hast made, And with what fatal skill thy fury play'd: Whether with bloody wreath thy fingers plied His temples, or thy spear drank His dear side; Or 'neath thy blow nails turned a cruel red, Or the scourge blush'd as at thy call it sped. Wretch, there the wounds thou gavest thou shalt see: To see the wound thou gav'st a wound shall be. Stroke self-avenging follows nails and spear: Its nail and spear of recompense are here. Such awful righteous wrath who would excite? Thy very wounds, O Christ, for Thee will fight. R. WI.

CLXXIII.

Pacem meam do vobis. Joan. xiv. 27.

Bella vocant: arma, o socii, nostra arma paremus Atque enses: nostros scilicet, ah, jugulos. Cur ego bella paro, cum Christus det mihi pacem? Quod Christus pacem dat mihi, bella paro. Ille dedit, nam quis potuit dare certior autor? Ille dedit pacem: sed dedit ille suam.

My peace I give unto you.

War calls: O friends, our arms let us prepare, And swords; forsooth, our throats let us lay bare. Why war prepare, if Christ His peace afford? Because Christ gives me peace, I take the sword. He gave--what surer giver can be shown? He gave the peace, but then He gave His own. R. WI.

CLXXIV.

In D. Paulum illuminatum simul et excaecatum. Act. ix. 8, 9.

Quae, Christe, ambigua haec bifidi tibi gloria teli est, Quod simul huic oculos abstulit atque dedit? Sancta dies animi, hac oculorum in nocte, latebat; Te ut possit Paulus cernere, caecus erat.

Paul's conversion and blindness.

Why, Lord, this twofold glory of Thy ray, Giving him sight whose sight it takes away? Paul in that night God's inner light shall find: That he may see The Christ his eyes are blind. CL.

CLXXV.

Ego sum Via. Ad Judaeos spretores Christi. Joan. xiv. 6.

O sed nec calcanda tamen: pes improbe, pergis? Improbe pes, ergo hoc coeli erat ire viam? Ah pereat, Judaec ferox, pes improbus ille, Qui coeli tritam sic facit esse viam.

I am the Way. To the Jewish despisers of Christ.

Not to be trampled on, though: vile foot, stay; Vile foot, is this to tread the heavenly Way? Let that fierce Jewish foot to death be given, Which thus wears out the blessed Way to heaven. R. WI.

CLXXVI.

In nocturnum et hyemale iter infantis Domini. Matt. ii. 19-21.

Ergo viatores teneros, cum Prole parentem, Nox habet hos, queis est digna nec ulla dies. Nam quid ad haec Pueri vel labra genasve parentis? Heu, quid ad haec facient oscula, nox et hyems! Lilia ad haec facerent, faceret rosa; quicquid et halat Aeterna Zephyrus qui tepet in viola. Hi meruere, quibus vel nox sit nulla; vel ulla Si sit, eat nostra purius illa die. Ecce sed hos quoque nox et hyems clausere tenellos: Et quis scit, quid nox, quid meditetur hyems? Ah, ne quid meditetur hyems saevire per Austros, Quaeque solet nigros nox mala ferre metus! Ah, ne noctis eat currus non mollibus Euris, Aspera ne tetricos nuntiet aura Notos! Heu, quot habent tenebrae, quot vera pericula secum, Quot noctem dominam quantaque monstra colunt! Quot vaga quae falsis veniunt ludibria formis! Trux oculus, Stygio concolor ala Deo! Seu veris ea, sive vagis stant monstra figuris; Virginei satis est hinc, satis inde metus. Ergo veni; totoque veni resonantior arcu, Cynthia, praegnantem clange procul pharetram. Monstra vel ista vel illa, tuis sint meta sagittis: Nec fratris jaculum certior aura vehat. Ergo veni, totoque veni, flagrantior ore, Dignaque Apollineas sustinuisse vices. Scis bene quid deceat Phoebi lucere sororem: Ex his, si nescis, Cynthia, disce genis. O tua, in his, quanto lampas formosior iret! Nox suam, ab his, quanto malit habere diem! Quantum ageret tacitos haec luna modestior ignes, Atque verecundis sobria staret equis! Luna, tuae non est rosa tam pudibunda diei, Nec tam Virgineo fax tua flore tremit. Ergo veni; sed et astra, tuas age, Cynthia, turmas: Illa oculos pueri, quos imitentur, habent. Hinc oculo, hinc astro: at parili face nictat utrumque; Aetheris os, atque os aethereum Pueri. Aspice, quam bene res utriusque deceret utrumque! Quam bene in alternas mutua regna manus! Ille oculus coeli hoc si staret in aethere frontis; Sive astrum hoc Pueri fronte sub aetherea. Si Pueri hoc astrum aetherea sub fronte micaret, Credat et hunc oculum non minus esse suum. Ille oculus coeli, hoc si staret in aethere frontis, Non minus in coelis se putet esse suis. Tam pulchras variare vices cum fronte Puelli, Cumque Puelli oculis aether et astra queant. Astra quidem vellent; vellent aeterna pacisci Foedera mutatae sedis inire vicem. Aether et ipse, licet numero tam dispare, vellet Mutatis oculis tam bona pacta dari. Quippe iret coelum quanto melioribus astris, Astra sua hos oculos si modo habere queat! Quippe astra in coelo quantum meliore micarent, Si frontem hanc possint coelum habuisse suum. Aether et astra velint: frustra velit aether et astra: Ecce negat Pueri frons, oculique negant. Ah, neget illa, negent illi: nam quem aethera mallent Isti oculi? aut frons haec quae magis astra velit? Quid si aliquod blanda face lene renideat astrum? Lactea si coeli terque quaterque via est? Blandior hic oculus, roseo hoc qui ridet in ore; Lactea frons haec est terque quaterque magis. Ergo negent, coelumque suum sua sidera servent: Sidera de coelis non bene danda suis. Ergo negant: seque ecce sua sub nube recondunt, Sub tenera occidui nube supercilii: Nec claudi contenta sui munimine coeli, Quaerunt in gremio matris ubi lateant. Non nisi sic tactis ubi nix tepet illa pruinis, Castaque non gelido frigore vernat hyems. Scilicet iste dies tam pulchro vespere tingi Dignus; et hos soles sic decet occidere. Claudat purpureus qui claudit vesper Olympum; Puniceo placeas tu tibi, Phoebe, toro; Dum tibi lascivam Thetis auget adultera noctem, Pone per Hesperias strata pudenda rosas. Illas nempe rosas, quas conscia purpura pinxit; Culpa pudorque suus queis dedit esse rosas. Hos soles, niveae noctes, castumque cubile, Quod purum sternet per mare virgo Thetis; Hos, sancti flores; hos, tam sincera decebant Lilia; quaeque sibi non rubuere rosae. Hos, decuit sinus hic; ubi toto sidere proni Ecce lavant sese lacteo in oceano. Atque lavent: tandemque suo se mane resolvant, Ipsa dies ex hoc ut bibat ore diem.

On the night and winter journey of the Infant Lord.

These tender travellers, feel they Night's dark sway, Mother and Child, too good for whitest day? For how will mother's cheeks, or lips of Child, How kisses fare, from Night and Winter wild? With lilies these, with roses, should be blest, Or sweetest breath of violet-perfum'd West. Such travellers merited to have no night, Or, if at all, one whiter than our light. Winter and Night these tender ones enclose, And what Night plots, or Winter, ah, who knows? Ah, lest fell Winter with its north-winds rage, Ill-omen'd Night its wonted fears engage. Ah, lest rough east-winds should Night's chariot draw, Or harsh south-winds should shake the heart with awe. What real perils troop in Darkness' train, Over what monsters Night extends her reign: What vagrant phantoms, which in false shapes go, Stern-ey'd, black-pinion'd, like the gods below! But standing forth in false forms or in true, For these, for those, a Virgin's dread is due. Come then, come, Cynthia, with resounding bow, And clang thy full-charg'd quiver at the foe. These monsters, those, thy darts unerring share, Nor truer aim thy brother's arrows bear: Come, then, O come, with all thy face a-flame, Worthy thyself to take Apollo's name. Thou know'st how Phoebus' sister ought to shine; If not, learn, Cynthia, from these cheeks divine. Placed here thy torch more beauty would display, And Night from hence prefer to draw its day; Such moon more modest shed its silent beam, And shamefac'd stay her softly-going team. O Moon, thy day no rose so chaste resembles, Thy torch with no such virgin beauty trembles. Come then, but bring thy troops of stars likewise; For they can try to shine like the Child's eyes. An eye, a star, twinkling with equal grace, The face of heaven and the Child's heavenly face. How well the charm of each transferr'd would show, From hand to hand the mutual sceptres go! Whether heaven's eye should deck His skiey brow, Or the Child's star adorn heaven's forehead now. If the Child's star on heaven's forehead shone, That eye would seem to Him not less His own. Place on His skiey forehead heaven's eye, Not less 'twould deem itself in its own sky. Such interchanges might the stars and skies Make charmingly with the Child's brow and eyes. For change of place the stars indeed might like An everlasting treaty now to strike; And differing though in numbers, e'en the skies Might wish to bargain for a change of eyes. With how much better stars the sky would shine, If as its stars it had these eyes divine! The stars would shine in how much better heaven, If as their sky this brow divine were given! So sky and stars may choose--in vain they choose; For the Child's brow and His fair eyes refuse. Ah, wisely; for these eyes what better heaven Could wish? what better stars to brow be given? What though some gentle star more softly gleams? What if heaven's way thrice, four times, milky seems? Softer this eye which smiles in ruddy face; This milk-white brow, thrice, four times is its grace. To quit their heaven, let then these stars deny; Stars ought not to be ta'en from their own sky. They do deny; and soon in cloud are hid, In tender shadow of the drooping lid. Nor with their own defence content they rest, But seek a hiding-place in mother's breast. Thus the snow melts where His warm touch is plac'd, And genial Spring blooms out of Winter chaste. Such day such evening-dew deserves to drink; Such suns in such a bed deserve to sink. Sky-closing Eve, thy purple veil entwine, Sun, thy luxurious couch incarnadine; While wanton Thetis day too early closes, Thy shameless bed place 'mid Hesperian roses; Roses, forsooth, by conscious blushes painted, By sin with its own tell-tale redness tainted. Nights snowy-white, chaste couch to these suns be, Which virgin Thetis spreads o'er lucent sea; All-holy flowers, lilies inviolate, Roses with innocent blush upon them wait. Be theirs this bosom, where reclin'd all night They bathe themselves in ocean milky-white. And let them bathe, till their own morn say, rise; And Day itself drink splendour from these eyes. R. WI.

CLXXVII.

Non dico, me rogaturum Patrem pro vobis. Joan. xvi. 26.

Ah tamen ipse roga: tibi scilicet ille roganti Esse nequit durus, nec solet esse, Pater. Ille suos omni facie te figit amores; Inque tuos toto effunditur ore sinus. Quippe, tuos spectans oculos, se spectat in illis; Inque tuo, Jesu, se fovet ipse sinu. Ex te metitur sese, et sua numina discit: Inde repercussus redditur ipse sibi. Ille tibi se, te ille sibi par nectit utrinque: Tam tuus est, ut nec sit magis ille suus. Ergo roga: ipse roga: tibi scilicet ille roganti Esse nequit durus, nec solet esse, Pater. Illum ut ego rogitem? Hoc, eheu, non ore rogandum; Ore satis puras non faciente preces. Illum ego si rogitem, quis scit quibus ille procellis Surgat, et in miserum hoc quae tonet ira caput? Isto etiam forsan veniet mihi fulmen ab ore: Saepe isto certe fulmen ab ore venit. Ille una irati forsan me cuspide verbi, Uno me nutu figet, et interii: Non ego, non rogitem: mihi scilicet ille roganti Durior esse potest, et solet esse, Pater. Immo rogabo: nec ore meo tamen: immo rogabo Ore meo, Jesu, scilicet ore tuo.

I do not say that I will pray the Father for you.

Yea, Lord, ask Thou: He is not wont to be, He cannot prove unkind, if ask'd of Thee. With favouring eyes He makes Thee all His love; Toward Thine heart, Lord, His whole affections move. Beholding Thy fair eyes Himself He sees; In Thy pure breast Himself He cherishes. By Thee He metes Himself, His godhead learns, And, sweet reversion! to Himself returns. He Thee, Thou He, in one Ye intertwine; He is His own no more, He is so Thine. Yea, Lord, ask Thou: He is not wont to be, He cannot prove unkind, if ask'd of Thee. Shall these lips, Lord, ask Him? But how should they? With rightful words and pure they fail to pray. If I should ask Him, then, what tempests dread, What anger thundering o'er this wretched head! His look perchance would gleam as lightning down-- Yea, oft, I know, as lightning falls His frown. Perchance the javelin of one angry word, One nod, would slay, and I should die unheard. I? I'll not ask: Lord, He is wont to be, He easy proves unkind, if ask'd of me. Yet, stay: I'll ask:--not with these lips of mine; Yea, with my lips,--my lips, Lord, namely Thine. A.

CLXXVIII.

In die ascensionis dominicae. Act. i. 9, 10.

Usque etiam nostros te, Christe, tenemus amores? Heu, coeli quantam hinc invidiam patimur! Invidiam patiamur: habent sua sidera coeli, Quaeque comunt tremulas crispa tot ora faces; Phoebenque et Phoebum, et tot pictae vellera nubis, Vellera, quae rosea Sol variavit acu. Quantum erat, ut sinerent hac una nos face ferri? Una sit hic: sunt et sint ibi mille faces. Nil agimus: nam tu quia non ascendis ad illum, Aether[85] descendit, Christe, vel ipse tibi.

{Nyn eti hemeteron se, Christe, echomen ton erota? Ouranou oun hosson ton phthonon hos echomen; Alla echomen. echei hea men ta d' agalmata aither, Astra te kai Phoibon kai kala ton nephelon. Hosson een, hemin ophr' eie hen tode astron? Astron hen hemin e; eisi toi astr' hekaton. Panta maten. hoti, Christe, sy ouk anebaines es auton, Autos men katebe ouranos eis se teos.}

On the day of the Lord's ascension.

Still do we keep Thee here, O Christ, our Love? Ah, envy much we gain from Heaven above! But be it so: Heaven is with stars a-blaze, And countless orbs that trick their tremulous rays: Moon, sun, and colour'd clouds, a fleecy store, By Evening's rosy touch embroider'd o'er. 'Twere little they should leave one light below: Let one be here, a thousand there may glow. 'Tis vain: since Thou ascendest not on high, To Thee, O Christ, descends the very sky. R. WI.

CLXXIX.

Caecus implorat Christum. Marc. x. 46-52.

Improba turba, tace. Mihi tam mea vota propinquant, Et linguam de me vis tacuisse meam? Tunc ego tunc taceam, mihi cum meus ille loquetur: Si nescis, oculos vox habet ista meos. O noctis miserere meae, miserere; per illam In te quae primo riserit ore, diem. O noctis miserere meae, miserere; per illam Quae, nisi te videat, nox velit esse, diem. O noctis miserere meae, miserere; per illam In te quam fidei nox habet ipsa, diem. Haec animi tam clara dies rogat illam oculorum: Illam, oro, dederis; hanc mihi ne rapias.

{Nykt' eleeson emen, eleeson. nai toi ekeino, Christe, emou emar, nyx hod' emeio echei. Ophthalmon men ekeino, Theos, deetai tode gnomes; Me moi tout' aires, dos moi ekeino phaos.}[86]

The blind man implores Christ.

Be silent, crowd: my prayers so near me come, And do you bid my pleading tongue be dumb, Before my Lord to me His speech addresses? Know, then, that voice of His my eyes possesses. Pity my night, Lord, pity; by that day Which smiled on me in Thee with earliest ray: Pity my night, Lord, pity; by that day Which if it sees Thee not, for night would pray: Pity my night, Lord, pity; by that day Which in faith's dimness fades not quite away. My mind's clear day bids my eyes' day awake: This grant, O Lord, nor the other from me take. R. WI.

CLXXX.

Quis ex vobis si habeat centum oves, et perdiderit unam ex illis, &c. Luc. xv. 4.

O ut ego angelicis fiam bona gaudia turmis! Me quoque solicito quaere per arva gradu. Mille tibi tutis ludunt in montibus agni, Quos potes haud dubia dicere voce tuos. Unus ego erravi, quo me meus error agebat; Unus ego fuerim gaudia plura tibi. Gaudia non faciunt, quae nec fecere timorem; Et plus quae donant ipsa peric'la placent. Horum quos retines fuerit tibi latior usus: De me quem recipis dulcior usus erit.

{Eis men ego, he mou plane periegen, alemi; Eis de toi sos esomai gethosynai pleones. Amnos ho me poion phobon ou poiei de te charma. Meizon ton men, emou chreia de glykytere.}

What man of you having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, &c.

O might I fire the angel-bands with joy, Thy seeking steps o'er anxious plains employ! A thousand lambs on the safe mountains play; All Thine they are, Thou certainly canst say. The one that err'd and stray'd behold in me; Be I the one to bring more joy to Thee! They give no joy who never caus'd a fear; Dangers themselves, o'ercome, the more endear. Of those retain'd, more wide be the employment; Of me recover'd, sweeter the enjoyment. R. WI.

CLXXXI.

Herodi D. Jacobum obtruncanti. Act. xii. 2.

Nescis Jacobus quantum hunc tibi debeat ictum, Quaeque tua in sacrum saeviat ira caput. Scilicet ipso illi donasti hoc ense coronam, Quo sacrum abscideras scilicet ense caput. Abscissum pensare caput quae possit abunde, Sola haec tam saeva et sacra corona fuit.

{En men, Iakobe, kephalen toi xiphos aperen, Hen tode kai stephanon xiphos edoke teon. Mounon ameibesthai kephalen, Iakobe, dynaito, Keinos hod' hos kalos martyriou stephanos.}

To Herod beheading St. James.

Know'st not how much James owes thee for this stroke, Or how on his blest head thine anger broke. Lo, to himself a crown thou dost accord Forsooth with that selfsame beheading sword. Only this sacred sanguinary crown That sunder'd head was able to weigh down. R. WI.

CLXXXII.

Caeci receptis oculis Christum sequuntur. Matt. xx. 34.

Ecce manu imposita Christus nova sidera ponit: Sectantur patriam sidera fida manum. Haec manus his, credo, coelum est: haec scilicet astra Suspicor esse olim quae geret ille manu.[87]

{Cheir epiballomene Christou epeballen opopon Astra; opedeuei keina ge cheiri Theou. Cheir haue toutois pelen ouranos. astra gar oimai En cheri taut' oisei Christos epeita hee.}

The blind men having received their sight follow Christ.

See Christ with outstretcht hand new stars create, Which on that hand with due observance wait. That hand, sure, is their heaven: these stars are they Which He will hold in His right hand one day. R. WI.

CLXXXIII.

Zachaeus in sycomoro. Luc. xix. 4.

Quid te, quid jactas alienis fructibus, arbor? Quid tibi cum foliis non, sycomore, tuis? Quippe istic ramo qui jam tibi nutat ab alto, Mox e divina Vite racemus erit.

{Tipt' epikompazeis keneon xeino de te karpo, Kai phyllois semne me, sykomore, teois? Kai gar hod' ekkremnes sou nyn meteoros ap' ernous, Ampelou ho kladon essetai ouraniou.}

Zaccheus in the sycamore-tree.

Why of strange fruits dost boast, O sycamore? Of leaves not thine who gave thee such a store? He who waves to and fro on bough of thine, A cluster soon will be of the True Vine. R. WI.

CLXXXIV.

On our crucified Lord naked and bloody.

Th' have left Thee naked, Lord: O that they had! This garment too I would they had deny'd. Thee with Thyselfe they have too richly clad, Opening the purple wardrobe of Thy side. O never could bee found garments too good For Thee to weare, but these of Thine own blood.

CLXXXV.

Sampson to his Dalilah.

Could not once blinding me, cruell, suffice? When first I look't on thee, I lost mine eyes.

SECULAR EPIGRAMS.

I.

Upon Ford's two Tragedyes, 'Love's Sacrifice' and 'The Broken Heart.'

Thou cheat'st us, Ford; mak'st one seeme two by art: What is Love's Sacrifice but The Broken Heart?

II.

Vpon the Faire Ethiopian, sent to a gentlewoman.

Lo here the faire Chariclea, in whom strove So false a fortune and so true a love! Now after all her toyles by sea and land, O may she but arrive at your white hand! Her hopes are crown'd; onely she feares that than Shee shall appeare true Ethiopian.

III.

On marriage.

I would be married, but I'de have no wife: I would be married to a single life.

IV.

On Nanus mounted upon an ant.

High-mounted on an ant, Nanus the tall Was throwne, alas, and got a deadly fall; Vnder th' unruly beast's proud feet he lies All torne: with much adoe yet ere he dyes Hee straines these words: Base Envy, doe laugh on: Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaethon.

V.

Vpon Venus putting-on Mars his armes.

What, Mars his sword? faire Cytherea, say, Why art thou arm'd so desperately to-day? Mars thou hast beaten naked; and, O then, What needst thou put on armes against poore men?

VI.

Vpon the same.

Pallas saw Venus arm'd, and straight she cry'd: Come if thou dar'st; thus, thus let us be try'd. Why, foole! saies Venus, thus provok'st thou mee, That being nak't, thou know'st could conquer thee?

VII.

Out of Martiall.

Foure teeth thou hadst, that, ranck'd in goodly state, Kept thy mouth's gate. The first blast of thy cough left two alone; The second, none. This last cough, Delia, cought-out all thy feare; Th' hast left the third cough now no business here.

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

These Secular, or, as the word was, 'Humane' Epigrams, all originally appeared in the volume of 1646, as before, and were continued in the after-editions. It is pleasant to have this recognition of John Ford (I.) by Crashaw. The two Tragedies celebrated, appeared in the same year, 1633. The 'Faire Ethiopian' of II. was doubtless William Lisle's poem so named [Lond. 1632],--not given by Hazlitt, s.n. The others are too well known to need annotation. These are all preserved, with a collection of others, in the Tanner MS., as before. G.

Latin Poems.

PART FIRST. SACRED. II.

PART FIRST. SACRED.

II.

EPIGRAMMATA SACRA.

NEVER BEFORE PRINTED.

NOTE.

It is my great privilege to be the first to print the following extensive additions to the Epigrammata Sacra of Crashaw. They are wholly derived from Archbishop Sancroft's MS. in the Bodleian, as described in our Preface (Vol. I. p. xx.-xxiii.) and in the Preface to the present Volume. For their relation to those published by the Author himself and in the editions of 1634 and 1670, see our Essay, as before. As with Crashaw's own collection (of 1634), the Epigrams seem to have been composed and written down on the spur of the moment as a subject struck him, and hence there is the same absence of arrangement: nor is it much to be lamented, seeing that each is independent. As a rule, I follow the order of the manuscript. For translations of fifteen of these fifty-five Epigrams, viz. Nos. 8, 9, 19, 24, 26, 32, 34, 35, 39, 46, 48, 49, 51, 52, 53, and 55, I am indebted, as for so much more throughout, to my excellent poet-friend the Rev. RICHARD WILTON, M.A., as before: for the others, in Fuller's phrase, 'my meanness is responsible,' except in a few instances wherein Crashaw has himself furnished renderings, or at least little poems less or more corresponding with the Latin; as pointed out in the places. G.

I.

Act. xxviii. 3.

Paule, nihil metuas, non fert haec vipera virus: Virtutem vestrae vult didicisse manus. Oscula, non morsus; supplex, non applicat hostis. Nec metuenda venit, sed miseranda magis.

St. Paul and the viper.

Paul, fear thou nought; no poison bears this asp: It seeks to learn the virtue of thy hand. Not as a foe, but suppliant, it would clasp; Not fear, but pity, it would fain command. G.

II.

Joan. vi. 14, 26.

Jam credunt, Deus es: Deus est, qui teste palato, Quique ipso demum est judice dente Deus. Scilicet haec sapiunt miracula: de quibus alvus Proficere, et possit pingue latus fluere. Haec sua fecisti populo miracula credunt. Gens pia, et in ventrem relligiosa suum!

The miracle of the loaves.

Now truly they believe that Thou art God!-- God witnessed by palate and by tooth!-- They know the smack of miracles that load And swell their paunches; yea, believe, forsooth. To a most pious race, Lord, Thou appealest, And stomachs most believing Thou revealest. G.

III.

In lacrymas Christi patientis.

Saeve dolor! potes hoc? oculos quoque perpluis istos? O quam non meritas haec arat unda genas! O lacrymas ego flere tuas, ego dignior istud, Quod tibi cunque cadit roris, habere meum. Siccine? me tibi flere tuas! ah, mi bone Jesu, Si possem lacrymas vel mihi flere meas! Flere meas? immo immo tuas, hoc si modo possem: Non possem lacrymas, non ego flere meas. Flere tuas est flere meas, tua lacryma, Christe, Est mea vel lacryma est si tua, causa mea est.

Of the tears of the suffering Christ.

O cruel Pain! I ask thee how Thou canst do what thou'rt doing now? Dost thou also--or is't my fears?-- Drench His sweet eyes with scalding tears? O how that show'r furrows amain His undeserving cheek, as rain! More meet it were that I should know The tears that from His anguish flow: More meet it were that I should feel All dews that down His wan cheek steal: O is it thus? Would that it were! That I might weep Thy laden tear: Yea, blessed Jesus, would that I For mine own self could weeping lie: Mine own tears weep? nay, they are Thine, For all Thy tears, alas, are mine. Ah, not a tear that Thou didst shed, When sorrow bow'd Thy sacred head, But came of human woe or guilt, For which at last Thy Blood was spilt; And even if the tears were Thine, Being for my sake, they're rather mine. G.

IV.

In sepulcrum Domini. Joan. xix. 38-42.

Jam cedant, veteris cedant miracula saxi, Unde novus subito fluxerat amne latex. Tu felix rupes, ubi se lux tertia tollet, Flammarum sacro fonte superba flues.

The sepulchre of the Lord.

Yield place, ye wonders of the ancient stone Whence sudden-gushing streams were seen to flow: When the third day, blest rock, on thee has shone, Proudly with fount of sacred fire thou'lt glow. G.

V.

Ubi amorem praecipit. Joan. xiii. 14.

Sic magis in numeros morituraque carmina vivit Dulcior extrema voce caducus olor; Ut tu inter strepitus odii, et tua funera, Jesu, Totus amor liquido totus amore sonas.

The parting words of Love.

E'en as the dying swan, sweeter for failing breath, Dies not, but rather lives, in her last wistful song, Dost Thou, Lord, mid hate's din and close-approaching death, As Love, with melting voice, Thy dying love prolong. G.

VI.

Act. xii. 23.

Euge, Deus--pleno populus fremit undique plausu-- Certe non hominem vox sonat, euge, Deus! Sed tamen iste Deus qui sit, vos dicite, vermes, Intima turba illi; vos fovet ille sinu.

Herod devoured of worms.

Behold a god! full-voic'd the people cry; Not man, but god, with shouts they him attest. What kind of god he is, ye worms, reply-- A crowd that know the secrets of his breast. G.

VII.

Bonum est nobis esse hic.

Cur cupis hic adeo, dormitor Petre, manere? Somnia non alibi tam bona, Petre, vides.

It is good to be here.

Why seek'st thou, drowsy Peter, here to stay? Elsewhere such pleasant dreams thou see'st not, eh?[88] G.

VIII.

Videte lilia agrorum ... nec Salomon, &c. Matt. vi. 29.

Candide rex campi, cui floris eburnea pompa est, Deque nivis fragili vellere longa toga; Purpureus Salomon impar tibi dicitur esto. Nempe, quod est melius, par fuit ille rosis.

Look on the lilies of the field ... not Solomon, &c.

O fairest monarch of the enamell'd field, Whose is the blossom'd pomp of ivory splendour, And whose the fleeces, snowy-white, which yield Long-flowing robes immaculate and tender. Ah, not like lilies--'tis divinely spoken-- Was Solomon, with sin encrimsoned; But not unlike--and 'tis a better token-- Roses tear-wash'd, which hang the blushing head. R. WI.

IX.

Marc. vii. 33, 36.

Voce manuque simul linguae tu, Christe, ciendae: Sistendae nudis vocibus usus eras. Sane at lingua equus est pronis effusus habenis: Vox ciet, at sistit non nisi tota manus.

The deaf healed.

To wake the tongue--voice, hand too, Christ would use; To check it, but a bare word of command. Really, the tongue is as a horse rein'd-loose-- Starts at a word, stay'd only with strong hand. R. WI.

X.

In beatae Virginis verecundiam.

Non est hoc matris, sed, crede, modestia nati, Quod virgo in gremium dejicit ora suum. Illic jam Deus est, oculus jam Virginis ergo, Ut coelum videat, dejiciendus erit.

The modesty of the blessed Virgin.

Not humbleness of mother, but of Child, Shines in the downward gaze of Virgin mild. The Virgin gazes where her God doth lie: She must look down that Heaven may meet her eye. G.

XI.

Mitto vos sicut agnos in medio luporum.

Hos quoque, an hos igitur saevi lacerabitis agnos? Hic saltem, hic vobis non licet esse lupis. At sceleris nulla est clementia, at ergo scietis, Agnus qui nunc est, est aliquando Leo.

I send you as lambs in the midst of wolves.

These lambs also, e'en these, will ye, then, fiercely tear? Here to be wolves, at least here, ye will never dare. Alas, the wicked still are cruel; but ye'll learn He Who is now a Lamb will one day Lion turn. G.

XII.

Christus a daemone vectus. Matt. iv.

Ergo ille, angelicis o sarcina dignior alis, Praepete sic Stygio, sic volet ille vehi. Pessime! nec laetare tamen tu scilicet inde, Non minus es daemon, non minus ille Deus.

Christ carried by the devil.

Will He--O burden worthier angels' wings!-- Deign to be carried by swift fiend of hell? Vilest! to thee this no advancement brings; He no less God, thou no less demon fell. G.

XIII.

Joan. i. 23.

Vox ego sum, dicis: tu vox es, sancte Joannes? Si vox es, sterilis cur tibi mater erat? Quam fuit ista tuae mira infoecundia matris! In vocem sterilis rarior esse solet.

St. John the Baptist a voice.

'I am a voice, a voice,' says holy John. If so, how should thy mother barren be? This is unfruitfulness to muse upon; Tongue-barren women we so seldom see! G.

XIV.

Vox Joannes, Christus Verbum.

Monstrat Joannes Christum, haud res mira videtur: Vox unus, verbum scilicet alter erat. Christus Joanne est prior, haec res mira videtur: Voce sua verbum non solet esse prius.

John the Voice, Christ the Word.

John points out Christ; no wonder this we deem: One is a Voice, the other is the Word. Christ is before John; wondrous this may seem; For when was word before a voice e'er heard? G.

XV.

In natales Domini pastoribus nuntiatos. Luc. ii. 8-19.

Ad te sydereis, ad te, bone Tityre, pennis Purpureus juvenis gaudia tanta vehit. O bene te vigilem, cui gaudia tanta feruntur, Ut neque dum vigilas, te vigilare putes. Quem sic monstrari voluit pastoribus aether, Pastor an agnus erat? Pastor et agnus erat. Ipse Deus cum Pastor erit, quis non erit agnus? Quis non pastor erit, cum Deus agnus erit?

On the birth of the Lord announced to the shepherds.

To thee, good Tityrus, on starry wings shepherd The royal angel such 'glad tidings' brings. Surely the happy watcher never thought That he was watching when such joys were brought. And He, Whom thus the heavenly host reveal'd To shepherds 'mid their flocks in open field, Tell me, was He a Shepherd or a Lamb? Shepherd and Lamb at once; He took each name. Since, then, our God a Shepherd's name doth wear, The name of lamb who will not wish to bear? And who will not be shepherd, since God deigns To be a Lamb, for suffering of sin's pains? G.

XVI.

In Atheniensem merum. Act. xvii. 28.

Ipsos naturae thalamos sapis, imaque rerum Concilia, et primae quicquid agunt tenebrae, Quid dubitet refluum mare, quid vaga sydera volvant; Christus et est studiis res aliena tuis. Sic scire, est tantum nescire loquacius illa: Qui nempe illa sapit sola, nec illa sapit.

Of the 'blue-blood' pride of the Athenians.

Thou knowest Nature's secret things And all her deepest counsellings-- All wonders of the primal Night Conceal'd from prying human sight; Knowest how the sea-tide pauses, The wandering stars too in their causes. But while to thee, in all else wise, Christ from thy thoughts an alien lies, In earthly studies to advance Is but loquacious ignorance; And he whose wisdom is but such, Of those things even knows not much. O, study thou beneath the Cross, Or all thy labour is but loss! G.

XVII.

Ego vitis vera. Joan. xv. 1.

Credo quidem, sed et hoc hostis te credidit ipse Caiaphas, et Judas credidit ipse, reor. Unde illis, Jesu, vitis nisi vera fuisses, Tanta tui potuit sanguinis esse sitis?

I am the True Vine.

'Believe!' e'en Caiaphas, thy foe, believed Thee the True Vine; and Judas too, I think. Had they not, Lord, Thee as True Vine received, Could they have thirsted so Thy Blood to drink? G.

XVIII.

Abscessum Christi queruntur Discipuli.

Ille abiit, jamque o quae nos mala cunque manetis, Sistite jam in nostras tela parata neces. Sistite; nam quibus haec vos olim tela paratis, Abscessu Domini jam periere sui.

The departure of Christ lamented by the Disciples.

The Lord is gone; and now, all evils dire, Hold back the darts which for our death you flourish: Yea, hold them back, nor waste on us your ire, For with our Lord's departure, lo, we perish. G.

XIX.

In descensum Spiritus Sancti. Act. ii. 1-4.

Quae vehit auratos nubes dulcissima nimbos? Quis mitem pluviam lucidus imber agit? Agnosco, nostros haec nubes abstulit ignes: Haec nubes in nos jam redit igne pari. O nubem gratam et memorem, quae noluit ultra Tam saeve de se nos potuisse queri! O bene; namque alio non posset rore rependi, Coelo exhalatum quod modo terra dedit.

On the descent of the Holy Spirit.

What sweetest cloud comes wafting golden shower? What gentle raindrops bring their shining dower? The cloud which stole our flame, our heart's desire, This very cloud returns with equal fire. O kindly-mindful cloud, which could not brook That we should mourn thee with so sad a look! 'Tis well; no other dew had countervail'd That which from earth to heaven was late exhal'd. R. WI.

XX.

Act. x. 39.

Quis malus appendit de mortis stipite vitam? O malus agricola, hoc inseruisse fuit? Immo, quis appendit vitae hac ex arbore mortem? O bonus Agricola, hoc inseruisse fuit. What wicked one affix'd Life to Death's tree? O wretched gard'ner, call'st thou this engrafting? Nay, tell me who affix'd Death to Life's tree? O noble Gard'ner, this I call engrafting. G.

XXI.

Ego sum Ostium. Joan. x. 9.

Jamque pates, cordisque seram gravis hasta reclusit, Et clavi claves undique te reserant. Ah, vereor, sibi ne manus impia clauserit illas, Quae coeli has ausa est sic aperire fores.

I am the Doore.

And now th' art set wide ope; the speare's sad art, Lo, hath unlockt Thee at the very heart. He to himselfe--I feare the worst-- And his owne hope, Hath shut these doores of heaven, that durst Thus set them ope. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Now Thou art open wide; the barrier dear Of Thy great heart unclos'd by cruel spear; And nails as keys unlock Thee everywhere. Ah, he whose wicked hand thus forc'd the gate Of heaven, perhaps at heaven's shut door will wait One day, with outer darkness for his fate. G.

XXII.

In spinas demtas a Christi capite cruentatas.

Accipe, an ignoscis? de te sata germina, miles. Quam segeti est messis discolor illa suae! O quae tam duro gleba est tam grata colono? Inserit hic spinas: reddit et illa rosas.

Upon the thornes taken downe from our Lord's head bloody.

Knowst thou this, souldier? 'tis a much-chang'd plant, which yet Thyselfe didst set; 'Tis chang'd indeed: did Autumn e're such beauties bring To shame his Spring? O, who so hard an husbandman could ever find A soyle so kind? Is not the soile a kind one, thinke ye, that returnes Roses for thornes? CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

Take, soldier--know'st them not?--thy planted germs; A harvest how unlike to its seed-corn! What soil yields husbandman such kindly terms? The rose he gathers, where he planted thorn. G.

XXIII.

Joan. iii. 1-21.

Nox erat, et Christum, Doctor male docte, petebas In Christo tenebras depositure tuas. Ille autem multo dum te bonus irrigat ore, Atque per arcanas ducit in alta vias, Sol venit, et primo pandit se flore diei, Ludit et in dubiis aureus horror aquis. Sol oritur; sed adhuc, et adhuc tamen, o bone, nescis. Sol oritur, tecum nox tamen est, et adhuc . . . . . Non coeli, illa fuit, nox fuit illa tua.

Nicodemus.

'Twas night; and, Teacher all untaught, Thy darkness thou to Christ hast brought But while attent He speaks to thee Benignant words, that thou mayst see, Leading higher still and higher, As thy yearnings do aspire, Guiding thee, by sure grace given, Through secret paths that reach to heaven; Lo, the Sun on thee is risen, Bursting from his cloudy prison, Showing Him, the Life, the Way, Flushing with first bloom of day, Quivering with a golden light Such as on wav'ring seas gleams bright. The Sun is risen; yet darkness lies, Good Nicodemus, on thine eyes; But the night's thine own; for, lo, All heav'n above doth lustrous glow. G.

XXIV.

Domitiano de S. Johanne ad portam Lat.

Ergo ut inultus eas? sed nec tamen ibis inultus, Sic violare ausus meque meosque deos. Ure oleo, lictor. Oleo parat urere lictor: Sed quem uri lictor credidit, unctus erat. Te quoque sic olei virtus malefida fefellit? Sic tua te Pallas, Domitiane, juvat?

To Domitian, concerning St. John commanded to be cast into a caldron of boiling oil.

Thou go unpunish'd? That shall never be, Since thou hast dar'd to mock my gods and me. Burn him in oil!--The lictor oil prepares: Behold the Saint anointed unawares! With such elusive virtue was the oil fraught! Such aid thy olive-loving Pallas brought![89] R. WI.

XXV.

In Baptistam vocem. Joan. i. 23.

Tantum habuit Baptista loqui, tot flumina rerum, Ut bene Vox fuerit, praetereaque nihil. Ecce autem Verbum est unum tantum ille loquutus: Uno sed Verbo cuncta loquutus erat.

The voice of the Baptist.

The Baptist had to speak such floods of things, That well he might be Voice and nothing more: But one word only, lo, Christ speaks, which brings In one word all: My soul that Word adore! G.

XXVI.

In D. Petrum angelo solutum. Act. xii. 6, 7.

Mors tibi et Herodes instant: cum nuncius ales Gaudia fert, quae tu somnia ferre putas. Quid tantum dedit ille, rogo, tibi? Vincula solvit, Mors tibi et Herodes nonne dedisset idem?

On St. Peter loosed by the angel.

Death, Herod, press on thee; when angel's wing Brings joys which thou supposest dreams to bring. What gave he thee? Thy chains burst at his touch; But Death and Herod would have given as much. R. WI.

XXVII.

Relictis omnibus sequuti sunt eum. Luc. v. 28.

Ad nutum Domini abjecisti retia, Petre. Tam bene non unquam jacta fuere prius. Scilicet hoc recte jacere est tua retia, Petre, Nimirum, Christus cum jubet, abjicere.

On St. Peter casting away his nets at our Saviour's call.

Thou hast the art on't, Peter, and canst tell To cast thy nets on all occasions well. When Christ calls, and thy nets would have thee stay, To cast them well's to cast them quite away. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

At the Lord's word thy nets were cast away: Never before thy nets so well were cast. Rightly to cast them is to cast away, When once The Master's order has been pass'd. G.

XXVIII.

Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi. Joan. i. 36.

Ergo tot heu, torvas facies, tot in ora leonum, In tot castra lupum qui meat, Agnus erit? Hic tot in horribiles, quot sunt mea crimina, pardos? Hic tot in audaces ungue vel ore feras? Ah melius, pugiles quis enim commiserit istos? Quos sua non faciunt arma vel ira pares.

The Lamb of God, Who bears away the sins of the world.

Shall He, then, be a Lamb, to go Forth against such various foe? Lions ravenous, great of jaw; Wolves in vast herds, of mighty paw; Pards vengeful, prowling out and in-- Frightful, num'rous as my sin-- Awful of face, and gaunt and grim, Merciless to mangle limb by limb. Ah, goest Thou, gentle One, 'gainst these? And does terror upon Thee seize? O how unequal is the strife, And the prey so grand a life! With such as these to fight art fated? Nor in arms nor passion mated. G.

XXIX.

Pisces multiplicati. Joan. xxi. 11.

Quae secreta meant taciti tibi retia verbi, Queis non tam pisces quam capis Oceanum?

The miraculous draught of fishes.

What nets, hid in Thy silent word, Passest Thou on; By which not fish Thou takest, Lord, But the Ocean? G.

XXX.

Domine, non solum pedes, sed et caput, &c. Joan. xiii. 9.

En caput, atque suis quae plus satis ora laborant Sordibus; huc fluvios, ais [et] adde tuos. Nil opus est; namque haec, modo tertius occinat ales, E fluviis fuerint, Petre, lavanda suis.

Lord, not my feet only, but also my head, &c.

'Behold my head, behold my face, Which sin's filthiest stains deface: Here pour Thy streams:' thou say'st to Me. But, Peter, needs not this for thee; For ere the cock a third time crow, Rivers of its own tears must flow. G.

XXXI.

Cum tot signa edidisset, non credebant. Joan. xii. 37.

Quanta amor ille tuus se cunque levaverit ala, Quo tua cunque opere effloruit alta manus; Mundus adest, contraque tonat, signisque reponit Signa, adeo sua sunt numina vel sceleri, Imo, o nec nimii vis sit temeraria verbi, Ille uno sensu vel tua cuncta premit. Tot tantisque tuis mirac'lum hoc objicit unum, Tot tantisque tuis non adhibere fidem.

Though they beheld so many miracles, they believed not.

However high in Thy great love Thou wingest, And whatsoe'er within Thy hand Thou bringest, Against Thee, with its thunders, stands the world, Sign answering sign; Sin's banners all unfurl'd. Nay--and let not the bold rash word appal-- One thought o' the world makes all Thy wonders fall: Against Thy mightiest signs this one it wields-- To the vast whole of Thine, no faith it yields. G.

XXXII.

In nubem, quae Dominum abstulit. Act. i. 9.

O nigra haec! quid enim mihi candida pectora monstrat, Pectora cygneis candidiora genis? Sit vero magis alba, suo magis aurea Phoebo, Quantumcunque sibi candida; nigra mihi est. Nigra mihi nubes! et qua neque nigrior Austros, Vel tulit irati nuntia tela Dei. Nigra! licet nimbos, noctem neque detulit ullam. Si noctem non fert, at rapit, ecce, diem.

On the cloud which received the Lord.

O, this black cloud! a white breast does it show-- A breast more white than a swan's neck of snow? More bright than golden sunshine let it be! However fair itself, 'tis black to me. From blacker cloud ne'er issu'd stormy blast, Nor thunderbolts of angry heaven were cast. Black! though no showers or shadows round it play; If Night it bring not, yet it takes our Day. R. WI.

XXXIII.

Vidit urbem, et flevit super eam. Luc. xix. 41, 42.

Ergo meas spernis lacrymas, urbs perfida? Sperne. Sperne meas, quas o sic facis esse tuas. Tempus erit, lacrymas poterit cum lacryma demum Nostra, nec immerito, spernere spreta tuas.

He saw the city, and wept over it.

Why scornest thou My tears, deceitful city? Scorn, scorn My tears, and thus thou mak'st them thine. The time will come when thou shalt seek My pity; But I shall scorn thy tears, as thou scorn'st Mine. G.

XXXIV.

Nec sicut iste publicanus. Luc. xviii. 11.

Tu quoque dum istius miseri peccata fateris, Quae nec is irato mitius ungue notat; Hic satis est gemino bonus in sua crimina telo. Interea, quid erit, mi Pharisaee, tuis?

Nor even as this publican.

While thou too dost this wretch's sins confess, Which he with hand and tongue deplores no less; If he 'gainst his own crimes twice just will be, What thinks he meanwhile of the Pharisee? R. WI.

XXXV.

Accedentes Discipuli excitaverunt eum. Matt. viii. 25.

Ah, quis erat furor hos, tam raros, solvere somnos? O vos, queis Christi vel sopor invigilat! Illum si somnus tenuit, vos somnia terrent, Somnia tam vanos ingeminata metus. Nil Christi nocuit somnus, mihi credite. Somnus Qui nocuit, vestrae somnus erat fidei.

His Disciples came and awoke Him.

What madness this, slumbers so rare to break, O ye, for whom even Christ's sleep doth wake! If sleep held Him, ye're terrified by dreams-- Dreams which redouble fear that only seems. Christ's sleep nought injur'd you, indeed 'tis true: Your faith's sleep, and that only, injur'd you. R. WI.

XXXVI.

In mulierem Canaanaeam cum Domino decertantem. Matt. xv. 22-28.

Cedit io jam, jamque cadet modo, fortiter urge, Jam tua ni desit dextera, jamque cadet. Nimirum hoc velit ipse, tuo favet ipse triumpho, Ipse tuas tacitus res tuus hostis agit. Quas patitur facit ille manus; ictu ille sub omni est; Atque in te vires sentit, amatque suas. Usque adeo haud tuus hic ferus est, neque ferreus hostis; Usque adeo est miles non truculentus Amor. Illo quam facilis victoria surgit ab hoste, Qui, tantum ut vinci possit, in arma venit!

The woman of Canaan.

Now He yieldeth, now He falleth, As thy passion on Him calleth: Press thee nigher still and nigher, Urge thee higher still and higher; Cleave and cling, nor let thy hand Cease to plead, nor fearing stand. He thy triumph sees with gladness, Loves thee in thy clinging sadness; Seems thy foe, yet ne'ertheless Yearns in His heart of love to bless; Willing bears thy every blow, That from His own pow'r doth flow; Loves to hear thy interceding, His own voice within thee pleading. Ah, this seeming en'my of thine, Of fierceness giveth thee no sign; For Love no grim soldier is, Rough and severe, denying bliss. Eas'ly is that victory won, When the foe seeks to be undone. G.

XXXVII.

Quare comedit Magister vester cum peccatoribus, &c. Matt. ix. 11.

Siccine fraternos fastidis, improbe, morbos, Cum tuus, et gravior, te quoque morbus habet? Tantum ausus medicum morbus sibi quaerere, magnus; Tantum ausus medicum spernere, major erat.

Wherefore eateth your Master with sinners, &c.

Dost loathe thy brother, Pharisee, Since his disease to Christ he brings? And knowest not that all men see Disease to thee more deadly clings? That he dare seek Healer so great, Shows great his disease to be; That thou dar'st scorn on Him to wait, Shows a greater cleaves to thee. G.

XXXVIII.

In febricitantem et hydropicum sanatos. Marc. i. 30, 31; Luc. xiv. 2-4.

Nuper lecta gravem extinxit pia pagina febrem, Hydropi siccos dat modo lecta sinus. Haec vice fraterna quam se miracula tangunt, Atque per alternum fida juvamen amant! Quippe ignes istos his quam bene mersit in undis, Ignibus his illas quam bene vicit aquas!

Miracles of healing the men sick of fever and of dropsy.

We read within the sacred page Christ quench'd a fever's burning rage; Read that a dropsy's swollen flood Ebb'd at His word e'en as He stood. Well join'd these mir'cles each to other, As loving brother unto brother: How well these waters drown'd that flame, That fire these waters overcame! G.

XXXIX.

In S. Lucam medicum. Col. iv. 14.

Hanc, mihi quam miseram faciunt mea crimina vitam, Hanc, medici, longam vestra medela facit. Hoc'ne diu est vixisse? diu, mihi credite, non est Hoc vixisse; diu sed timuisse mori. Tu foliis, Medice alme, tuis medicamina praebes, Et medicaminibus, quae mala summa, malis. Hoc mortem bene vitare est, vitare ferendo. Et vixisse diu est hoc, cito posse mori.

To St. Luke the physician.

This life my sins with wretchedness make rife, Physicians by their art prolong this life. Is this to live long time? I hear one sigh; This is but fearing a long time to die. Thy leaves, Physician blest, medicines contain E'en for our medicines poor, our chiefest bane. This is to escape death well--in death to lie; And this is to live long--quickly to die. R. WI.

XL.

Tollat crucem suam, &c. Matt. xxvii. 32.

Ergo tuam pone; ut nobis sit sumere nostram: Si nostram vis nos sumere, pone tuam. Illa, illa, ingenti quae te trabe duplicat, illa Vel nostra est, nostras vel tulit illa cruces.

He bears His own cross, &c.

Wherefore Thy cross, O Lord, lay down, That we our own may make it: If ours Thou willest us to own, Thine, Lord, lay down; we'll take it: That, that, I say, with its huge beam, Which Thy prest body doubles; That cross, e'en that, our own we deem, For it has borne our troubles. Our sin Thy burden sendeth; Thy cross our crosses blendeth. G.

XLI.

In cygneam D. Jesu cantionem. Joan. xvii.

Quae mella, o quot, Christe, favos in carmina fundis! Dulcis et, ah furias! ah, moribundus olor! Parce tamen, minus hae si sunt mea gaudia voces: Voce quidem dulci, sed moriente canis.

Upon our Lord's last comfortable discourse with His disciples.

All Hybla's honey, all that sweetnesse can, Flowes in Thy song, O faire, O dying Swan! Yet is the joy I take in't small or none; It is too sweet to be a long-liv'd one. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION. On the swan-song of our Lord Jesus.

What songs, like honeycomb, your tongue employ, Sweet Swan! but ah, Thou waitest for Death's call. O cease; these sounds are but a doubtful joy; 'Tis a sweet voice, but has a dying fall. G.

XLII.

Et conspuebant illum. Marc. xiv. 65.

Quid non tam foede saevi maris audeat ira? Conspuit ecce oculos, sydera nostra, tuos. Forsan et hic aliquis sputo te excaecat, Jesu, Qui debet sputo, quod videt ipse, tuo.

And they spat upon Him.

What will Wrath's sea, so foully fierce, not dare? It spits upon our stars, Thy eyes so fair. Perchance e'en here some one now spits on Thee Who to Thy spittle owes it, he doth see. G.

XLIII.

Rogavit eum, ut descenderet et sanaret filium suum. Joan. iv. 47.

Ille ut eat tecum, in natique tuique salutem? Qui petis; ah nescis, credo, quod ales Amor. Ille ut eat tecum? quam se tua vota morantur! Ille ut eat? tanto serius esset ibi. Ne tardus veniat, Christus tecum ire recusat: Christi nempe ipsum hoc ire moratur iter. Christi nempe viis perit hoc quodcunque meatur: Christi nempe viis vel properare mora est. Hic est, cui tu vota facis tua, Christus: at idem, Crede mihi, dabit haec qui rata, Christus ibi est.

He besought that He would go with him and heal his son.

That He would go with thee thou pleadest, As for thy child thou intercedest. Ah, little knowest thou how Love, Such as descendeth from Above, Swifter far is than feet can go, Or any motion here below. 'Go with thee?' O how strange request! Thou wouldst later then be blest. That He may not slowlier come, Christ will not travel with thee home, For so to 'go' were to delay; All paths unneeded by The Way. Christ to Whom thou speakest pleading, Christ with Whom thou'rt interceding, He is here, and yet is yonder, Swift as is the bolt of thunder: He thy heart's desire will give; Have thou faith, thy child shall live. G.

XLIV.

Pavor enim occupaverat eum super capturam piscium. Luc. v. 9.

Dum nimium in captis per te, Petre, piscibus haeres, Piscibus, ut video, captus es ipse tuis. Rem scio, te praedam Christus sibi cepit: et illi Una in te ex istis omnibus esca fuit.

For dread came upon him at the great draught of fishes.

Whilst, Peter, thou art so astonished At thy draught of fishes, Methinks thyself by them art captive led: Christ to catch thee wishes, So as one bait He setteth all these fishes. G.

XLV.

Viderunt et oderunt me. Joan. xv. 24.

Vidit? et odit adhuc? Ah, te non vidit, Jesu. Non vidit te, qui vidit, et odit adhuc. Non vidit, te non vidit, dulcissime rerum; In te qui vidit quid, quod amare neget.

But now they have seen and hated.

Seene, and yet hated Thee? They did not see; They saw Thee not, that saw and hated Thee: No, no, they saw Thee not, O Life, O Love, Who saw aught in Thee that their hate could move. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

See Thee, Lord, and hated still? Ah, that were impossible: See and hate? He saw Thee never Who could see, nor love for ever. O Thou, the all-lovely One, He hath had no vision Who can see and hate; for why, Speck nor stain may none descry In Thy lowly, lofty Face, Full of sweetness, love, and grace. G.

XLVI.

Luc. xviii. 39.

Tu mala turba tace; mihi tam mea vota propinquant, Tuque in me linguam vis tacuisse meam? Tunc ego, tunc taceam, mihi cum meus Ille loquetur. Si nescis, oculos vox habet ista meos. O noctis miserere meae, miserere, per illam, Quae tam laeta tuo ridet in ore diem. O noctis miserere meae, miserere, per illam, Quae, nisi te videat, nox velit esse, diem. O noctis miserere meae, miserere, per illam, Haec mea quam, fidei, nox habet ipsa, diem. Illa dies animi, Jesu, rogat hanc oculorum: Illam, oro, dederis; hanc mihi ne rapias.

The blind suppliant.

Be silent, crowd: my prayers so near me come, And do you bid my pleading tongue be dumb Before my Lord to me His speech, etc.[90]

ANOTHER VERSION.

Silence, silence, O vile crowd; Yea, I will now cry aloud: He comes near, Who is to me Light and life and liberty. Silence seek ye? yes, I'll be Silent when He speaks to me, He my Hope; ah, meek and still, I shall 'bide His holy will. O crowd, ye it may surprise, But His voice holdeth my eyes: O have pity on my night, By the day that gives glad light; O have pity on my night, By the day would lose its light, If it gat not of Thee sight; O have pity on my night, By day of faith upspringing bright; That day within my soul that burns, And for eyes' day unto Thee turns. Lord, O Lord, give me this day, Nor do Thou take that away. G.

XLVII.

In Pharisaeos Christi verbis insidiantes. Matt. xxii. 15.

O quam te miseri ludunt vaga taedia voti, Ex ore hoc speras qui, Pharisaee, malum! Sic quis ab Aurorae noctem speraverit ulnis, Unde solet primis Sol tener ire rosis? Sic Acheronta petas illinc unde amne corusco Lactea sydereos Cynthia lavit equos. Sic violas aconita roges: sic toxica nympham, Garrula quae vitreo gurgite vexat humum. Denique, ut exemplo res haec propriore patescat, A te sic speret quis, Pharisaee, bonum?

The Pharisees insidiously watching the words of Christ.

O self-baffl'd Pharisee, Vainly dost thou weary thee, Hoping at His holy mouth To catch other than the Truth: Stainless, holy, pure is He, Guileless as Simplicity. Who would e'er expect black Night In the bosom of the Light, When the young sun in splendour burns, And the dawn to roses turns? Who, again, would seek to mark Acheron plunging i' the dark, Where white Cynthia's starry steeds Lave them by the glitt'ring meads? Who would aconite think to get From the fragrant violet? Or, watching by the babbling rill Gushing in pureness from the hill, Think thence poison to distil? In fine, instance nearer thee-- Would any ever hope to see Aught of good in Pharisee? G.

XLVIII.

Matt. ix. 20.

Falleris, et nudum male ponis, pictor, Amorem; Non nudum facis hunc, cum sine veste facis. Nonne hic est, dum sic digito patet ille fideli, Tunc cum vestitus, tunc quoque nudus Amor?

Touched the hem of His garment.

Erringly, painter, thou portrayst Love bare: Not bare you make him, though no clothes he wear. Here, while laid open to believing hand, Though clothed indeed, bare truly see Him stand. R. WI.

XLIX.

Tolle oculos, tolle, o tecum tua sydera nostros. Ah quid enim, quid agant hic sine sole suo? Id quod agant sine sole suo tua sydera, coelum: Id terrae haec agerent hic sine sole suo. Illa suo sine sole suis caeca imbribus essent: Caeca suis lacrymis haec sine sole suo.

The departing Saviour.

O take, take with Thee, Lord, Thy stars, our eyes; What would they do left here without their sun? E'en what your sunless stars would do, ye skies, Would here by sunless stars of earth be done. Without their sun, those dark with showers we see; These without sun, dark with their tears would be. R. WI.

L.

Nam ego non solum vinciri, &c. Act. xxi. 13.

Quid mortem objicitis nostro, quid vinc'la timori? Non timor est illinc, non timor inde meus. Vincula, quae timeam, sunt vincula sola timoris: Sola timenda mihi est mors, timuisse mori.

Paul unfearing.

Why talk of death or bonds to me, As if these things a fear could be? My fear springeth not from thence; Nor in these is influence Me to trouble or alarm, Me to fret, or me to harm. The only bonds that fearful are Are the bonds themselves of fear; The only death looks dreadfully, Is lest I should fear to die. G.

LI.

Legatio Baptistae ad Christum. Matt. xi.

Oro, quis es? legat ista suo Baptista Magistro. Illi quae referant, talia Christus habet. Cui caecus cernit, mutus se in verba resolvit, It claudus, vivit mortuus: oro, quis est?

The message of the Baptist to Christ.

I ask, Who art Thou? is the Baptist's word. Straight from his Master this reply is heard: He by whose mighty power dumb speak, blind see, Lame walk, dead live: Who is This? I ask thee. R. WI.

LII.

Accipe dona, puer, parvae libamina laudis; Accipe, non meritis accipienda suis: Accipe dona, puer dulcis; dumque accipis illa, Digna quoque efficies, quae, puer, accipies. Sive oculo, sive illa tua dignabere dextra; Dextram oculumque dabis posse decere tuum. Non modo es in dantes, sed et ipsa in dona benignus; Nec tantum donans das, sed et accipiens.

Gifts to Jesus.

Take, Lord, these gifts, small offerings of our hand, Though their own worth acceptance none command. Take, and while taking them, Thou Saviour sweet. E'en what Thou takest, Thou wilt render meet. Whether Thou deem them worthy eye or touch, Thou wilt be able, Lord, to make them such: Kind e'en to gifts themselves, as to those giving, Thou givest both when giving and receiving. R. WI.

LIII.

In partum B. Virginis non difficilem.

Nec facta est tamen illa parens impune, quod almi Tam parcens uteri venerit ille puer. Una haec nascentis quodcunque pepercerit hora. Toto illum vitae tempore parturiit. Gaudia parturientis erat semel ille parenti; Quotidie gemitus parturientis erat.

On the blessed Virgin's easy parturition.

Not lightly she escap'd a mother's doom, Although her Child dealt gently with her womb: Whate'er was spar'd at the one hour of birth, She travail'd with Him all His time on earth: The joy of childbirth quickly pass'd away; She felt the pangs of childbirth every day. R. WI.

LIV.

Circulus hic similem quam par sibi pergit in orbem! Principiumque suum quam bene finis amat! Virgineo thalamo quam pulchre convenit ille, Quo nemo jacuit, virgineus tumulus! Undique ut haec aequo passu res iret; et ille Josepho desponsatus, et ille fuit.

Upon our Saviour's tombe, wherein never man was laid.

How life and death in Thee Agree! Thou hadst a virgin wombe And tombe: A Joseph did betroth Them both. CR.

ANOTHER VERSION.

See how a circle tends, Beginning as it ends: Behold a virgin womb; Behold a virgin tomb; Behold, and wonder at the truth, A Joseph was espous'd to both! G.

LV.

In Sanctum igneis linguis descendentem Spiritum. Act. ii. 3.

Absint, qui ficto simulant pia pectora vultu, Ignea quos luteo pectore lingua beat. Hoc potius mea vota rogant, mea thura petessunt, Ut mihi sit mea mens ignea, lingua luti.

On the Holy Spirit descending in fiery tongues.

Begone, who goodness feign with a false face, Whom fiery tongues in earthy bosom grace. This rather all my prayers and gifts desire, A tongue of earth, if but my heart be fire. R. WI.

LVI.

LIFE FOR DEATH.[91]

Whosoever will loose his life, &c. Matt. xvi. 25.

Soe I may gaine Thy death, my life I'le giue,-- My life's Thy death, and in Thy death I liue; Or else, my life, I'le hide thee in His graue, By three daies losse aeternally to saue. CR.

LVII.

ON THE DIVINE LOVE: AFTER H. HUGO.[92]

In amorem divinum (Hermannus Hugo).

Aeternall Loue! what 'tis to loue Thee well, None but himselfe who feeles it, none can tell. But oh, what to be lou'd of Thee as well, None, not himselfe who feeles it, none can tell. CR.

Latin Poems.

PART FIRST. SACRED. III.

PART FIRST. SACRED.

III.

HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED.

1648.

NOTE.

Whether intentionally, or with his usual carelessness, the two following important and characteristic Poems are not given in Turnbull's edition; and they seem entirely to have escaped the knowledge of even admirers of Crashaw. They appeared originally in the 'Steps of the Temple' of 1648 (pp. 103-105), and were naturally excluded from the Paris collection of 1652, and overlooked in the edition of 1670. See their biographic significance in our Essay in the present Volume. For the second translation (viz. of Baptismus &c.) I tender thanks to my good friend Rev. J.H. Clark, M.A., as before; the other and somewhat difficult one (Fides &c.) I have myself done. G.

FIDES, QUAE SOLA JUSTIFICAT, NON EST SINE SPE ET DILECTIONE.

Nam neque tam sola est. O quis male censor amarus Jam socias negat in mutua sceptra manus? Deme Fidem; nec aget, nec erit jam nomen Amoris: Et vel erit, vel aget quid sine Amore Fides? Ergo, Amor, i, morere; i, magnas, Puer alme, per umbras 5 Elysiis non tam numen inane locis. O bene, quod pharetra hoc saltem tua praestat et arcus, Ne tibi in extremos sit pyra nulla rogos! O bene, quod tuus has saltem tibi providet ignis, In tu quas possis funera ferre faces! 10 Durus es, ah, quisquis tam dulcia vincula solvis; Quae ligat, et quibus est ipse ligatus Amor. O bene junctarum divortia saeva sororum, Tam penitus mixtas quae tenuere manus! Nam quae, tam varia, in tam mutua viscera vivunt? 15 Aut ubi, quae duo sunt, tam prope sunt eadem? Alternis sese circum amplectuntur in ulnis: Extraque et supra, subter et intus eunt. Non tam Nympha tenax, Baccho jam mista marito, Abdidit in liquidos mascula vina sinus. 20 Compare jam dempto, saltem sua murmura servat Turtur, et in viduos vivit amara modos. At Fidei sit demptus Amor; non illa dolebit, Non erit impatiens aegraque; jam moritur. Palma, marem cui tristis hyems procul abstulit umbram, 25 Protinus in viridem procubuit faciem? Undique circumfert caput, omnibus annuit Euris; Siqua maritalem misceat aura comam: Ah misera, expectat longum, lentumque expirat, Et demum totis excutitur foliis. 30 At sine Amore Fides nec tantum vivere perstat, Quo dici possit vel moritura Fides. Mortua jam nunc est: nisi demum mortua non est Corporea haec, anima deficiente, domus. Corpore ab hoc Fidei hanc animam si demis Amoris, 35 Jam tua sola quidem est, sed male sola Fides. Hectore ab hoc, currus quem jam nunc sentit Achillis, Hectora eum speres quem modo sensit herus? Tristes exuvias, Oetaei frusta furoris, Vanus, in Alcidae nomen et acta vocas? 40 Vel satis in monstra haec, plus quam Nemeaea, malorum Hoc Fidei torvum et triste cadaver erit? Immo, Fidem usque suos velut ipse Amor ardet amores; Sic in Amore fidem comprobat ipsa Fides.

ERGO:

Illa Fides vacua quae sola superbiat aula, 45 Quam Spes desperet, quam nee amabit Amor; Sola Fides haec, tam misere, tam desolate Sola, quod ad nos est, sola sit usque licet. A sociis quae sola suis, a se quoque sola est. Quae sibi tam nimia est, sit mihi nulla Fides. 50

NOTE.

In line 10 we have corrected an evident but long-continued misprint in the original text of 'In tu aquas' by reading 'In tu quas,' and translate accordingly. G.

TRANSLATION.

FAITH, WHICH ALONE JUSTIFIES,

EXISTS NOT WITHOUT HOPE AND LOVE.

That Faith which only justifies A sinner as in guilt he lies, Bow'd aneath the awful blood, Clinging to the uplifted rood, Is not alone so as nor Love Nor heavenly Hope may in it move, To thrill with touch of ecstasy The bruised heart, the swimming eye. What, censor! bitter to ill end, Dost thou thy dogma still defend? And wouldest thou to hands allied Mutual sceptres see denied, Snapping betwixt Faith and Love The tie that binds them from Above? I tell thee nay, stone-hearted one, The Faith of Christ is not alone: Take Faith away, and Love will sigh; Take Hope away, and Faith will die; Take Faith away, Love will do naught; Take Love away, and Faith's distraught: For I tell thee, vain sophister, They're as sister unto sister. But mark, this Love that brings Faith joy Is not blind Cupid. Ah, bright Boy, Begone; thou shalt not, wouldst thou, stay; Go, get thee swift from light o' day; Go, get thee now to the vast shades, And there indulge thy escapades: Thou in Elysian realms mayst reign A fitting deity, not vain: Go therefore, and with thee thy bow And quiver. Well it is below That these for thee shall form a pyre, To which thy torch will furnish fire. But, ah, thou hast a heart of stone, Who wouldest make Faith live alone, Loos'ning the sweet ties Love has found To bind Faith to her, herself bound. O, it is cruel thus to sever Sisters whom God hath joined ever; Whose clasped hands so closely cling, E'en as vine-tendrils ring on ring: You may not tell there's more than one, So absolute the union. Where shall you find beneath the sky Two differing so variously, And yet each life in other bound, Touch one, the other you shall wound: Or where, 'mid all the pairs on earth, Twins through marriage or through birth, Shall you find two so truly one? Arms twining in affection, They clasp each other, chin to chin, Above, below, without, within, Embracing and embrac'd by turns; Yet not with such wild-fire as burns In Lust's hot touch, and clasp and grasp Eager and stinging as tongue of asp. Not so closely interwine The graceful Elm and clinging Vine, When to bosom of the tree Bacchus' clusters prest you see, And the Nymph the fruit receives, And hides it amid dewy leaves; Ev'n as the poets tell of old, In legends of the Age of Gold. Faith and Love know no such flame, Their pure twining brings no shame; Look for taint, you'll find it missing: 'Tis as flower flower kissing; Or twin-roses dewy dripping, And twin-bees their honey sipping. The Turtle-dove, robb'd of her mate, Pines and mourns disconsolate; Yet still lives on in widow'd grief, Knowing at times Hope's sweet relief. But Faith when once of Love bereft Loses her all, has nothing left; Nor mourns nor frets nor pales--she's dead, Struck to the heart astonied. The Palm that by the wintry blast Sees her companion-tree downcast, Whose mighty shadow o'er her threw Protection when the fierce storm blew; Her umbrage sheds, and quivering Seeks that some fav'ring wind would bring Her branches with his boughs to mingle, Since she is left in sadness, single; Wretched, she wears and wastes away, Leaf following leaf in wan decay, Until at last, naked and bare, She shivers in the piercing air; And when the Spring comes, Winter sped, 'Tis vain to call her--she is dead! But when Love from Faith is gone, Faith lingers not still on and on; That while her form yet meets your eye, You can pronounce 'She'll surely die.' SHE'S DEAD i' the instant: or you will Maintain a stark corpse liveth still, Whose soul has pass'd beyond the sky, Sunder'd until the last great Cry. Faith is the body, Love the soul; Take Love from it, you take the whole: Now, now indeed thy Faith's alone, But being alone, lo, it is none. To make it clear, turn Homer's page That paints Achilles' hate and rage, When, having mighty Hector slain, He dragg'd him dead over the plain-- That Hector whom the chariot feels Dragg'd helpless, lifeless at its wheels, Was it the same who, with proud crest, That chariot's lord had lately prest, Eager the victory to wrest? Hercules' name and deeds dost see In Oeta's bloody tragedy, When dead the mighty hero lay, Of jealousy the poison'd prey. His living strength the lion slew, And hide Nemaean round him threw: 'Gainst more than lion-rage of Death Dost summon the sad corpse of Faith? Sure Love with love for Faith will burn, While Faith herself trusts Love in turn.

THEREFORE:

That Faith alone, lording it high, Which Hope despairs of, and with cry Of anguish Love can never love, Is not the Faith sent from Above: The Faith that thus would be alone, What is't to us--desolate, lone? Faith then, that loved will not love Nor hope--may no such Faith me move! But ever in my bosom lie Faith, Hope, and Love in trinity: Yea, Love himself shall Faith's best lover prove, And Faith confirm his strongest faith in Love. G.

BAPTISMUS NON TOLLIT FUTURA PECCATA.

Quisquis es ille tener modo quem tua mater[93] Achilles In Stygis aethereae provida tinxit aquis, Sanus, sed non securus dimitteris illinc: In nova non tutus vulnera vivis adhuc. Mille patent aditus; et plus quam calce petendus 5 Ad nigri metues spicula mille dei. Quod si est vera salus, veterem meminisse salutem; Si nempe hoc vere est esse, fuisse pium; Illa tibi veteres navis quae vicerat Austros, Si manet in mediis usque superstes aquis; 10 Ac dum tu miseros in littore visis amicos, Et peccatorum triste sodalitium, Illa tibi interea tutis trahet otia velis, Expectans donec tu rediisse queas: Quin igitur da vina, puer; da vivere vitae; 15 Mitte suum senibus, mitte supercilium; Donemus timide, o socii, sua frigora brumae: Aeternae teneant hic nova regna rosae. Ah, non tam tetricos sic eluctabimur Euros; Effractam non est sic revocare ratem. 20 Has undas aliis decet ergo extinguere in undis; Naufragium hoc alio immergere naufragio: Possit ut ille malis oculus modo naufragus undis, Jam lacrymis melius naufragus esse suis.

TRANSLATION.

BAPTISM CANCELS NOT AFTER-SINS.

O young Achilles, whom a mother's care Hath dipp'd as in a sacred Stygian wave; Whole, but yet not secure, thou hence dost fare, For there are wounds from which it will not save. A thousand ways of entrance open lie For evil; not alone against thy heel The prince of darkness in his rage lets-fly The thousand arrows thou mayst dread to feel. But if remember'd health may still have given True health, and to have been is still to be, Thou seem'st as one whose bark, by storms unriven, Still rides, as yet unconquer'd, on the sea; And, while on shore thy friends thou visitest, And the sad company of them that sin, With furled sails upon the waves at rest, Thy bark floats idly till thou art within. But if for this thou criest overbold, 'Bring wine! enjoy the moment as it goes; Leave to old age its cares; dismiss the cold, While in new realms for ever reigns the rose!' Ah, know that not in revels such as these Learn we to struggle with the spiteful gale; Nor thus can hope to rescue from rough seas The broken cable and the driven sail. These waves must in another wave be wash'd, This shipwreck in another shipwreck drown'd; The eye in such ill storms so vilely dashed, A happier wreck in its own tears be found. CL.

Latin Poems.

PART FIRST. SACRED. IV.

PART FIRST. SACRED.

IV.

NEVER BEFORE PRINTED.

NOTE.

The Sancroft MS., as before, furnishes the following hitherto unprinted longer Poems, which I place under SACRED, as being throughout in subject and treatment such. The Rev. RICHARD WILTON, M.A., as before, has at once the praise and responsibility of the translations in the whole of this section. G.

PSALMUS I.

O te te nimis et nimis beatum, Quem non lubricus implicavit error; Nec risu misero procax tumultus. Tu cum grex sacer undique execrandis Strident consiliis, nec aure felix; Felix non animo, vel ore mixtus, Haud intelligis impios susurros. Sed tu deliciis ferox repostis Cultu simplice, sobriaque cura Legem numinis usque et usque volvis. Laeta sic fidas colit arbor undas, Quem immiti violentus aura Seirius frangit, neque contumacis.

NOTE.

This fragment of a Latin rendering of the first Psalm may be compared with BUCHANAN'S, but, I fear, not to its advantage. It were superfluous to give a translation of it; but see the parallel which follows. G.

IRA PROCELLAE.

At tu, profane pulvis, et lusus sacer Cujusvis aurae; fronte qua tandem feres Vindex tribunal? quanta tum, et qualis tuae Moles procellae stabit? O quam ferreo Frangere nutu, praeda frontis asperae, Sacrique fulminandus ah procul, procul A luce vultus, aureis procul a locis, Ubi longa gremio mulcet aeterno pios. Sincera semper pax, et umbrosa super Insurgit ala, vividique nectaris Imbres beatos rore perpetuo pluit. Sic ille, sic, o vindice, stat vigil, Et stabit ira torvus in impios, Seseque sub mentes bonorum Insinuat facili favore.

TRANSLATION.

THE WRATH OF THE JUDGMENT-WHIRLWIND.

But thou, O dust profane, and of each air The plaything doom'd, with what face wilt thou bear The Judgment-throne? how huge a stormy cloud Will lower upon thee! how wilt thou be bow'd With iron nod, the prey of frowning Face, By thunder to be driven far off, apace, From light of sacred Countenance! afar From golden regions, where the righteous are, Sooth'd in pure Peace's lap eterne, whose wing Towers high above them, overshadowing; While happy showers of nectar sweet imbue Their lips, as with an everlasting dew. The wicked so His watchful ire will learn, And cower 'neath God's avenging countenance stern; The righteous so His love divine will feel With gentle lapse into their bosom steal. R. WI.

CHRISTE, VENI.

Ergo veni; quicunque ferant tua signa timores, Quae nos cunque vocant tristia, Christe, veni. Christe, veni; suus avulsum rapiat labor axem, Nec sinat implicitas ire redire vias; Mutuus attonito titubet sub foedere mundus, Nec natura vagum dissona volvat opus. Christe, veni; roseos ultra remeare per ortus Nolit, et ambiguos Sol trahat aeger equos. Christe, veni; ipsa suas patiatur Cynthia noctes, Plus quam Thessalico tincta tremore genas; Astrorum mala caesaries per inane dolendum Gaudeat, horribili flore repexa caput; Sole sub invito subitae vis improba noctis Corripiat solitam, non sua jura, diem; Importuna dies, nec Eoi conscia pacti, Per desolatae murmura noctis eat. Christe, veni; tonet Oceanus pater, et sua nolit Claustra vagi montes sub nova sceptra meent. Christe, veni; quodcunque audet metus, audeat ultra Fata id agant, quod agant; tu modo, Christe, veni. Christe, veni; quacunque venis mercede malorum. Quanti hoc constiterit cunque venire, veni. Teque tuosque oculos tanti est potuisse videre! O tanti est te vel sic potuisse frui! Quicquid id est, veniat. TU MODO, CHRISTE, VENI.

TRANSLATION.

EVEN SO: COME, LORD JESUS.

O come; whatever fears Thy standards carry, Or sorrows summon us, Lord, do not tarry. Come, Lord; though labouring heaven whirl from its place, And its perplexed paths no more can trace; Though sympathising earth astonied reel, And nature jarred cease its round to wheel. Come, Lord; though sun refuse with rosy beam To rise, and sickly drives a doubtful team. Come, Lord; though moon look more aghast at night Than when her cheeks with panic fear are white; Though ominous comets through the dolorous air Hurtle, and round their brow dread fire-wreaths wear; Though spite of struggling sun Night's sudden sway Impious and lawless seize the accustom'd day; Mistimed Day, mindless of eastern glow, Through moanings of forsaken Night should go. Come, Lord; though father Ocean roars and lowers, That his mov'd mountain-bars own other powers. Come, Lord; whate'er Fear dares, e'en let it dare; Let Fates do what they will, be Thou but there. Come, Lord; with whate'er recompense of ill, Whate'er Thy coming cost, O come, Lord, still. Thee and Thine eyes, O what 'twill be to see! Thee to enjoy e'en so, what will that be! Let come what will, do Thou, Lord, only come. R. WI.

CIRCUMCISIO.

Ah ferus, ah culter, qui tam bona lilia primus In tam crudeles jussit abire rosas; Virgineum hoc qui primus ebur violavit ab ostro, Inque sui instituit muricis ingenium. Scilicet hinc olim quicunque cucurrerit amnis, Ex hoc purpurei germine fontis erit. Scilicet hunc mortis primum puer accipit unguem, Injiciunt hodie fata, furorque manus. Ecce illi sanguis fundi jam coepit; et ecce Qui fundi possit, vix bene sanguis erat; Excitat e dolio vix dum bene musta recenti, Atque rudes furias in nova membra vocat. Improbus, ut nimias jam nunc accingitur iras, Armaque non molli sollicitanda manu; Improbus, ut teneras audet jam ludere mortes, Et vitae ad modulum, quid puerile mori; Improbus, ut tragici impatiens praeludia fati Ornat, et in socco jam negat ire suo: Scilicet his pedibus manus haec meditata cothurnos? Haec cum blanditiis mens meditata minas? Haec tam dura brevem decuere crepundia dextram? Dextra giganteis haec satis apta genis? Sic cunis miscere cruces? cumque ubere matris Commisisse neces et scelus et furias? Quo ridet patri, hoc tacite quoque respicit hastam, Quoque oculo matrem mulcet, in arma redit. Dii superi, furit his oculis! hoc asper in ore est! Dat Marti vultus, quos sibi mallet Amor. Deliciae irarum! torvi, tenera agmina, risus! Blande furor! terror dulcis! amande metus! Praecocis in paenas pueri lascivia tristis! Cruda rudimenta! et torva tyrocinia! Jam parcum breviusque brevi pro corpore vulnus, Proque brevi brevior vulnere sanguis eat: Olim, cum nervi vitaeque ferocior haustus Materiam morti luxuriemque dabunt; Olim maturos ultro conabitur imbres; Robustum audebit tunc solidumque mori. Ergo illi, nisi qui in saevos concreverit usus, Nec nisi quem possit fundere, sanguis erit? Euge, puer trux! euge tamen mitissime rerum! Quique tibi tantum trux potes esse, puer? Euge tibi trux! euge mihi mitissime rerum! Euge Leo mitis! trux sed et Agne tamen! Macte, puer, macte hoc tam durae laudis honore! Macte, o paenarum hac indole et ingenio! Ah ferus, ah culter, sub quo, tam docte dolorum, In tristem properas sic, puer, ire virum. Ah ferus, ah culter, sub quo, puer auree, crescis, Mortis proficiens hac quasi sub ferula.

TRANSLATION.

THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST.

Ah, fierce, fierce knife, which such sweet lilies first Into such cruel roses made to burst; Which first this ivory pure with purple stain'd, And in the white a deeper dye engrain'd. Whatever stream hereafter hence shall flow, Out of this purple fountain-head shall grow. Now first this tender Child Death's talons knows, The Fates and Fury now hurl their first blows. See now His blood begins to pour; and see Scarce blood enough to pour there seems to be. Scarce wise to broach the new wine from the wood, And 'gainst those young limbs call the Furies rude. Wanton, e'en now He girds on woes too much, And arms not to be tried by such soft touch: Wanton, He dares at gentle deaths to play, And for His age to die, as a child may: Wanton, beforehand acts His tragic woe, Restless, refusing in child-step to go. Buskins is this hand shaping for those feet, And does this mind plan threats with coaxings sweet? Such playthings stern does this small hand bespeak, And is it match'd with giant's iron cheek? To mingle cross with cradle, mother's breast With slaughter, wickedness, and rage unblest? His smiling eye now glances at the spear, And turns to arms from soothing mother dear. God, with such face to frown, such eyes to rage! War wins the looks which Love would fain engage. O winsome angers! savage smiles--mild brood-- Soft rage, sweet terror, awe which might be woo'd! Sad wanton forwardness of Child for woes; Harsh rudiments, stern training which He chose! Now scantier wound for scanty body show, And scantier blood for scanty wound let now. Soon, when His strength and deeper draught of breath Shall furnish food luxuriously for Death, 'Twill be His pleasure then full showers to try, Then will He strongly, wholly dare to die. No blood but what to cruel use will grow To Him belongs, or what He can bid flow. Ah, cruel Child, though of all things most mild, Yet to Thyself Thou canst be cruel, Child; To Thyself cruel, but most mild to me; A Lion mild, a pitiless Lamb here see. Long, long may this stern praise Thine honour lift, A faculty for woes[94] and innate gift. Fierce knife, from which experience sharp He borrows, While the Child hastes to grow the Man of Sorrows; Fierce knife, 'neath which Thou draw'st Thy golden breath, Advancing as 'twere 'neath the rod of Death. R. WI.

VIRGO.

Ne, pia, ne nimium, Virgo, permitte querelis: Haud volet, haud poterit natus abesse diu. Nam quid eum teneat? vel quae magis oscula vellet? Vestri illum indigenam quid vetet esse sinus? Quippe illis quae labra genis magis apta putentur? Quaeve per id collum dignior ire manus? His sibi quid speret puer ambitiosius ulmo, Quove sub amplexu dulcius esse queat? O quae tam teneram sibi vitis amicior ulmum Implicet, alternis nexibus immoriens? Cui circum subitis eat impatientior ulnis? Aut quae tam nimiis vultibus ora notet? Quae tam prompta puer toties super oscula surgat? Qua signet gemma nobiliore genam? Illa ubi tam vernis adolescat mitius auris, Tamve sub apricis pendeat uva jugis? Illi qua veniat languor tam gratus in umbra? Commodius sub quo murmure somnus agat? O ubi tam charo, tam casto in carcere regnet, Maternoque simul virgineoque sinu, Ille ut ab his fugiat, nec tam bona gaudia vellet? Ille ut in hos possit non properare sinus? Ille sui tam blanda sinus patrimonia spernet? Haeres tot factus tam bene deliciis? Ne tantum, ne Diva, tuis permitte querelis: Quid dubites? Non est hic fugitivus Amor.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE VIRGIN MARY,

ON LOSING THE CHILD JESUS.

Not, not too much, Virgin, to plaints give way; Nor will, nor can, thy Son long from thee stay. Why should He? Where so love to be carest? What could prevent His nestling in thy breast? What lips more suited to those cheeks divine? What hand to clasp that neck more fit than thine? What could He hope more clinging than these arms? Or what embraces e'er possess such charms? What kindlier vine its tender elm around Could twine, in mutual folds e'en dying found? To whom with sudden arms more eager go? Who on this face such yearning glances throw? Where 'mid such quick-rain'd kisses could He wake?' Whence His prest cheek a nobler ruby take? Where could that grape ripen in airs more mild, Or hang 'neath hills where suns so sweetly smil'd? Where could such grateful languor o'er Him creep, Or what more soothing murmur lull to sleep? Where could He reign in nook so chaste, so dear, As in this Mother's, Virgin's bosom here? Could He fly hence, and such blest joys decline, And could He help hastening to breast of thine? This balmy bosom's heritage not share, Of such delights so easily made heir? Nay, Lady, nay; thy loud complainings stay; Be cheer'd: this is no Love that flies away. R. WI.

APOCALYPSE XII. 7.

Arma, viri! aetheriam quocunque sub ordine pubem Siderei proceres ducitis; arma, viri! Quaeque suis, nec queis solita est, stet dextra sagittis; Stet gladii saeva luce corusca sui. Totus adest, totisque movet se major in iris, Fertque Draco, quicquid vel Draco ferre potest. Quas secum facies, imae mala pignora noctis; Quot secum nigros ducit in arma deos. Jam pugnas parat, heu saevus! jam pugnat, et ecce, Vix potui 'Pugnat' dicere, jam cecidit. His tamen ah nimium est quod frontibus addidit iras; Quod potuit rugas his posuisse genis. Hoc torvum decus est, tumidique ferocia fati, Quod magni sceleris mors quoque magna fuit. Quod neque, si victus, jaceat victoria vilis; Quod meruit multi fulminis esse labor; Quod queat ille suas hoc inter dicere flammas: 'Arma tuli frustra: sed tamen arma tuli.'

TRANSLATION.

WAR IN HEAVEN.

Rev. xii. 7.

To arms, ye starry chieftains all, who lead The youth of heaven to war--to arms, with speed! Let each right-hand its untried arrows grasp, Or its own fiercely-gleaming falchion clasp. He is all here, and mightier in his wrath, The Dragon brings all powers the Dragon hath: Strange forms, curst children of the deepest Night-- What dusky gods he marshals to the fight! Now he makes ready, fights now, fierce as hell! Scarce could I say 'He fights,' when, lo, he fell. Ah, 'twas too much to scar with wrath these faces, And leave on angel-cheeks such furrow'd traces. 'Tis his grim boast and proudly-swelling fate, That of a great crime e'en the end was great: If vanquish'd, that 'twas no mean victory; Much bolted thunder there requir'd to be; That with these words his fiery pains he charms: 'Arms I bore vainly; but I did bear arms.' R. WI.

NOTE.

See our Essay, as before, for relation of this poem to the Sospetto d' Herode, and others. G.

NON ACCIPIMUS BREVEM VITAM,

SED FACIMUS.

Ergo tu luges nimium citatam Circulo vitam properante volvi? Tu Deos parcos gemis, ipse cum sis Prodigus aevi? Ipse quod perdis, quereris perire? Ipse tu pellis, sed et ire ploras? Vita num servit tibi? servus ipse Cedet abactus. Est fugax vitae, fateor, fluentum: Prona sed clivum modo det voluptas, Amne proclivi magis, et fugace Labitur unda. Fur Sopor magnam hinc, oculos recludens, Surripit partem, ruit inde partem Temporis magnam spolium reportans Latro voluptas. Tu creas mortes tibi mille, et aeva Plura quo perdas, tibi plura poscis......

TRANSLATION.

WE DO NOT RECEIVE, BUT MAKE, A SHORT LIFE.

Dost thou lament that life, urg'd-on too quickly, Rolls round its course in hasting revolution? Dost blame the thrifty gods, when thou thyself art Lavish of lifetime? What thyself wastest, mourn'st thou if it perish? Dost drive it from thee, but deplore it going? Is life thy servant? Sooth, a very servant Turn'd off departeth. Life's stream is fleeting--I confess it--always; But once let Pleasure yield an easy incline, With headlong wave and with more fleeting current Onward it glideth. Sleep, the thief, closing drowsy eyelids, snatcheth One mighty portion; while as large a portion Pleasure, the robber, carries off unchalleng'd-- Time's precious gold-dust. Thou for thyself a thousand deaths createst; And the more lifetimes thou dost spend in folly, So many more in lieu of them demandest; Wasting and wanting. R. WI.

DE SANGUINE MARTYRUM.

Felices, properatis io, properatis, et altam Vicistis gyro sub breviore viam. Vos per non magnum vestri mare sanguinis illuc Cymba tulit nimiis non operosa notis, Quo nos tam lento sub remigio luctantes Ducit inexhausti vis male fida freti. Nos mora, nos longi consumit inertia lethi; In ludum mortis luxuriemque sumus. Nos aevo et senio et latis permittimur undis; Spargimur in casus, porrigimur furiis. Nos miseri sumus ex amplo spatioque perimus; In nos inquirunt fata, probantque manus; Ingenium fati sumus, ambitioque malorum. Conatus mortis consiliumque sumus. In vitae multo multae patet area mortis[95] . . . . . Non vitam nobis numerant, quot viximus anni: Vita brevis nostra est; sit licet acta diu. Vivere non longum est, quod longam ducere vitam: Res longa in vita saepe peracta brevi est. Nec vos tam vitae Deus in compendia misit, Quam vetuit vestrae plus licuisse neci. Accedit vitae quicquid decerpitur aevo, Atque illo brevius, quo citius morimur.

TRANSLATION.

MARTYRS.

Good speed ye made, in sooth, good speed, ye blest, And by a shorter course won heavenly rest; Over a narrow sea of your own blood Death's bark has borne you, by few gales withstood: While with slow oars we toil the shore to gain, Through boisterous fury of the boundless main. We waste with lingering, indolent decay; We are Death's pastime and his wanton play; O'er time and age and wide waves we are blown, Expos'd to furies and to chances thrown. Wretched in full are we, perish at length; Fates seek us out, and try on us their strength. We are Fate's skill, Evils' ambition fine, Death's utmost effort and deep-plann'd design. In a long life wide field for Death there lies; In a short life grand deeds may daze men's eyes.[96] By years we live we reckon not our life; Our life is short, with great deeds be it rife. To spend long years, let not long life be thought; A long-liv'd deed oft in short life is wrought. God not so much contracted your life's space, As order'd Death the sooner to give place. What earth's life loses, gains the life on high: By how much sooner, so much less we die. R. WI.

SPES.

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.

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.

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.

Alas, how brief and grudg'd our Spring! Ah, flow'ry days how vanishing! E'en so ye hasten on and on With an unceasing motion. And thou, sweet Beauty, brightly flashing, But all too soon thy fairness dashing, To depths of lowest Night must go: Ah, losing there thy hasty glow; Dark'ning mists around thee clinging, And thy loveliness swift-winging: A love that brightens to deceive; A dream-shadow, fugitive. Ye therefore o'er whom Life's young Day Shineth still with golden ray, Seize--Fate's harsh distaff makes appeal, And hoary Time's quick-whirling wheel, As round and round the circle spins, And to furthest distance wins-- Seize ye the gliding seasons fleet, And dews of vernal Phosphor sweet, And new-blown flowers' brightness meet. O, what to tender loves ye owe, Waste not on Chaos dark below, Where pallid ghosts dim-gleaming go. Though, Beauty, on thy starry cheeks, Where snow's white pureness ever breaks, And where gazing, we see born Roses fresh without all thorn, Buds intertwining undefil'd, Spotless as e'er a grace-born child: Though thou with everlasting faith Fosterest with thy nectar'd breath Myriad Loves, and dost them feed With honey'd feast of heavenly mead In gentle draughts; and they roam round In thy realms, and aye are found Surfeiting themselves with play In one amorous holiday; Happy in the drenching dew, And seeking ever to renew Their torch-flames at thy fair eyes, And whet blunt arrows' ecstasies With sweet juice that in honey lies: And so, with their flame relumed, Deftly hover, airy-plumed; Waving higher still and higher Their torches that raise soft desire; Menacing the very stars, Yea the old heavens i' their wars: Although beneath thy high-arch'd brow Sits Majesty, nor doth allow To wanton loves such liberty As mocks the Ruler of the sky; But in their wild career gives pause, Imposing on them Love's sweet laws: Though thy whole frame in every part Sets forth the sky as in a chart; Though thy fair face in every look Shows heaven in page of living book; To Earth reveals the starry skies In the bright glances of thine eyes: Yet, alas, on these fair cheeks, Where the rose all-blushing speaks, There shall come the snow's sad whiteness, And the red, heart-breaking brightness: On the 'human face divine,' That as a star doth radiant shine, There shall come the deep'ning shadow, As clouds across the dappl'd meadow. On the high state of the brow To-morrow Death may make his blow; And all of Nature's bravery Gone, in the Grave's cavern lie. Alas, the fairest is the fleetest! Alas, how short-liv'd is the sweetest! Alas, the richest is the rarest! Alas, that Death doth spoil the fairest! G.

HYMNUS VENERI,

DUM IN ILLIUS TUTELAM TRANSEUNT VIRGINES.

Tu tuis adsis, Venus alme, sacris: Rideas blandum, Venus, et benignum, Quale cum Martem premis, aureoque Frangis ocello. Rideas o tum neque flamma Phoebum, Nec juvent Phoeben sua tela; gestat Te satis contra tuus ille tantum Tela Cupido. Saepe in ipsius pharetra Dianae Hic suas ridens posuit sagittas, Ausus et flammae Dominum magistris Urere flammis. Virginum te orat chorus--esse longum Virgines nollent--modo servientum Tot columbarum tibi passerumque augere catervam. Dedicant quicquid labra vel rosarum Colla, vel servant tibi liliorum; Dedicant totum tibi ver genarum, Ver oculorum. Hinc tuo sumas licet arma nato, Seu novas his ex oculis sagittas; Seu faces flamma velit acriori Flave comatas. Sume, et o discant quid amica, quid nox, Quid bene et blande vigilata nox sit; Quid sibi dulcis furor, et protervus Poscat amator. Sume per quae tot tibi corda flagrant, Per quod arcanum tua cestus halat, Per tuus quicquid tibi dixit olim aut Fecit Adonis.

TRANSLATION.

A HYMN TO VENUS,

WHILE THE VIRGINS PASS UNDER HER PROTECTION.

Be thou, sweet Venus, present now, Whilst at thy sacred rites we vow; Smile, Venus, with the smile that charms When Mars enfolds thee in his arms, O'ercome with glance as sunshine golden, Renowned from the ages olden. Smile; then Phoebus' flame shall fail, Nor Phoebe her own darts avail. Thy Cupid only against thee Wields successful weaponry. Oft and oft the laughing Boy In the wildness of his joy Has slipt into Diana's quiver His keen arrows, that a shiver Pleasant-painful send through all, When he, trickster, doth enthral. Yea, he has dar'd the Lord of Fire With flames more burning, in his ire. The arm-link'd Virgins to thee pray, Seeking thou wouldst near them stay; Were it but to offer here, In the flock that hovers near, More doves and sparrows lightly-flying: To their prayer there's no denying. Lo, they dedicate in posies All their lips supply of roses; All their necks, of lilies, white As the dewy stainless light; Yea, the whole Spring of each cheek, And that which from their eyes doth break. Hence, Venus, arms thou mayest take For thy wanton Boy to make Arrows from their fire-darting eyes, Or torches flame-tipp'd that surprise With Love's delicious agonies. Take them, and see thou lett'st them know What means a 'mistress;' and then show What the Night all-wakeful is In the rapture of its bliss; What the bold lover shall demand When all charms he doth command. Take them: by all the hearts that burn, And passionate unto thee turn! By all the mysteries that are breath'd, Or in thine own girdle sheath'd! By all to thee Adonis e'er Or said or did, when he would swear, Ne'er i' the world was one so fair! G.

VERIS DESCRIPTIO.

Tempus adest, placidis quo sol novus auctior horis Purpureos mulcere dies, et sidere verno Floridus, augusto solet ire per aethera vultu, Naturae communis amor; spes aurea mundi; Virgineum decus, et dulcis lascivia rerum, Ver tenerum, ver molle subit; jam pulchrior annus Pube nova, roseaeque recens in flore juventae Felici fragrat gremio, et laxatur odora Prole parens; per aquas, perque arva, per omnia late Ipse suas miratur opes, miratur honores. Jam Zephyro resoluta suo tumet ebria tellus, Et crebro bibit imbre Jovem, sub frondibus altis Flora sedens, audit, felix! quo murmure lapsis Fons patrius minitetur aquis, quae vertice crispo Respiciunt tantum, et strepero procul agmine pergunt. Audit, et arboreis siquid gemebunda recurrens Garriat aura comis, audit, quibus ipsa susurris Annuit, et facili cervice remurmurat arbor. Quin audit querulas, audit quodcunque per umbras Flebilibus Philomela modis miserabile narrat. Tum quoque praecipue blandis Cytherea per orbem Spargitur imperiis; molles tum major habenas Incutit increpitans, cestus magis ignea rores Ingeminat, tumidosque sinus flagrantior ambit; Nympharum incedit late, Charitumque corona Amplior, et plures curru jam nectit olores: Quin ipsos quoque tum campis emittit apricis Laeta parens gremioque omnes effundit Amores. Venus Mille ruunt equites blandi, peditumque protervae Mille ruunt acies: levium pars terga ferarum Insiliunt, gaudentque suis stimulare sagittis; Pars optans gemino multum properare volatu Aerios conscendit equos; hic passere blando Subsiliens leve ludit iter; micat huc, micat illuc Hospitio levis incerto, et vagus omnibus umbris: Verum alter gravidis insurgens major habenis Maternas molitur aves: illi improbus acrem Versat apem similis, seseque agnoscit in illo. Et brevibus miscere vias ac frangere gyris: Pars leviter per prata vagi sua lilia dignis Contendunt sociare rosis; tum floreus ordo Consilio fragrante venit; lascivit in omni Germine laeta manus; nitidis nova gloria pennis Additur; illustri gremio sedet aurea messis; Gaudet odoratas coma blandior ire sub umbras. Excutiunt solitas, immitia tela, sagittas, Ridentesque aliis pharetrae spectantur in armis. Flore manus, et flore sinus, flore omnia lucent. Undique jam flos est. Vitreas hic pronus ad undas Ingenium illudentis aquae, fluitantiaque ora, Et vaga miratur tremulae mendacia formae. Inde suos probat explorans, et judice nympha Informat radios, ne non satis igne protervo Ora tremant, agilesque docet nova fulgura vultus, Atque suo vibrare jubet petulantius astro.

TRANSLATION.

A DESCRIPTION OF SPRING.

The time is come, when, lord of milder hours, The Sun, ascending fresh with larger powers, Is wont to woo and soothe the purple Day, And, brilliant with its beaming vernal ray, To climb with face august the heavenly way; All Nature's love, Earth's hope and glory golden, To which for garlands virgins are beholden. With a glad plenty of all living things Sweet tender Spring approaches on soft wings. The Year, more beauteous now with offspring new, And crown'd with Youth's fresh flowers of every hue, Delicious odours pours from happy breast, Of fragrant progeny the parent blest: O'er verdant fields, blue waters, everywhere, At his own wealth he wonders, large and fair. By her own Zephyr thirsty Earth unbound Drinks eagerly the showers which fall all round; While Flora, sitting where tall trees appear, Lists, O how happily! as, murmuring near, A father-fountain chides its gliding waters, Which with curl'd head--alas, unduteous daughters-- Only look back, and then a garrulous band Pursue their laughing way o'er all the land; Lists how the sighing, oft-returning air Soft prattles to the leafy tresses fair; With what sweet whispers it accosts the tree, Which with bow'd head makes answer murmuringly; Lists, lists again, while through the mournful shade Sad Philomel's pathetic plaint is made. Now chiefly Venus spreads her empire sweet, And calls the world to worship at her feet; Now mightier her soft reins shakes to and fro, Chiding, and makes her chariot faster go; More fiery bids her cestus' powers abound, And her warm swelling bosom girds around; More glorious now, circl'd by Nymphs and Graces, She marches forth, and to her chariot-traces She yokes more swans. Nay, freer than before, Her Loves themselves, the sunny meadows o'er, From her maternal bosom see her pour; A thousand horsemen sweet career around, Ten thousand wanton footmen scour the ground; Part mount the backs of wild beasts as they run, And their own goad-like arrows ply in fun; Part seek wing'd flight to urge with double speed, And so ascend each one an airy steed; One, vaulting on a sparrow, flits away; Here see him lightly shine, there brightly play, In no place long; now resting here, now yonder, Wherever shadows woo them, lo, they wander. One, rising mightier than her heavy reins, His Mother's birds attempts with lighter chains. One, bee-like, brave o'erthrows an angry bee, Only another self in him to see; In tiny circles they awhile revolve, But soon their interlacing flight dissolve. Part, lightly flitting o'er the meadows fair, Strive their own lilies with meet rose to pair. Now flowery tribes in fragrant counsel stand, Amid the buds wantons the joyous band. New glory on their shining pinions rests, A golden harvest settles on their breasts; With sweeten'd locks to odorous shades they go, Their arrows, weapons harsh, away they throw, While other arms their smiling quivers show. Flowers in their hand, flowers in their breast, are seen, On every side appears a flowery sheen. One Love, reclin'd beside a glassy stream, Admires the nature of the illusive gleam, The liquid likeness of his wavering face, And tremulous deceit of imag'd grace. Thence, his own rays examining, he tries And fashions, as the Nymph may chance advise, That braver fires may tremble in his eyes; His mobile face new lightnings flashes far, With rays more wanton, bickering like a star. R. WI.

PRISCIANUS VERBERANS ET VAPULANS.

The two following poems--somewhat out of character, so to say, with Crashaw--were probably prepared for a tractate, which it has been our good fortune to hap on in the Bodleian. It is a Latin burlesque Poem, filling a small 4to of 20 pages, with this title:

EN PRISCIANUS VERBERANS ET VAPULANS.

Jam publicato verberans aures stylo Qua penis iterum vapulet, metuit crisin.

Londini

Excudebat Augustinus Mathewes impensis Roberti Mulbourne ad insigne Canis venatici in coemeterio Paulino. 1632.

The words 'Priscianus Verberans et Vapulans' remind us of the once-famous 'Comoedia' of Nicodemus Freschlin; but the later poem shows no reminiscence of the earlier. These details will doubtless interest and amuse in relation to Crashaw's pieces. Priscianus, otherwise Nisus, a schoolmaster, whips a boy who broke and dirtied his whipping-horse, and the boy's parents bring an action against him for assault. The place is evidently Aldborough in Suffolk--illumined by the genius of Crabbe--and the name of the boy's family Coleman. The poem thus begins and proceeds--the marginal notes being placed at the bottom of our pages:

Pinguibus in populi, qui dicitur Austricus,[101] arvis Praeturam, fasces, lictores nuper adepta Villa[102] antiqua, novo jam Burgi turget honore.

He describes the school:

Vicinae senior Carbonius[3] incola villae, 'Lingua vernacula idem quod {anthrakandros},

sends his son as a scholar: the stipend 20_s._ a year:

De stipe[103] consentit genitor: Carbunculus intrat.

He describes the whipping-block, the judicious use of which saves boys from the gallows:

Iste caballus Non in perniciem, non urbis ut ille ruinam the Trojan Sed curam imberbis populi, regimenque salubre: A triplici ligno[104] lignum hoc penate tuetur Praecipitem aetatem.

Young Coleman plays truant from school, and one day, when the school is empty, breaks and defiles the horse. He openly boasts of his feat, and returning another day to repeat his misdeed, is caught by Nisus, who mounts him on the injured horse, which, by poetical license, is made to whinny with content. The youth expects twenty cuts, and receives four:

Quattuor[105] inflixit tantum mediocriter ictus, Plures optet equus, plures daret arbiter aequus.

Coleman senior calls on the Schoolmaster, who remarks that payment for his son's schooling is in arrear. Coleman returns with Mrs. Coleman, and demands a receipt for the payment, which he makes, as Nisus discovers, lest a counter-action be brought against him:

Vult sibi ut absolvens[106] accepti latio detur Consignata manu Nisi, atque a teste probata.

Then Mrs. Coleman shows herself deserving of the cucking-stool:

..... bona Carbonissa Inque caput Nisi cumulata opprobria plaustro Digna et rixivomas sub aquis mersante[107] cathedra, Quinetiam manibus quasi pugnatura lacessit.

They bring their action for assault. (The English words in the marginal notes, placed below, are in black-letter:)

Nulla mora est, juristam adhibent, de fonte dicarum Qui populo Placita ad Communia[108] panditur, exit Schedula quod vulgo[109] Regis Breve dicitur: illo Mox capitur Nisus, geminoque sub obside spondet In responsurum praescripto tempore: tempus Cunctarum[110] lux est animarum crastini. Verum Actor quis?[111] Puer ipse, virum qui provocat, annos Nondum bis-senos superans. Sed et actio quaenam? Quid crimen? Pravus atque atrox injuria, tristes Et tragicae ambages, ampullae sesquipedales, Quod[112] Regis contra pacem vi Nisus, et armis Insultum fecit, male tractans verbere saevo Verberibus diris adeo, plenisque pericli De pueri vita ut desperaretur.

The poem ends, leaving poor Nisus in the midst of his first law-suit:

Ecce Nisus, jam primum Nisus miser ambulat in jus:

and the marginal note is 'In causis litigiosis sive casibus inscriptionum stylus Johannes de Stiles versus Johannem de Nokes.' A concluding chronogram gives the year 1629:

LVDI MagIster LIte VeXatVr forI.

The Schoolmaster's friends have written him complimentary epigrams, which are prefixed to his poem. One is worth reproducing, ae it has an echo of Crashaw's:

Ad {koprochrysounta} Suavia nonnulli lutulento carmine narrant: Turpia tu nitido, Nise poeta, places.

In black-letter, as follows:

Some cloath faire tales in sluttish eloquence: Thy tale is foule, thy verse is frankincense.

T. Lovering Artium Ludiq. Magister.

There seems little doubt that Crashaw's two poems were born of this anonymous tractate. Cf. 'rixivomas' (p. 310) with 'vomitivam' and 'rixosa volumina linguae.' Biographically they and others secular have a special interest and value. My good friend Rev. Richard Wilton, as before, has very happily translated these playthings. G.

Quid facis? ah, tam perversa quid volvitur ira? Quid parat iste tuus, posterus iste furor? Ah, truculente puer, tam foedo parce furori. Nec rapiat tragicas tam gravis ira nates. Ecce fremit, fremit ecce indignabundus Apollo. Castalides fugiunt, et procul ora tegunt. Sic igitur sacrum, sic insedisse caballum Quaeris? et, ah, fieri tam male notus eques? Ille igitur phaleris nitidus lucebit in istis? Haec erit ad solidum turpis habena latus? His ille, haud nimium rigidis, dabit ora lupatis? Haec fluet in miseris sordida vitta jubis? Sic erit ista tui, sic aurea pompa triumphi? Ille sub imperiis ibit olentis heri? Ille tamen neque terribili stat spumeus ira; Ungula nec celso fervida calce tonat. O merito spectatur equi patientia nostri! Dicite Io, tantum quis toleravit equus? Pegasus iste ferox, mortales spretus habenas. Bellerophontaea non tulit ire manu. Noster equus tamen exemplo non turget in isto: Stat bonus, et solito se pede certus habet. Imo licet tantos de te tulit ille pudores, Te tulit ille iterum, sed meliore modo. Tunc rubor in scapulas O quam bene transiit iste, Qui satis in vultus noluit ire tuos! At mater centum in furias abit, et vomit iram Mille modis rabidam jura, forumque fremit. Quin fera tu taceas; aut jura forumque tacebunt: Tu legi vocem non sinis esse suam. O male vibratae rixosa volumina linguae, Et satis in nullo verba tonanda foro! Causidicos, vesana! tuos tua fulmina terrent. Ecce stupent miseri, ah, nec meminere loqui. Hinc tua, foede puer, foedati hinc terga caballi Exercent querulo jurgia lenta foro. Obscaenas lites, et olentia jurgia ridet Turpiter in causam sollicitata Themis. Juridicus lites quisquis tractaverit istas, O satis emuncta nare sit ille, precor, At tu de misero quid vis, truculente, caballo? Cur premis insultans, saeve, tyranne puer! Tene igitur fugiet? fugiet sacer iste caballus? Non fugiet, sed, si vis, tibi terga dabit.[113]

TRANSLATION.

PRISCIANUS BEATING AND BEING BEATEN.

What wouldest thou? why rolls thy wayward ire? What means that rage of thine dirty and dire? Ah, savage boy, such fury foul forbear, Nor let thy wrath those tragic buttocks tear. Apollo, all indignant, groans and sighs; The Muses flee, and hide them from thine eyes. Thus dost thou seek to sit the sacred steed? Thus to become a horseman fam'd indeed! In such adornment shall he brightly shine? His firm flank lash'd by this base whip of thine? His mouth to this loose bit shall he deliver? O'er his poor mane this filthy fillet quiver? In golden triumph thus shalt thou proceed, So rank a lord bestriding such a steed? Yet foaming with dire rage he does not stand, Nor with hot hoof go thundering o'er the land. Our horse's patience is a wond'rous sight! O, say, what horse before endur'd such wight? Old Pegasus, despising mortal sway, Bellerophon's strong hand disdain'd to obey: And yet with no such rage swells this our horse; Quiet he stands, and holds his wonted course. Nay, though he bore such shame from thee that day, Again he bore thee--in a better way! Then to thy shoulders fitly pass'd the blush, Which to thy countenance refus'd to rush. His mother furious raves and wildly splutters A thousand spites, and of the law-courts mutters. Peace, woman! or the law-courts thou wilt awe; Thou dost not leave its own voice to the Law. O fractious eddies of the brandish'd tongue, Such words as in no law-court ever rung. Thy very lawyers from thy thunders hide: Lo, they forget to speak, as stupefied. Thus, thus, foul boy, thy fouled horse's hide By wrangling law-court's tedious strife is plied. While Justice, summon'd to a cause so vile, Views the rank strife obscene with scornful smile. Whatever judge such nasty action tries, See that he blow his nose well, I advise. But why wouldst thou, cruel, tyrannic boy, With thy insulting weight that horse annoy? That sacred steed, will it, then, from thee flee?-- 'Twill not turn tail, but lend its back to thee! R. WI.

AD LIBRUM

SUPER HAC RE AB IPSO LUDI MAGISTRO EDITUM, QUI DICITUR 'PRISCIANUS VERBERANS ET VAPULANS.'

Sordes o tibi gratulamur istas, O Musa aurea, blanda, delicata; O Musa, o tibi candidas, suoque Jam nec nomine, jam nec ore notas: Sacro carmine quippe delinitae Se nunc, o bene nesciunt, novaque Mirantur facie novum nitorem. Ipsas tu facis o nitere sordes. Sordes o tibi gratulamur ipsas. Si non hic natibus procax malignis Foedo fulmine turpis intonasset, Unde insurgeret haec querela vindex, Docto et murmure carminis severi Dulces fortiter aggregaret iras? Ipsae o te faciunt nitere sordes: Sordes o tibi gratulamur ipsas. Quam pulchre tua migrat Hippocrene! Turpi quam bene degener parenti! Foedi filia tam serena fontis. Has de stercore quis putaret undas? Sic o lactea surge, Musa, surge; Surge inter medias serena sordes. Spumis qualiter in suis Dione, Cum prompsit latus aureum, atque primas Ortu purpureo movebat undas. Sic o lactea surge, Musa, surge: Enni stercus erit Maronis aurum.

TRANSLATION.

TO A TRACTATE ON THIS SUBJECT

PUBLISHED BY THE MASTER OF THE SCHOOL HIMSELF, WHICH IS CALLED 'PRISCIANUS VERBERANS ET VAPULANS.'

On this vile theme thee we congratulate, O golden Muse, pleasing and delicate; This fair white vileness, Muse, which by its own Or name or face is now no longer known. For, charm'd by thy poetic sacred strain, It knows not, happily, itself again; But with new face wonders at its new splendour-- For splendid e'en a vile theme thou canst render: Congratulations for vile theme we tender. For had not he,[114] with headlong buttocks base, Gone flashing foully on with thunderous pace, From whence would this avenging plant have sprung, This solemn strain with polish'd music rung? And whence had gather'd these brave angers tender? O Muse, the vilest theme can bring thee splendour, For which congratulations now we render. Thy Hippocrene comes with a fair face, Finely unworthy of its father base; Of a foul fountain so serene a daughter: From dunghill, who would dream such crystal water? Thus rise, O Muse, O rise, a milk-white queen, Out of the midst of vileness rise serene. Even as Venus rising from her spray, When she discover'd to the light of day Her golden limbs, the billowy waves surprising With the first glory of her purple rising; So rise, O Muse, thy milk-white grace unfold; Ennius' dunghill will be Virgil's gold! R. WI.

MELIUS PURGATUR STOMACHUS PER

VOMITUM QUAM PER SECESSUM.

Dum vires refero vomitus et nobile munus, Da mini de vomitu, grandis Homere, tuo. Nempe olim, multi cum carminis anxia moles Vexabat stomachum, magne Poeta, tuum; Aegraque jejuno tenuebat pectora morsu, Jussit et in crudam semper hiare famem: Phoebus, ut est medicus, vomitoria pocula praebens, Morbum omnem longos expulit in vomitus. Protinus et centum incumbunt toto ore Poetae, Certantes sacras lambere relliquias. Quod vix fecissent, scio, si medicamen ineptum Venisset misere posteriore via. Quippe per anfractus caecique volumina ventris Sacra, putas, hostem vult medicina sequi? Tam turpes tenebras haec non dignatur, at ipsum Sedibus ex imis imperiosa trahit.

ERGO:

Per vomitum stomachus melius purgabitur, alvus Quam qua secretis exit opaca viis.

NOTE.

While we do not deem it expedient to translate this somewhat coarse jeu d'esprit, its sentiment and allusions will be found anticipated in the lines 'To the Reader, upon the Author his Kins-man,' prefixed to 'Follie's Anatomie; or Satyres and Satyricall Epigrams; with a compendious History of Ixion's Wheele. Compiled by Henry Hutton, Dunelmensis.' London, 1619 (pp. 3-4)--which we give here:

Old Homer in his time made a great feast, And every Poet was thereat a guest: All had their welcome, yet not all one fare; To them above the salt (his chiefest care) He spread a banquet of choice Poesie, Whereon they fed even to satietie. The lower end had from that end their cates; For Homer, setting open his dung-gates, Delivered from that dresser excrement, Whereon they glutted, and returned in print. Let no man wonder that I this rehearse; Nought came from Homer but it turned to verse. Now where our Author was, at this good cheere, Where was his place, or whether he were there; Whether he waited, or he tooke away, Of this same point I cannot soothly say. But this I ghesse: being then a dandiprat, Some witty Poet took him on his lap, And fed him, from above, with some choice bit. Hence his acumen, and a ready wit. But prayers from a friendly pen ill thrive, And truth's scarce truth, spoke by a relative. Let envy, therefore, give her vote herein: Envy and th' Author sure are nought akin. He personate bad Envy; yet say so, He lickt at Homer's mouth, not from below. R[ALPH] H[UTTON].

Percy Society edit. (Rimbault), 1842. Both Hutton and Crashaw remind us of the like sportiveness (rough) in Dryden and Byron. G.

CUM HORUM ALIQUA DEDICARAM

PRAECEPTORI MEO COLENDISSIMO, AMICO AMICISSIMO, R. BROOKE.[115]

En tibi Musam, Praeceptor colendissime, quas ex tuis modo scholis, quasi ex Apollinis officina, accepit alas timide adhuc, nec aliter quam sub oculis tuis jactitantem.

Qualiter e nido multa jam floridus ala Astra sibi meditatur avis, pulchrosque meatus Aerios inter proceres, licet aethera nunquam Expertus, rudibusque illi sit in ardua pennis Prima fides, micat ire tamen, quatiensque decora Veste leves humeros, querulumque per aera ludens Nil dubitat vel in astra vagos suspendere nisus, At vero simul immensum per inane profundis Exhaustus spatiis, vacuoque sub aethere pendens, Arva procul sylvasque suas, procul omnia cernit, Cernere quae solitus: tum vero victa cadit mens, Spesque suas, et tanta timens conamina, totus Respicit ad matrem, pronisque revertitur auris.

Quod tibi enim haec feram, vir ornatissime, non ambitio dantis est, sed justitia reddentis; neque te libelli mei tam elegi patronum, quam dominum agnosco. Tua sane sunt haec et mea; neque tamen ita mea sunt, quin si quid in illis boni est, tuum hoc sit totum, neque interim in tantum tua, ut quantumcumque est in illis mali, illud non sit ex integro meum. Ita medio quodam et misto jure utriusque sunt, ne vel mihi, dum me in societatem tuarum laudum elevarem, invidiam facerem; vel injuriam tibi, ut qui te in tenuitatis meae consortium deducere conarer. Ego enim de meo nihil ausim boni mecum agnoscere, nedum profiteri palam, praeter hoc unum, quo tamen nihil melius, animum nempe non ingratum tuorum beneficiorum historiam religiosissima fide in se reponentem. Hoc quibuscumque testibus coram, hoc palam in os coeli meaeque conscientiae meum jacto effero me in hoc ultra aemuli patientiam. Enim vero elegantiore obsequio venerentur te, et venerantur scio, tuorum alii: nemo me sincero magis vel ingenuo poterit. Horum denique rivulorum, tenuium utcunque nulliusque nominis, haec saltem laus erit propria, quod suum nempe norint Oceanum.

TRANSLATION.

WHEN I HAD DEDICATED CERTAIN OF MY POEMS

TO MY MOST ESTIMABLE PRECEPTOR AND MOST FRIENDLY FRIEND, R. BROOKE.

'Well done, Muse!' was thy encouraging word, most estimable Praeceptor; 'Well done, Muse!' fluttering its wings, which it received from thy School of late, as from Apollo's workshop, timidly as yet, nor otherwise than beneath thine eyes.

Like as a nestling, feather'd gaily o'er, Is meditating towards the stars to soar, And in ambitious flights already vies With the wing'd chiefs that skim along the skies: What though he never has essay'd the air, And needs must trust in plumes untried to bear Unwonted burden heavenward? yet he quivers To stretch his wings, and his fair plumage shivers Round his light shoulders till he flits away, While whispering airs against his pinions play; Nor dreams he will suspend his wandering flight Anywhere short of regions starry bright. But when exhausted by the spaces high And the immeasurable void of sky, Hovering in empty air, far off he sees The fields and hedges and familiar trees-- O, how far off!--which used his sight to please; Then sudden overpower'd behold him sink, And from his hopes and lofty soarings shrink: To his dear mother his whole soul looks back, And down he flutters on the homeward track.

That I offer thee these poems, most honourable Sir, is not the ambitious desire to give, but the righteous wish to restore what is due. And I have not chosen thee so much the patron of my little book, as I recognise thee to be its owner. Thine indeed these things are, and mine: nor yet are they so much mine, but that if there is anything good in them, this is wholly thine; nor at the same time are they so far thine, that everything bad in them is not entirely mine. Thus, by a sort of common and joint right, they belong to each of us; lest either I should bring envy to myself, while I presumed to a share of thy praises, or injury to thee, by endeavouring to drag thee down to association with my feebleness. For concerning anything belonging to me, I should not venture even to myself to admit any merit, much less to proclaim it openly, except this one thing, than which there is nothing more excellent--namely, a mind not ungrateful, and cherishing in itself with most punctilious fidelity the record of thy kindnesses.

This in the presence of any witnesses, this openly in the face of heaven and to my own conscience, I boast of as my own. I proclaim myself in this particular incapable of enduring a rival; for others of thy admirers [pupils] may venerate thee, and do venerate thee, with more polite attention, but none will be able to do so with observance more sincere and felt. In conclusion; of these rivulets, however slender they may be and of no name, this at least will be the fitting praise--that at all events they know their own Ocean. R. WI.

IN OBITUM REV. V. D^{ris} MANSELL,

COLL. REGIN. M^{ri} QUI VEN. D^{s} BROOKE [M^{ri} COLL. TRIN.], INTERITUM PROXIME SECUTUS EST.[116]

Ergo iterum in lacrymas et saevi murmura planctus Ire jubet tragica mors iterata manu; Scilicet illa novas quae jam fert dextra sagittas, Dextra priore recens sanguine stillat adhuc. Vos o, quos socia Lachesis prope miscuit urna, Et vicina colus vix sinit esse duos; Ite o, quos nostri jungunt consortia damni; Per nostras lacrymas o nimis ite pares; Ite per Elysias felici tramite valles, Et sociis animos conciliate viis. Illic ingentes ultro confundite manes, Noscat et aeternam mutua dextra fidem. Communes eadem spargantur in otia curae, Atque idem felix poscat utrumque labor. Nectarae simul ite vagis sermonibus horae; Nox trahat alternas continuata vices. Una cibos ferat, una suas vocet arbor in umbras; Ambobus faciles herba det una toros. Certum erit interea quanto sit major habenda Quam quae per vitam est, mortis amicitia.

TRANSLATION.

ON THE DEATH OF REV. DR. MANSELL,

MASTER OF QUEEN'S COLLEGE, WHICH FOLLOWED VERY CLOSELY THE DECEASE OF REV. DR. BROOKE.[117]

In tears once more and sighs of cruel woe Death's tragic stroke repeated bids us go; That fatal hand, which now bears arrows new, Still freshly drips with former crimson dew. Ye whom Fate almost mingl'd in one urn, Whom to be two, close threads forbid discern; Go ye, who equally our sorrows share, By reason of our tears too much a pair; Go where Elysian vales your steps invite, In social paths your happy souls unite; There mix your mighty shades with willing mind, Eternal faith your blended right-hands find. Let common cares be lost in the same joys, While the same happy labour both employs; Through nectar'd hours in talk together range, And night continue the sweet interchange: One tree bear fruit for both, one tree yield shade, On the same turf your pleasant couch be made; Thus how much better will be plainly seen Friendship of Death than that of life, I ween. R. WI.

HONORATISSIMO DR. ROBERTO HEATH,

SUMMO JUSTIT. DE COM. BANCO, GRATULATIO.[118]

Ignitum latus et sacrum tibi gratulor ostrum, O amor atque tuae gloria magna togae: Nam video Themis ecce humeris, Themis ardet in istis, Inque tuos gaudet tota venire sinus. O ibi purpureo quam se bene porrigit astro, Et docet hic radios luxuriare suos. Imo eat aeterna sic o Themis aurea pompa; Hic velit o sidus semper habere suum. Sic flagret, et nunquam tua purpura palleat intus; O nunquam in vultus digna sit ire tuos. Sanguine ab innocuo nullos bibat illa rubores; Nec tam crudeli murice proficiat. Quaeque tibi est (nam quae non est tibi?) candida virtus Fortunam placide ducat in alta tuam. Nullius viduae lacrymas tua marmora sudent; Nec sit, quae inclamet te, tibi facta domus. Non gemat ulla suam pinus tibi scissa ruinam, Ceu cadat in domini murmure maesta sui. Fama suas subter pennas tibi sternat eunti; Illa tubae faciat te melioris opus. Thura tuo, quacunque meat, cum nomine migrent; Quaeque vehit felix te, vehat aura rosas. Vive tuis, nec enim non sunt aequissima, votis Aequalis, quae te sidera cunque vocant. Haec donec niveae cedat tua purpura pallae, Lilium ibi fuerit, quae rosa vestis erat.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE RIGHT HON. LORD ROBERT HEATH,

ON HIS BEING MADE A JUDGE: A CONGRATULATION.[119]

Upon thy sacred purple, barr'd with fire, I gratulate thee--glorious, lov'd attire! For on those shoulders I see Justice shine, And glad to hide within those folds of thine. O finely there she shoots her purple beam, And teaches here her rays brightly to gleam. May Justice thus in pomp eternal go, Here always wish her golden star to glow! Thus blaze, and ne'er thy purple pale its blush, And never need into thy face to flush. From innocent blood ne'er drink a deeper dye, And turn more crimson from such cruelty. Let all fair virtues--for thou ownest all-- Calmly to heaven above thy footsteps call. No widows' tears thy marble halls distil, No house cry out against thee, built by ill; No timber cut for thee its downfall groan, 'Mid its lord's murmurs sadly overthrown. May Fame spread out her wings beneath thy feet, And thee with loud applause her trumpet greet! May incense waft thy name where'er it goes, The happy gale which bears thee bear the rose! Live equal to thy prayers, most just are they, Whatever stars direct thee on thy way, Till this thy purple turn to robe of snow, And where the rose had been, the lily glow! R. WI.

HORATII ODE,

Ille et nefasto te posuit die, &c. Lib. ii. 13.

{hellenisti.}

{Hora se keinos theken apophradi Ho protos hostis cheiri te bomaki Ethrepse, dendron, tes te komes Aition, essomenon t' elenchos. Keinos tokeos thrypse kai auchena, Keinos ge, phaien, haimati xeinio Mychotaton koitona rhaine Nyktios, amphaphaase keinos Ta deta Kolchon pharmaka, kai kakou Pan chrema, dosas moi epichorion Se stygnon ernos, despotou se Empeson es kephalen aeikos. Pases men hores pan epikindynon Tis oide pheugein? deidie Bosphoron Libys ho ploten, oud' anaiker Ten kryphien heterothen oknei. Parthon machemon Rhomaikos phygen, Kai toxa; Parthos Rhomaiken bian, Kai desma; laous alla moiras Balle, balei t' adoketos horme. Schedon schedon pos Persephones idon Aulen melainen, kai krisin Aiakou, Kalen t' apostasin makairon Aioliais kinyren te chordais Sappho patridos memphomenen korais, Echounta kai se pleion epichryso, Alkaie, plektro sklera neos, Sklera phyges, polemou te sklera Euphemeousai d' amphoteron skiai Klyousi thambei, tas de machas pleon, Anastatous te men tyrannous Omias ekpien osi laos. Ti thaum'? ekeinais ther hote trikranos Aken aoidais, ouata kabbale, Erinnyon th' hedypathousi Bostryches, hesychion echidnon. Kai de Prometheus, kai Pelopos pater Heudousin echei to lathikedei; Agein leontas Orion de Ou phileei, phoberas te lynkas.}

Latin Poems.

PART SECOND. SECULAR. III.

PART SECOND. SECULAR.

III.

ROYAL AND ACADEMICAL.

NOTE.

In our Preface to the present Volume we give the title-pages of the original publications wherein appeared the Royal and Academical Poems of this section; in the translation of which I owe again thanks to the friends of the former divisions, as their initials show; and another, Professor Sole, of St. Mary's College, Oscott, Birmingham, to whom I am indebted for that bearing his initials. One to the 'Princess,' celebrated before, is here printed as well as translated for the first time, as noted in the place. It was deemed preferable to include it with the others rather than among those hitherto unprinted. For brief notices of the various Royal and Academical celebrities of these poems, see Memorial-Introduction and related English poems in Vol. I. and notes in their places in the present Volume.

Once more I note here the chief errors of Turnbull's text: 'Ad Carolum,' &c. l. 11, 'perrerati' for 'pererrati;' l. 26, 'discere' for 'dicere:' in 'In Serenissimae Reginae' &c. the heading is 'Senerissimae;' l. 14, 'tuos' for 'tuus;' l. 41, 'Namque' for 'Nam quae;' l. 43, 'Junus' for 'Janus:' in 'Principi recens' &c. l. 4, 'eum' for 'cum;' l. 10, 'lato' for 'late;' l. 22, 'imperiosus' for 'imperiosior;' l. 26, 'quoque' for 'quoquo;' l. 30, 'melle' for 'molle:' in 'Ad Reginam,' l. 35, 'aure' for 'auree:' in 'Votiva Domus' &c. l. 20, 'tenerae' for 'tremulae;' l. 25, 'jam' for 'bene;' l. 26, 'mulcent' for 'mulceat;' l. 29, 'minium' for 'nimium;' l. 40, 'ora' for 'ara;' l. 45, 'volvit' for 'volvat;' l. 50, 'motus ad oras' for 'nidus ad aras:' in 'Ejusdem caeterorum' &c. l. 5, 'natalis' for 'natales;' l. 15, 'qua' for 'quo;' l. 31, 'longe' for 'longo:' in 'Venerabili viro magistro Tournay' &c. l. 8, 'vixerit' for 'vexerit;' l. 21, 'tuos est' for 'tuas eat;' ll. 24, 27, and 28, 'est' for 'eat:' in 'Or. viro praeceptori' &c. l. 6, 'metuendas' for 'metuendus;' l. 20, 'est' for 'eat.' G.

AD CAROLUM PRIMUM:

REX REDUX.[120]

Ille redit, redit. Hoc populi bona murmura volvunt; Publicus hoc, audin'? plausus ad astra refert: Hoc omni sedet in vultu commune serenum; Omnibus hinc una est laetitiae facies. Rex noster, lux nostra redit; redeuntis ad ora Arridet totis Anglia laeta genis: Quisque suos oculos oculis accendit ab istis; Atque novum sacro sumit ab ore diem. Forte roges tanto quae digna pericula plausu Evadat Carolus, quae mala quosve metus: Anne pererrati male fida volumina ponti Ausa illum terris pene negare suis: Hospitis an nimii rursus sibi conscia tellus Vix bene speratum reddat Ibera caput. Nil horum; nec enim male fida volumina ponti Aut sacrum tellus vidit Ibera caput. Verus amor tamen haec sibi falsa pericula fingit-- Falsa peric'la solet fingere verus amor; At Carolo qui falsa timet, nec vera timeret-- Vera peric'la solet temnere verus amor; Illi falsa timens, sibi vera pericula temnens, Non solum est fidus, sed quoque fortis amor. Interea nostri satis ille est causa triumphi: Et satis, ah, nostri causa doloris erat. Causa doloris erat Carolus, sospes licet esset; Anglia quod saltem dicere posset, abest. Et satis est nostri Carolus nunc causa triumphi: Dicere quod saltem possumus: Ille redit.

TRANSLATION.

THE RETURN OF THE KING.

'The King returns!' the people cry; And shouts of greeting scale the sky. The news sits in each look serene; In each a common joy is seen. Our King! our light! she laughs once more, Glad Anglia, as he gains her shore. Each at the King's eyes lights his eyes; Sees new day with his face arise. You'll ask, what fears beset his way, What ills, what dangers,--we're so gay: If 'gainst his bark, that sail'd for home, The faithless billows dar'd to foam; Or if, so seldom blest, you plann'd To keep him still, Iberian land. Nor waves have wrong'd his saintly head, Nor green Iberia felt his tread. Yet think such fancies true love will-- True love, that feigns false perils still: Us such fears vex, whose hearts are stout-- True perils still true love will scout: Thus fear false perils, scorn the true, Will trusty love and brave in you. O fitly we kept cloudy brow, Because of him, as laughter now. When we could say, 'Our King's not here,' We griev'd for him, no danger near: Now our hearts can no least joy lack, When we say, laughing, 'He's come back.' A.

AD PRINCIPEM NONDUM NATUM,

REGINA GRAVIDA.[121]

Nascere nunc, o nunc; quid enim, puer alme, moraris? Nulla tibi dederit dulcior hora diem. Ergone tot tardos, o lente, morabere menses? Rex redit; ipse veni, et dic, bone, gratus ades. Nam quid ave nostrum? quid nostri verba triumphi? Vagitu melius dixeris ista tuo. At maneas tamen, et nobis nova causa triumphi: Sic demum fueris; nec nova causa tamen: Nam quoties Carolo novus aut nova nascitur infans, Revera toties Carolus ipse redit.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE ROYAL INFANT NOT YET BORN,

THE QUEEN BEING WITH CHILD.

Be born, O, now; for why, fair child, delay? No sweeter hour will bring to thee the day. So many months wilt linger on the wing? The King returns; come thou, and welcome bring. What is our hail? our voice of triumph high? Thou wilt have said these better with thy cry. But stay; and soon new cause of triumph be; And yet in thee no new cause shall we see: Oft as to Charles is born new girl, new boy, Sure Charles himself returns, and brings us joy. R. WI.

IN FACIEM AUGUSTISSIMI REGIS

A MORBILLIS INTEGRAM.[122]

Musa redi, vocat alma parens Aeademia: noster En redit, ore suo noster Apollo redit; Vultus adhuc suus, et vultu sua purpura tantum Vivit, et admixtas pergit amare nives. Tune illas violare genas? tune illa profanis, Morbe ferox, tentas ire per ora notis? Tu Phoebi faciem tentas, vanissime? Nostra Nec Phoebe maculas novit habere suas. Ipsa sui vindex facies morbum indignatur; Ipsa sedet radiis o bene tuta suis: Quippe illic Deus est. coelumque et sanctius astrum: Quippe sub his totus ridet Apollo genis. Quod facie Rex tutus erat, quod caetera tactus: Hinc hominem Rex est fassus, et inde Deum.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE FACE OF THE MOST AUGUST KING.

UNINJURED BY SMALL-POX.

Come, Muse, at call of thy Academy: With his own face our Phoebus here we see; His face his own yet, with its own red dyed, Which with its whiteness loves to be allied. O fierce disease, dost thou, with marks profane, Attempt these cheeks, that countenance, to stain? Most futile! Dost attempt our Phoebus' face? Not in our Phoebe her own spots canst trace. His self-asserting face disdains disease; 'Mid its own rays it sits, O well at ease. Sure God and heaven and holiest star are here; Sure 'neath these cheeks smiles Phoebus full and clear. Our King being safe in face, but touch'd elsewhere, Proves he was here a god, though a man there. R. WI.

IN SERENISSIMAE REGINAE

PARTUM HIEMALEM.[123]

Serta, puer; quis nunc flores non praebeat hortus? Texe mihi facili pollice serta puer. Quid tu nescio quos narras mihi; stulte, Decembres Quid mihi cum nivibus? da mihi serta, puer. Nix et hiems? non est nostras quid tale per oras; Non est, vel si sit, non tamen esse potest. Ver agitur: quaecunque trucem dat larva Decembrem, Quid fera cunque fremant frigora, ver agitur. Nonne vides quali se palmite regia vitis Prodit, et in sacris quae sedet uva jugis? Tam laetis quae bruma solet ridere racemis? Quas hiemis pingit purpure tanta genas? O Maria, o divum soboles, genitrixque deorum, Siccine nostra tuus tempora ludus erunt? Siccine tu cum vere tuo nihil horrida brumae Sidera, nil madidos sola morare notos? Siccine sub media poterunt tua surgere bruma, Atque suas solum lilia nosse nives? Ergo vel invitis nivibus frendentibus Austris, Nostra novis poterunt regna tumere rosis? O bona turbatrix anni, quae limite noto Tempora sub signis non sinis ire suis; O pia praedatrix hiemis, quae tristia mundi Murmura tam dulci sub ditione tenes; Perge, precor, nostris vim pulchram ferre calendis; Perge, precor, menses sic numerare tuos. Perge intempestiva atque importuna videri; Inque uteri titulos sic rape cuncta tui. Sit nobis sit saepe hiemes sic cernere nostras Exhaeredatas floribus ire tuis. Saepe sit has vernas hiemes Maiosque Decembres, Has per te roseas saepe videre nives. Altera gens varium per sidera computet annum, Atque suos ducant per vaga signa dies: Nos deceat nimiis tantum permittere nimbis? Tempora tam tetricas ferre Britanna vices? Quin nostrum tibi nos omnem donabimus annum: In partus omnem expende, Maria, tuos. Sic tuus ille uterus nostri bonus arbiter anni: Tempus et in titulos transeat omne tuos. Namque alia indueret tam dulcia nomina mensis? Aut qua tam posset candidus ire toga? Hanc laurum Janus sibi vertice vellet utroque: Hanc sibi vel tota Chloride Maius emet. Tota suam, vere expulso, respublica florum Reginam cuperent te sobolemve tuam. O bona sors anni, cum cuncti ex ordine menses Hic mihi Carolides, hic Marianus erit!

TRANSLATION.

TO HER SERENE MAJESTY, CHILD-BEARING IN WINTER.

Garlands! bring garlands, boy! what garden now Would not give flowers? with ready hand do thou Weave garlands. What! December, sayst thou,--snow? Fool! hold thy blabbing, speak of what we know. Winter upon our shores, and snow? the thing Is not, and cannot be. It is the Spring: Whatever ghost threatens us with the drear Beatings of wild December, Spring is here. See'st thou not with what leaves the royal vine Spreads forth, what clusters on her boughs incline? Say, when like this was Winter ever seen To laugh and glow in purple? O great Queen, Offspring of gods, and mother! do we see The seasons thus a plaything made for thee? Thus with thy Spring mayst thou the stars restrain, That Winter sting not, nor the South bring rain. And do the lilies by thy grace alone Spring up, and know no snows except their own? In spite of all that Winter may oppose, Are thus our kingdoms blooming with the rose? O thou most blest disturber of the year, Who sufferest not the bounded seasons here To keep i' their own signs! destroyer kind Of Winter, whose sweet influence can bind All harsher murmurs of the world, still dare We pray thee, thus to force our calendar With thy fair violence; continue still The months to number at thine own sweet will; Still thus untimely, still thus burdensome, Make all things subject to thy royal womb. So, by thy grace, may it be often ours To see dethroned Winter deck'd in flowers; On snow that falls i' roses still to gaze, Sweet vernal Winters and December Mays! Let others by the stars compute their year, And count their days as wandering signs appear: Not so we Britons; not for us shall storm With cruel change our seasons dare deform; To thee, great Queen, our whole year we resign, O spend it all i' those rich births of thine! So the whole year shall own thy womb to be Its sovereign arbitress of good; in thee Merge all its titles. Where's the month could bear A more delicious name, or ever wear More whiteness? Janus, for his double crown, Covets this laurel; Maius for his own Would buy it, though his Chloris were the cost. Thee or thine infant, now that Spring has lost His ancient throne, the flow'ry states invite To take their empire. O blest year, how bright Thy fortunes, where each month in turn may claim From Mary or from Charles its mighty name! G.

AD REGINAM

ET SIBI ET ACADEMIAE PARTURIENTEM.[124]

Huc o sacris circumflua coetibus, Huc o frequentem, Musa, choris pedem Fer, annuo doctum labore Purpureas agitare cunas. Foecunditatem provocat, en, tuam Maria partu nobilis altero, Prolemque Musarum ministram Egregius sibi poscit infans. Nempe illa nunquam pignore simplici Sibive soli facta puerpera est: Partu repercusso, vel absens, Perpetuos procreat gemellos. Hos ipsa partus scilicet efficit, Inque ipsa vires carmina suggerit, Quae spiritum vitamque donat Principibus simul et Camaenis. Possit Camaenas, non sine numine, Lassare nostras diva puerpera, Et gaudiis siccare totam Perpetuis Heliconis undam. Quin experiri pergat, et in vices Certare sanctis conditionibus: Lis dulcis est, nec indecoro Pulvere, sic potuisse vinci. Alternis Natura diem meditatur et umbras, Hinc atro, hinc albo pignore facta parens. Tu melior Natura tuas, dulcissima, servas-- Sed quam dissimili sub ratione!--vices. Candida tu, et partu semper tibi concolor omni: Hinc natam, hinc natum das; sed utrinque diem.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE QUEEN.

Hither, Muse, and bring again Thy august surrounding train; With measur'd tread of practis'd feet Come, for thou hast learn'd to greet With the voice of loyal cheer A princely cradle year by year. Lo, our noble Queen on thee Calls in fruitful rivalry By another birth; and he, Illustrious infant, needs must have The Muses' offspring for his slave. Never has she yet been known A mother for herself alone, But by a reflected might Even in absence doth delight In twins ever, and while she Thus augments her progeny, And gives vigour to the lyre, She doth at once with life inspire Young princes, and the Muses' quire. These, though not untouch'd they be With the sacred flame, may she Tire in her fruitful deity, And with joys that theirs outrun, Dry at last all Helicon! Sweet is the strife wherein, to prove Her powers, she deigns by rule to move; Nor an unbecoming stain Is the dust that they must gain, Who in such contest can but fight in vain. Nature, o'er day and night alternate dreaming, Brings forth a swart child now, and now a fair: On thee attends, O Queen in beauty beaming, A better Nature, with a rule how rare! Bright as thyself, thine own tend all the selfsame way; A daughter now, and now a son; but each a child of Day. CL.

SERENISSIMAE REGINAE LIBRUM SUUM

COMMENDAT ACADEMIA.

Hunc quoque materna, nimium nisi magna rogamus, Aut aviae saltem sume, Maria, manu. Est Musa de matre recens rubicundulus infans, Cui pater est partus--quis putet?--ille tuus. Usque adeo impatiens amor est in virgine Musa: Jam nunc ex illo non negat esse parens. De nato quot habes olim sperare nepotes, Qui simul et pater est, et facit esse patrem!

TRANSLATION.

TO HER MOST SERENE MAJESTY

THE UNIVERSITY COMMENDS ITS BOOK.

Deign, Queen, to this, unless we ask too much, A mother's, or at least grandmother's, touch. It is the Muse's rosy infant fine; Its father--who would think?--this Child of thine. So unrestrain'd the love of virgin Muse, To be a mother thus she can't refuse. From him what grandsons round thee soon will gather, Who at once father is, and makes a father! R. WI.

PRINCIPI RECENS NATAE

OMEN MATERNAE INDOLIS.[125]

Cresce, o dulcibus imputanda divis; O cresce, et propera, puella princeps, In matris propera venire partes. Et cum par breve fulminum minorum, Illinc Carolus, et Jacobus inde, In patris faciles subire famam, Ducent fata furoribus decoris; Cum terror sacer Anglicique magnum Murmur nominis increpabit omnem Late Bosporon Ottomanicasque Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas; Te tunc altera nec timenda paci Poscent praelia; tu potens pudici Vibratrix oculi, pios in hostes Late dulcia fata dissipabis. O eum flos tener ille, qui recenti Pressus sidere jam sub ora ludit, Olim fortior omne cuspidatos Evolvet latus aureum per ignes; Quique imbellis adhuc, adultus olim, Puris expatiabitur genarum Campis imperiosior Cupido; O quam certa superbiore penna Ibunt spicula melleaeque mortes, Exultantibus hinc et inde turmis, Quoquo jusseris, impigre volabunt! O quot corda calentium deorum De te vulnera delicata discent! O quot pectora principum magistris Fient molle negotium sagittis! Nam quae non poteris per arma ferri, Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidus Magnorum patet officina amorum? Hinc sumas licet, o puella princeps, Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra. Centum sume Cupidines ab uno Matris lumine Gratiasque centum Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt Tercentum Veneresque Gratiaeque Puro fonte superstites per aevum.

TRANSLATION.

OF THE PRINCESS MARY.

Grow, maiden Princess, and increase, Thou who with the sweet goddesses Thy place shalt have; O haste to be Thy mother's own epitome; And when that pair of minor flames, Thy princely brothers Charles and James, Apt in the footsteps of their sire, Lead on the Fates in glorious ire; When o'er the Bosphorus shall creep A thrill of dread, as rolls full deep The murmur of the British name, And with no feign'd alarm shall shame The Turkish Crescent--other wars, And such as bring sweet Peace no tears Shall call thee forth; and from on high The flashing of thy modest eye Shall scatter o'er adoring foes Thick volleys of delicious woes. O, when that tender bloom which now Plays, lately born, beneath thy brow, In time to come with mightier blaze Shall dart around its pointed rays; When he, the Cupid now so mild, No longer but a harmless child, Shall range in youth's imperious pride Thy cheeks' fair pastures far and wide,-- O then with what unerring skill, Borne on proud wings, thy shafts shall kill, While, where thou bid'st, the honey'd blow Falls ceaseless midst the exulting foe! How many god-like breasts shall learn From thee with Love's rich wounds to burn! How often shall thy mastering darts Work their sweet will on princely hearts! For what may she not do in war, Whose mother's breast--with each bright star That rul'd her birth--to her but proves A storehouse of all-conquering loves? Hence for thy quiver, Princess Maid, Take what thou wilt, nor be afraid. A hundred Cupids be thy prize, From one of thy bright mother's eyes; A hundred graces add to these, And then a hundred Venuses: A hundred-thousand Cupids still Are hers; three hundred Graces will, With Venuses in equal store, Haunt that pure fount for evermore. CL.

IN NATALES MARIAE PRINCIPIS.[126]

Parce tuo jam, bruma ferox, o parce furori, Pone animos; o pacatae da spiritus aurae, Afflatu leniore gravem demulceat annum. Res certe et tempus meruit. Licet improbus Auster Saeviat, et rabido multum se murmure volvat; Imbriferis licet impatiens Notus ardeat alis; Hic tamen, hic certe, modo tu non, saeva, negares, Nec Notus impatiens jam, nec foret improbus Auster. Scilicet hoc decuit? dum nos tam lucida rerum Attollit series, adeo commune serenum Laetitiae vernisque animis micat alta voluptas; Jam torvas acies, jam squallida bella per auras Volvere, et hibernis annum corrumpere nimbis? Ah melius, quin luce novae reparata juventae Ipsa hodie vernaret hiems, pulchroque tumultu Purpureas properaret opes, effunderet omnes Laeta sinus, nitidumque diem fragrantibus horis Aeternum migrare velit, florumque beata Luxurie, tanta o circum cunabula surgat, Excipiatque novos et molliter ambiat artus. Quippe venit, sacris iterum vagitibus ingens Aula sonat, venit en roseo decus addita fratri Blanda soror. Tibi se brevibus, tibi porrigit ulnis, Magne puer, facili tibi torquet hiantia risu Ora; tibi molles lacrymas et nobile murmur Temperat, inque tuo ponit se pendula collo. Tale decus juncto veluti sub stemmate cum quis Dat sociis lucere rosis sua lilia. Talis Fulget honos medio cum se duo sidera mundo Dulcibus intexunt radiis: nec dignior olim Flagrabat nitidae felix consortio formae, Tunc cum sidereos inter pulcherrima fratres Erubuit primum, et Laedaeo cortice rupto Tyndarida explicuit tenerae nova gaudia frontis. Sic socium o miscete jubar, tu candide frater, Tuque serena soror. Sic o date gaudia patri, Sic matri cumque ille olim subeuntibus annis, Ire inter proprios magna cervice triumphos. Egregius volet, atque sua se discere dextra; Te quoque tum pleno mulcebit sidere, et alto Flore tui dulcesque oculos maturior ignis Indole divina, et radiis intinget honoris. Tunc o te quoties, nisi quod tu pulchrior illa, Esse suam Phoeben fulsus jurabit Apollo; Tunc o te quoties, nisi quod tu castior illa, Esse suam Venerem Mavors jurabit inanis. Felix, ah, et cui se non Mars, non aureus ipse Credet Apollo parem; tanta cui conjuge celsus In pulchros properare sinus, et carpere sacras Delicias oculosque tuos, tua basia solus Tum poterit dixisse sua; et se nectare tanto Dum probat esse Deum, superas contemnere mensas.

TRANSLATION.

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF THE PRINCESS MARY.

Forbear thy fury, Winter fierce, forbear; Lay down thy wrath, and let the tranquil air With inspiration mild soothe the stern year: This time deserves it, and occasion dear. The wild North-wind may rage and wildly bluster; The gusty South its rainy clouds may muster; Yet here at least, if thou but will it so, Neither wild North nor gusty South will blow. For were it seemly, when events so bright Exalt us, and the universal light Of joy and vernal pleasure thrills the soul, Grim lines of battling tempest-clouds should roll Through all the air, and drown the year with rain? Better old Winter should bright youth regain, And turn at once to Spring; with tumult sweet Hasten his purple stores, and joyful greet With all his outpour'd heart this shining Day, And bid its fragrant hours for ever stay; Making a radiant wealth of flowers abound Where in her cradle that sweet Child is found, Her tender limbs caress and softly compass round. She comes! Once more are heard those blessed cries Within the palace. See a glory rise-- A star-like glory added to the other, A charming sister to a rosy brother! To this she stretches out her tiny arms, Fair Boy--for thee displays the winsome charms Of her sweet smiles, and checks her gentle tears, And coos and prattles to delight thine ears, Or fondly hangs upon thy neck. Such grace Pleases the eye, when, their stalks joined, you place Lilies with roses to combine their splendour. And then appears such lustrous glory tender, When in the midst of heaven, at dewy eve, Two stars their gentle radiance interweave. Nor loftier grace that beauteous union show'd When from her egg the fairest Helen glow'd Betwixt her starry brothers, and display'd Her tender brow with new delights array'd. So mix your common beam, thou brother fair And sister mild. Such joys your father share And mother dear! And when, as seasons roll, He moves with head erect and princely soul Amid his proper triumphs, and shall learn Himself by his own deeds, thou shalt discern A riper flame within thee, heavenly dower, And star full-orb'd shalt shine, and full-grown flower; While a soft beauty bathes thy lustrous eyes, And rays of majesty the world surprise. Then O how oft, but that thou art more fair, Will some imaginary Phoebus swear That thou art his own Phoebe! or again But that thou art more chaste, some Mars in vain Will swear thou art his Venus, love's soft strain! Ah, happy he, to whom nor Mars will dream Nor golden Phoebus he can equal seem, Who with a wife so sweet, so fair is blest, And all the fond affection of thy breast, And tender, pure endearments; who alone Can call thy eyes and kisses all his own; And while he quaffs such nectar'd wine of love, Feels like a god, and scorns the feasts above. R. WI.

AD REGINAM.[127]

Et vero jam tempus erat tibi, maxima mater, Dulcibus his oculis accelerare diem: Tempus erat, ne qua tibi basia blanda vacarent; Sarcina ne collo sit minus apta tuo. Scilicet ille tuus, timor et spes ille suorum, 5 Quo primum es felix pignore facta parens, Ille ferox iras jam nunc meditatur et enses, Jam patris magis est, jam magis ille suus. Indolis o stimulos; vix dum illi transiit infans, Jamque sibi impatiens arripit ille virum. 10 Improbus ille suis adeo negat ire sub annis: Jam nondum puer est, major et est puero. Si quis in aulaeis pictas animatus in iras Stat leo, quem docta cuspide lusit acus, Hostis, io, est; neque enim ille alium dignabitur hostem; 15 Nempe decet tantas non minor ira manus. Tunc hasta gravis adversum furit; hasta bacillum est; Mox falsum vero vulnere pectus hiat. Stat leo, ceu stupeat tali bene fixus ab hoste, Ceu quid in his oculis vel timeat vel amet, 20 Tam torvum, tam dulce micant: nescire fatetur Mars ne sub his oculis esset, an esset amor. Quippe illic Mars est, sed qui bene possit amari; Est et amor certe, sed metuendus amor: Talis amor, talis Mars est ibi cernere; qualis 25 Seu puer hic esset, sive vir ille Deus. Hic tibi jam scitus succedit in oscula fratris; Res, ecce, in lusus non operosa tuos. Basia jam veniant tua quantacunque caterva; Jam quocunque tuus murmure ludat amor. 30 En, tibi materies tenera et tractabilis hic est; Hic ad blanditias est tibi cera satis. Salve infans, tot basiolis, molle argumentum, Maternis labiis dulce negotiolum; O salve; nam te nato, puer auree, natus 35 Et Carolo et Mariae tertius est oculus.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE QUEEN.

'Twas now the time for thee, Mother most great, With these sweet eyes the day to accelerate; Time thy soft kisses should not idle be, Or from fit burden thy fair neck be free. For he, his parents' fear and hope confest, With whom thou first wast made a mother blest, He wraths and swords designs, courageous grown; Now more his father's is, and more his own. O spurs of nature! yet an infant, see He catches at the man impatiently, The rogue declines to keep in his own years; Not yet a child, he more than child appears. If on the tapestry, with feign'd anger fraught, A lion stands, by skilful needle wrought, A foe behold; such foe to fight he deigns; A lesser wrath his mighty hand disdains. Fierce spear he brandishes; a wand his spear: Soon in false breast behold true wound appear. The lion stands, maz'd by such enemy, Fearing or loving something in his eye, So sternly, sweetly bright; nor can he tell Whether beneath that eye Mars or Love dwell. In sooth, a Mars who may be lov'd is here; And Love indeed, but Love deserving fear. Such Love, such Mars, 'tis easy here to scan; This god or that, as he is boy or man. Thy babe now comes to take the endearing place, A creature not beyond thy fond embrace. Now let thy troops of kisses have their way, Now let thy love with brooding murmur play; Here is material tractable and tender, Which waxen surface to soft touch shall render. Hail, infant! gentle subject for caresses, Employment sweet a mother's lips which blesses; O hail; for with thy birth, thou golden boy, Lo, to thy parents a third eye brings joy! R. WI.

VOTIVA DOMUS PETRENSIS

PRO DOMO DEI.[128]

Ut magis in mundi votis aviumque querelis Jam veniens solet esse dies, ubi cuspide prima Palpitat, et roseo lux praevia ludit ab ortu; Cum nec abest Phoebus, nec Eois laetus habenis Totus adest, volucrumque procul vaga murmura mulcet: Nos ita; quos nuper radiis afflavit honestis 6 Relligiosa dies; nostrique per atria coeli-- Sacra domus nostrum est coelum--jam luce tenella Libat adhuc trepidae fax nondum firma diei: Nos ita jam exercet nimii impatientia voti, 10 Speque sui propiore premit. Quis pectora tanti Tendit amor coepti, desiderio quam longo Lentae spes inhiant, domus o dulcissima rerum, Plena Deo domus! Ah, quis erit, quis, dicimus, ille-- O bonus, o ingens meritis, o proximus ipsi, 16 Quem vocat in sua dona, Deo--quo vindice totas Excutiant tenebras haec sancta crepuscula? Quando, Quando erit, ut tremulae flos heu tener ille diei, 20 Qui velut ex oriente suo jam altaria circum Lambit, et ambiguo nobis procul anuit astro, Plenis se pandat foliis, et lampade tota Laetus, ut e medio cum sol micat aureus axe, Attonitam penetrare domum bene possit adulto 25 Sidere, nec dubio pia moenia mulceat ore? Quando erit, ut convexa suo quoque pulchra sereno Florescant, roseoque tremant laquearia risu? Quae nimium informis tanquam sibi conscia frontis Perpetuis jam se lustrant lacrymantia guttis? 30 Quando erit, ut claris meliori luce fenestris Plurima per vitreos vivat pia pagina vultus? Quando erit, ut sacrum nobis celebrantibus hymnum Organicos facili et nunquam fallente susurro Nobile murmur agat nervos; pulmonis iniqui 35 Fistula nec monitus faciat malefida sinistros? Denique, quicquid id est quod res hic sacra requirit, Fausta illa et felix--sitque o tua--dextra, suam cui Debeat haec Aurora diem. Tibi supplicat ipsa, Ipsa tibi facit ara preces. Tu jam illius audi, 40 Audiet illa tuas. Dubium est, modo porrige dextram, Des magis, an capias: audi tantum esse beatus, Et damnum hoc lucrare tibi. Scis ipse volucres Quae rota volvat opes; has ergo, hic fige perennis 45 Fundamenta Domus Petrensi in rupe, suamque Fortunae sic deme rotam. Scis ipse procaces Divitias quam prona vagos vehat ala per Euros; Divitiis illas, age, deme volucribus alas, Facque suus nostras illis sit nidus ad aras: 50 Remigii ut tandem pennas melioris adeptae, Se rapiant, dominumque suum super aethera secum. Felix o qui sic potuit bene providus uti Fortunae pennis et opum levitate suarum, Divitiisque suis aquilae sic addidit alas. 55

TRANSLATION.

THE PRAYER OF PETERHOUSE FOR THE HOUSE OF GOD [=ITS CHAPEL].

As bids the Day a keener longing stir The waking world, and warblings cheerier To birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills, As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrills Through lattic'd sky from roseate East the light Presaging his approach; nor absent quite, Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the Sun Is present all; and birds, to music won By gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,-- So we, on whom with radiance severe A solemn day begins to dawn; whose eye Now sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie, With portals wide--God's house is heaven, we say-- The flame unsteady of still wavering Day Slenderly stealing in; the prospect nigher, Our hearts too labour with extreme desire, And throb with hopes impatient of their end. How love of such a work our heart doth rend! How long desire makes hopes in leash restrain'd To pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'd The torrent of God's fulness. Ah, who is he, Ah, who--O good, O huge in charity, O nigh to God Himself,--Whom to descend On His own gracious gifts he prays--shall lend This sacred twilight power to drive away All gloom, and shake her raiment into day? Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloom Of glimmering Day, that as from bridal room In the Orient cam'st to kiss our altar-stone, And beckonest to us from a star alone, In yonder distance shining doubtfully,-- Ah, when wilt thou expand to Day, and, free In conscious joy of thy full splendour, pour A flood of light, as when the Sun doth soar In golden mid-day, and, to full age grown, Shine through and through the pile, and make it own With awe thy sway, nor let the sacred walls Doubt thy embrace? Blest he to whom befalls To see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky, And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lie Trembling with rosy laughter; which do now, As wearing of their shame a conscious brow, Bedew their formless face with dropping tear. When shall it be? the window growing clear With better light, that many a page devout May live, and life from glassy face breathe out. Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate, Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrate The organ's nerves with graceful ceaseless hum; Nor pipe of lung unjust intruding come, Each harsh, uncertain note for ever dumb? Whatever else, in fine, this Sanctuary May need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be, And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall owe Its day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thou List to her prayer, and she will thine allow; Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful live Whether thou dost not more receive than give; That thou art happy do thou only hear, And turn thy loss to gain in yonder sphere. Thou know'st what wheel makes riches fly away; These riches therefore here securely lay, Fountains of a House perennial, On the Petrensian rock; from Fortune shall Her own wheel thus be wrench'd. Thou knowest how prone A wing bears up unconstant riches, blown On vagrant, veering winds. Come, take away These wings from fleeting riches, make them stay At these our altars, and build here their nest; Till arm'd with wings to better flight redress'd, They may transport themselves to the home of rest, Bearing their master with them. Blest that man Who knowing prudently the times to scan, The airiness of wealth to profit brings, And him on Fortune's pinions deftly flings, And to his riches adds an eagle's wings. S.S.

IN CAETERORUM OPERUM

DIFFICILI PARTURITIONE GEMITUS.[129]

O felix nimis illa, et nostrae nobile nomen Invidiae volucris, facili quae funere surgens Mater odora sui, nitidae nova fila juventae, Et festinatos peragit sibi fata per ignes. Illa, haud natales tot tardis mensibus horas 5 Tam miseris tenuata moris, saltu velut uno In nova secla rapit sese, et caput omne decoras Explicat in frondes, roseoque repullulat ortu. Cinnameos simul illa rogos conscenderit, omnem Laeta bibit Phoebum, et jam jam victricibus alis 10 Plaudit humum cineresque suos. Heu, dispare fato Nos ferimur; seniorque suo sub Apolline phoenix Petrensis mater, dubias librata per auras Pendet adhuc, quaeritque sinum in quo ponat inertes 15 Exuvias, spoliisque suae reparata senectae Ore pari surgat, similique per omnia vultu. At nunc heu nixu secli melioris in ipso Deliquium patitur! At nunc heu lentae longo in molimine vitae 20 Interea moritur! Dubio stant moenia vultu Parte sui pulchra, et fratres in foedera muros Invitant frustra, nec respondentia saxis Saxa suis; moerent opera intermissa, manusque Implorant. 25 Succurre piae, succurre parenti, O quisquis pius es. Illi succurre parenti, Quam sibi tot sanctae matres habuere parentem. Quisquis es, o tibi, crede, tibi tot hiantia ruptis Moenibus ora loqui. Matrem tibi, crede verendam 30 Muros tam longo laceros senioque situque Ceu canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti. Per tibi plena olim, per jam sibi sicca precatur Ubera, ne desis senio. Sic longa juventus Te foveat, querulae nunquam cessura senectae. 35

TRANSLATION.

A GROAN

ON OCCASION OF THE DIFFICULT PARTURITION OF THE REMAINING WORKS OF PETERHOUSE.

O bird too fortunate, whose glorious name Fills us with envy of her happy fame, Which by an easy death on soaring wing, Sweet mother of herself, doth upwards spring, Assumes afresh her shining youth's attire, And wins new lease of life through hasten'd fire! She--not through slow-revolving natal days To a thin shadow worn by sad delays-- Transports herself into another round Of centuries, as by a single bound; With beauteous leaves her head she covers o'er, And with a rosy birth shoots forth once more. Soon as she climbs the spicy funeral pyre Joyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher, Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike, And her own ashes. But, alas, we follow No such example. 'Neath her own Apollo, Our Mother Peterhouse, now ancient grown, Our aged Phoenix, hither, thither blown, And balancing herself on doubtful air, Hovers with wing uncertain, seeking where Her relics she may lay, worn out with toils, As in a nest, and from the very spoils Of her own age renew'd, she may arise In perfect comeliness of face and eyes, As in the days of old, to mount the skies. But now, alas, e'en in the very throes Of her reviving age our Phoenix knows And keenly feels a sad deficiency. Alas, in life's long lingering effort she Now in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face, Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace; But elsewhere, heedless of inviting calls To union, stand the unfinish'd brother walls. On unresponsive ears the summons falls; As stones to fellow-stones appealing turn, The interrupted works together mourn, And beg a helping hand. O, succour bring, Whoe'er is pious, to the parent wing Which shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade, And gave so many mother churches[130] aid Parental; O, be now thy help display'd. Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to thee With gaping mouths are speaking audibly. Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engage To view thy walls, dismantled long with age And base neglect, and ponder her gray hair. By the full breasts which once she offer'd thee, By the dry breasts which she is doom'd to see Now for herself, she cries imploringly: 'My age to help, O fail not to appear; So may long-lasting youth thy bosom cheer, Youth which complaining age shall never fear.' R. WI.

TRANSLATION (more freely).

A LAMENT

OVER THE SLOW RESTORATION OF PETERHOUSE-COLLEGE BUILDINGS.

O Phoenix, all-too-happy bird, Who enviless thy fame has heard? Thou, thine own mother, from the pyre-- Spices mix'd with flickering fire-- Sweetly didst thy breath suspire; Then rose again, and thy age gone In a swift resurrection-- Gone! by wondrous mystic skill Wearing a richer plumage still, Youth renew'd from feet to bill,-- Thou didst not linger in thine age, Nor a slow weary struggle wage, With changing cures and long delay Searching for life in every way. No; but a quick fate self-choosing, All hindering self-ruth refusing, Thou didst raise thy funeral pyre, Thou didst hovering i' the fire, From amidst the perfum'd flame Spring up, immortal as thy fame. Thou didst lift thy comely head, Ev'ry moulting feather shed; Thou didst raise thy radiant breast Blazing to the blazing West. O Phoenix, thou'rt an awful bird; Who enviless thy fame has heard? Climbing to thy funeral pyre, Climbing self-martyr'd to the fire, Sweetly there to bear thine ire; Fetching down from the great sun To piled nest of cinnamon Rays intense; then upward winging, Sudden from thine ashes springing; Victorious by this quaint mewing, Life strangely out of death renewing; Now i' the red fire consuming, Next at the sun thine eyes reluming. Alas, how different is the fate In this our later age, ingrate, Of her, my mother-college, lying All desolate and slowly dying; Lifting but a feeble wing, Though once, as Phoenix of the fire, Springing immortal from its pyre; When Apollo and the Graces Reign'd where Ruin now defaces, Gave her, when she shone in splendour, Orator, sage, and poet tender; Gave her sons, noble and good, Better than the bluest blood: O how chang'd, since those days olden Such as in the ages golden, I behold her, smitten, lorn, And by every Fury torn, Hanging in uncertain strife As it were 'twixt death and life; Doubting whether e'en she shall Have so much as funeral; Her corpse laid in some quiet bay, Where the sea-waves softly play; Willing they should take her bones-- Her time-stain'd, rent, and shatter'd stones; If only thus but once again Rebuilded, she might yet attain To something of her old renown By such resurrection, And, phoenix-like, herself out-do In her best days when she was new. O ye sons, your mother own In her desolation; Own her, though in aging years She shows few and thin gray hairs, Where once,--ah--in brave times of old-- Flash'd her proud locks with sheen of gold. Ah, Peter nam'd, thou art denied, Thus is thy name verified. 'Tis a spectacle for tears; 'Tis a spectacle for fears; 'Tis a spectacle for wonder; 'Tis a crime deserves the thunder, That from base to gold-touch'd ceiling Day by day her halls are reeling; Mullion'd window torn and rent, And destruction imminent; Everywhere such gaping wounds As a stranger e'en astounds; And what was in faith begun Left in desolation; Stone to stone in mute appealing, Cold neglect and scorn revealing, And the font of tears unsealing. Sons of my Mother-College lying All in ruins and slow dying, If ye have aught of piety Or least touch of charity, Look on these broken walls, and see Your mother in her misery; Holding up, in vain appealing, Wither'd hands, her woes revealing; And in the rank growths tangled there See her dishonoured gray hair. Woe is me, her genial breast, Which so many sons has blest, Each all welcoming that came, Drawn by her renowned name, Wither'd, shrunk, can quench no thirst, Ah, my heart with grief will burst. To my dim eye there rises clear The full tide that once roll'd here; Now shingle, sand, and fest'ring mud Tell of the far-refluent flood. O, pity her, ye sons, and vow Once more to crown your mother's brow; Once more to rear her crumbling walls; Once more to gather in her halls The young, the brave, the true, the good, The wise, the noble; and the Rood Over all shall bless and keep; So in old age ye shall not weep, Nor ever shall your fair fame sleep. G.

VENERABILI VIRO MAGISTRO TOURNAY,

TUTORI SUO SUMME OBSERVANDO.

Messis inauravit Cereri jam quarta capillos, Vitis habet Bacchum quarta corona suae, Nostra ex quo, primis plumae vix alba pruinis, Ausa tuo Musa est nidificare sinu. Hic nemus, hic soles, et coelum mitius illi; 5 Hic sua quod Musis umbra vel aura dedit. Sedit ibi secura malus quid moverit Auster, Quae gravis hibernum vexerit ala Jovem. Nescio quo interea multum tibi murmure nota est: Nempe sed hoc poteras murmur amare tamen. 10 Tandem ecce, heu simili de prole puerpera! tandem Hoc tenero tenera est pignore facta parens. Jamque meam hanc sobolem, rogo, quis sinus alter haberet? Quis mihi tam noti nempe teporis erat? Sed quoque et ipsa meus, de te, meus, improba, tutor, 15 Quam primum potuit dicere, dixit, erit. Has ego legitimae, nec laevo sidere natae Non puto degeneres indolis esse notas; Nempe quod illa suo patri tam semper apertos, Tam semper faciles norit adire sinus. 20 Ergo tuam tibi sume: tuas eat illa sub alas: Hoc quoque de nostro, quod tuearis, habe. Sic quae Suada tuo fontem sibi fecit in ore, Sancto et securo melle perennis eat. Sic tua, sic nullas Siren non mulceat aures, 25 Aula cui plausus et sua serta dedit. Sic tuus ille, precor, Tagus aut eat obice nullo, Aut omni, quod adhuc, obice major eat.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE VENERABLE MAN MASTER TOURNAY,

MY TUTOR MOST REVERED.[131]

A fourth time now our glebe for Ceres bears The golden locks of harvest; Bacchus wears Now the fourth season his bright vine-leaf crown, Since, scant'ly hoar as yet with the soft down Of her first plumage, in thy gentle breast My young Muse dar'd to build herself a nest. Here found she sun and shade and gentler heaven, And what with these is by the Muses given Were hers. Here sat she careless how the skies Might darken, or the blasts of winter rise; And here her voice reach'd thee, but by what move Of fate I know not, only that thy love Her voice did win; and now at length behold-- And ah, how much the child her arms enfold Is like the mother!--she in tender years The parent of a tender babe appears. What lap, then, for this infant shall I find Fitter than thine, or known by me so kind? Yea, soon as she could speak, the wanton, she Said, 'He shall be my guardian,' meaning thee; And no ill forecast I would deem is this Of Genius true and favouring deities, That she so early should a sire divine Always so open, always so benign. Take, then, thine own--she is beneath thy wing-- And of this gift accept the offering. So may Persuasion, who her fount has made Upon thy lips, still pour from thence unstay'd Her sacred honey; so be at the Court, Whereto with plausive wreaths she doth resort, No ears thy Siren move not; so, I pray, No hindering bar thy Tagus strive to stay, Or only such as erst thy stream has swept away. CL.

ORNATISSIMO VIRO PRAECEPTORI SUO

COLENDISSIMO MAGISTRO BROOK.

O mihi qui nunquam nomen non dulce fuisti, Tunc quoque cum domini fronte timendus eras; Ille ego pars vestri quondam intactissima regni, De nullo virgae nota labore tuae, Do tibi quod de te per secula longa queretur, Quod de me nimium non metuendus eras: Quod tibi turpis ego torpentis inertia sceptri Tam ferulae tulerim mitia jura tuae. Scilicet in foliis quicquid peccabitur istis, Quod tua virga statim vapulet, illud erit; Ergo tibi haec poenas pro me mea pagina pendat. Hic agitur virgae res tibi multa tuae. In me igitur quicquid nimis illa pepercerit olim, Id licet in foetu vindicet omne meo. Hic tuus inveniet satis in quo saeviat unguis, Quodque veru docto trans obeliscus eat: Scilicet haec mea sunt; haec quas mala scilicet: o si, Quae tua nempe forent, hic meliora forent! Qualiacunque, suum norunt haec flumina fontem-- Nilus ab ignoto fonte superbus eat-- Nec certe nihil est qua quis sit origine. Fontes Esse solent fluvii nomen honorque sui. Hic quoque tam parvus, de me mea secula dicant, Non parvi soboles hic quoque fontis erat. Hoc modo et ipse velis de me dixisse: Meorum Ille fuit minimus--sed fuit ille meus.

TRANSLATION.

TO THAT MOST CULTURED MAN,

HIS MOST ESTIMABLE TUTOR MASTER BROOK.[132]

O thou, whose name to me was still endear'd E'en when the master's brow was justly fear'd; I, of thy realm the most inviolate part, By touch of thy birch-rod ne'er taught to smart, Give thee what through long years complains of thee That thou wast not enough a fear to me; That I, base subject of thy sceptre slow, Thy ferule's milder sway should only know. Sooth, in these leaves what faults soe'er thou see, Thy rod in every case should punish'd be. Then let this page for me the suffering pay; Here certainly thy rod may have full play; Howe'er that rod to me was once too mild, It may revenge it all on this my child; Here will thy nail discover where to rage, And scratch a learned blot across the page. These which are bad, forsooth, these things are mine; Would they were better, that they might be thine! Whate'er they are, these streams their fountain know, Nile from an unknown fount may proudly go. Not lightly what one's source may be we deem; Fountains give name and honour to their stream. So small--my times perhaps may say of me-- An offspring of no fountain small was he. Only to say of me may it be thine: 'He was my least indeed--but he was mine!' R. WI.

IN REV. DRE. BROOKE EPITAPHIUM.[133]

Posuit sub ista, non gravi, caput terra Ille, ipsa quem mors arrogare vix ausa Didicit vereri, plurimumque suspenso Dubitavit ictu, lucidos procul vultus, Et sidus oris acre procul prospectans. Cui literarum fama cum dedit lumen, Accepit, atque est ditior suis donis. Cujus serena gravitas faciles mores Muliere novit; cujus in senectute Famaeque riguit, et juventa fortunae. Ita brevis aevi, ut nec videri festinus; Ita longus, ut nec fessus. Et hunc mori credis?

TRANSLATION.

EPITAPH ON REV. DR. BROOK.

Beneath this earth, strew'd lightly, lies the head Of one whom Death himself had learnt to dread, Scarce venturing to claim; and falter'd much Ere he allow'd his threatening stroke to touch That sacred presence. These bright eyes from far He view'd; from far that face ray'd like a star. On whom when fame of letters lustre drew, He took it as his right, and richer grew By his own gifts to learning; whose serene Severity of manners seem'd to have been Temper'd by woman's softness; whose good name, In later as in early years the same, Stood firm; his fortune equal to his fame. His life so short, that not in haste he seem'd; So long, that weary he might not be deem'd: That such a one is dead, can it be dream'd? R. WI.

EPITAPHIUM IN GULIELMUM HERRISIUM.[134]

Siste te paulum, viator, ubi longum sisti Necesse erit, huc nempe properare te scias quocunque properas. Morae pretium erit Et lacrymae, Si jacere hic scias Gulielmum Splendidae Herrisiorum familiae Splendorem maximum: Quem cum talem vixisse intellexeris, Et vixisse tantum; Discas licet In quantas spes possit Assurgere mortalitas, De quantis cadere. { Infantem Essexia } Quem { Juvenem Cantabrigia } vidit Senem, ah infelix utraque Quod non vidit. Qui Collegii Christi Alumnus Aulae Pembrokianae socius, Utrique ingens amoris certamen fuit, Donec Dulciss. lites elusit Deus, Eumque coelestis collegii, Cujus semper alumnus fuit, socium fecit; Qui et ipse collegium fuit, In quo Musae omnes et Gratiae, Nullibi magis sorores, Sub praeside religione, In tenacissimum sodalitium coaluere. { Oratoria Oratorem } { Poetica Poetam } Quem { Utraque Philosophum } agnovere. { Christianum Omnes }

{ Fide Mundum } { Spe Coelum } Qui { Charitate Proximum } superavit. { Humilitate Seipsum } Cujus Sub verna fronte senilis animus, Sub morum facilitate, severitas virtutis; Sub plurima indole, pauci anni; Sub majore modestia, maxima indoles adeo se occuluerunt ut vitam ejus Pulchram dixeris et pudicam dissimulationem: Imo vero et mortem, Ecce enim in ipso funere Dissimulari se passus est, Sub tantillo marmore tantum hospitem, Eo nimirum majore monumento quo minore tumulo. Eo ipso die occubuit quo Ecclesia Anglicana ad vesperas legit, Raptus est ne malitia mutaret intellectum ejus; Scilicet Id. Octobris anno S. 1631.

TRANSLATION.

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM HARRIS.

Stay thee a short space here, good passer-by, Upon thy way; Wherein a little while thou too must lie, Haste as thou may. Certes thou knowest that thy life-long quest Leads hither--to the long, long sleep and rest: Grudge thee not, then, the tribute of a tear, Whilst, ling'ring, to this stone thou drawest near. It will reward thy stay, It will thy tears repay, To know Below lies William, Of the family of Harris, The most splendid name Where all have fame. Knowing that such an one did live, And how he liv'd--great, noble, wise-- Know how all mortal hopes are fugitive; Height gauging depth with 'Here he lies.' { As infant Essex } Whom { As youth Cambridge } saw. Ah, miserable and lamenting both, that they See not his golden locks in years grow gray! He was A student of Christ College, A fellow of Pembroke Hall: To have him The two Colleges did strive In rivalry of love: But the great God put in His negative, Calling him Above, To gain ampler knowledge In the Heavenly College, Of which he was on earth a student consecrate; So, when Death summon'd him, he went elate. So wise his wit, By genius lit, In himself alone Many in one, You had a College, where Graces and Muses fair With Religion, you might see Twin'd hand in hand in amity.

{ Eloquence as an Orator } { Poetry as a Poet } Whom { Each as a Philosopher } owned: { All as a Christian }

{ By faith the world } { By hope Heaven } Who { By love his fellow-men } conquered; { By himself himself }

Of whom The ripen'd mind under a youthful face; Severest virtue under courtliest grace; Few years his, yet mellow'd as in age; A modesty that did all hearts engage: These self-reveal'd and self-revealing, That all his life seem'd but a fine concealing.

Yea, ev'n in his death 'twas so; For being thus at length laid low, He chose no boastful tomb to tell How good the life that in him fell: By so much greater is the guest, Smaller the mound where he doth rest: Yea, in his death there was diminution: Great was the guest, but see how small the stone. On that very day he died in which the Church of England reads its even-song: He was snatch'd away, lest the wickedness of the times should contaminate his understanding, viz. 15th October A.S. 1631.[135]

IN EUNDEM SCAZON.[136]

Huc, hospes, oculos flecte, sed lacrimis caecos, Legit optime haec, quem legere non sinit fletus. Ars nuper et natura, forma, virtusque Aemulatione fervidae, paciscuntur Probare uno juvene quid queant omnes, Fuere tantae terra nuper fuit liti, Ergo huc ab ipso Judicem manent coelo.

TRANSLATION.

Stranger, bend here thine eyes, but dim with tears; Whom weeping blinds, best reader here appears. Art, Nature, Beauty, Virtue, all agree, Contending late with a warm rivalry, To show what in one youth all join'd would be. So great the strife they caus'd on earth of late, That here from heaven itself the Judge they wait. R. WI.

IN PICTURAM REVERENDISSIMI EPISCOPI

D. ANDREWS.[137]

Haec charta monstrat, fama quem monstrat magis, Sed et ipsa necdum fama quem monstrat satis; Ille, ille totam solus implevit tubam, Tot ora solus domuit, et famam quoque Fecit modestam: mentis igneae pater Agilique radio lucis aeternae vigil, Per alta rerum pondera indomito vagus Cucurrit animo, quippe naturam ferox Exhausit ipsam mille foetus artibus, Et mille linguis ipse se in gentes procul Variavit omnes, fuitque toti simul Cognatus orbi, sic sacrum et solidum jubar Saturumque coelo pectus ad patrios libens Porrexit ignes: hac eum, lector, vides Hac, ecce, charta o utinam et audires quoque.

GLOSSARIAL INDEX.

As in the other Worthies, this Index is intended to guide to Notes and Illustrations of the several words in the places; but mainly in Vol. I., as Vol. II. consists wholly of the Latin and Greek and their translations. G.

A.

Acidalian, ii. 22.

Adult'rous, ii. 144.

Alas, i. 181.

All-Hallow, ii. 59.

All-mischiefe, ii. 59.

Alps, ii. 32.

Ambush, i. 90.

Apricockes, i. 269.

Archer [badly misprinted 'anchor'], i. 176.

Assyrian, ii. 30.

B.

Baal-zebub, i. 133.

Bilbilician, ii. 26.

Black-fac'd, ii. 41.

Blossome, i. 28, 207.

Bottles, i. 15.

Brag, ii. 35.

Breakfast, i. 15.

Brisk, i. 15.

Bud, i. 93.

Bulla, ii. 245, 251.

Buried, ii. 72.

C.

Cadence, i. 17.

Calls 't, i. 16.

Canary scribblers, i. xlviii.

Case, i. 15.

Cast, ii. 184.

Cast away, ii. 43.

Ceaze, i. 214.

Chaplaine [of Virgin], i. xv.

Cherrimock, i. 267.

Child, ii. 28-9.

Clouds [mortal], i. 90.

Crawles, i. 14.

Cruzzle, i. 15.

D.

Deaw, i. 15.

Deliquium, i. 89.

Devil, speaking and dumbe, ii. 140.

Divident, i. 24.

Doome, i. xvi.

E.

Ease, i. 15.

Epigram, sacred, ii. 13.

F.

Faithful, i. 16.

Fides, ii. 101.

Flight, i. 258.

Fly, i. 175.

Food, ii. 41.

Forlorne, ii. 41.

Forswearing, i. 133.

Fragrant, i. 157.

Fries, i. 118.

Frighted, ii. 144.

Froward, ii. 137.

Full-fac't, ii. 53.

G.

Gaie, ii. 43.

Gloomy, ii. 41.

Gold, i. 16.

Golden, ii. 45.

Groves, i. 93.

H.

Heaven-burthen'd, ii. 36.

Horn [guilded], i. 89.

Husband-showrs, i. 74.

I.

Illustrious, i. 239.

Indifferent, i. 89.

Ite, i. 169.

K.

Kist, i. 89.

L.

Laces, i. 78.

Large-look't, i. 233.

Least and last, i. 89.

Legible, i. 89.

Lightness, ii. 46.

Lin'age, i. 119.

Looke up, looke downe, ii. 69.

M.

May balsame, i. 15.

Med'cinable, i. 15.

Mint, i. 16.

N.

Negotiate, i. 90.

Nest, i. 78.

Nightening, i. 43.

Nuzzeld, i. 15.

O.

Oblique, i. 90.

Officious, i. 75.

One-mouth'd, ii. 46.

One, owne, i. 24.

P.

Paire, i. 17.

Paradise, bird of, i. xv.

Paramours, i. 78.

Pearle-tipt, ii. 79.

Pharian, i. 54.

Phosporos, i. 118.

Points, i. 75.

Posts, i. 123.

Precocious, ii. 12.

Price=prize, i. 90.

Prouoke, i. 16.

Purple, ii. 164.

Pyx, ii. 27.

R.

Rampart, i. 253.

Rape, ii. 144.

Rub, i. 68.

S.

Sages [sue], i. 92-3.

Sanite, i. 13.

Score, ii. 123.

Seized, i. xlv.

Send, ii. 35.

Seven shares and a half, i. xlvi.

Shadow ['brighter'], i. 91.

Shipwrack, ii. 49.

Silver-forded, footed, i. 14.

Silver-tipt, ii. 144.

Simpering, i. 17.

Sixpenny soule, suburb sinner, i. xlvii.

Sluttish, i. 18.

Staine, ii. 99.

Steely, i. 227.

Stooped, i. 240.

Strings, i. 140.

Subtracts, ii. 12.

Sugar, i. 179.

Sydnaean, i. 256.

T.

Then=than, i. 24, et frequenter.

Thinne, i. 177.

Threasure, i. 9.

Tree=cross, i. 24, 46.

Trims't, ii. 123.

Twin'd, i. 242.

U.

Uncontrouled, i. 242.

Unpearcht, i. 68.

Unwounded, ii. 49.

V.

Veronian, ii. 25.

Violls, i. 5. 15.

W.

Washt, ii. 81.

Wayd, i. 46.

Wee, i. 14.

White, i. 149; ii. 41, 165.

Wine, i. 28.

Worm, i. 119.

Wrack, ii. 137.

END OF VOL. II.

Finis.

LONDON:

ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Crashaw's version is inadvertently inserted here instead of at p. 201. G.

[2] See p. 261 (ll. 13-14 of the Poem) for the subject of the above vivid illustration of the captive Bird, by Mrs. Blackburn, as before, specially for us (in 4to).

[3] Not to be confounded with Handsworth in Staffordshire, or Hensworth near Doncaster.

[4] In his Will (as before) he leaves 'to my aunt Rowthe my owne works.' She was Dorothy, daughter of John Eyre, of Laughton, co. York.

[5] Mr. Hunter cannot have gone about his inquiries at Handsworth with his usual persistence, for he says (as supra), 'I conjecture that he may have been born about 1575, but I do not remember of his baptism in my extracts from the Parish Register of Hansworth, nor indeed any notice of the name of Crashaw,' &c. The Register, as shown above, abounds in the name of Crashaw. For the 'conjecture' of 1575 it is gratifying to be able to substitute the baptism-record in 1572. Later, indeed, Mr. Hunter discovered his mistake. It is not very creditable to the Rev. Dr. Gatty that in his edition of Hunter's 'Hallamshire'--a district which includes Handsworth--he has left the interesting facts laid to his hand unused. Surely it was worth while to claim Crashaw as sprung of Handsworth.

[6] I have very specially to thank Dr. Henry Hunter, of Taunton, the Rector of Handsworth (Rev. John Hand, M.A.), and Mr. Henry Cadman, of Ballifield Hall, for continued help in these local searches and recoveries. Dugdale's 'Visitation of Yorkshire' (under Strafford and Tickhill Wapentake) has other Crashaws.

[7] His Will, as before.

[8] Communicated by W. Aldis Wright, Esq. M.A., as before. The remainder of the note refers to after-matters not necessary to be recorded here.

[9] Communicated to me by Professor Mayor, of Cambridge.

[10] On Alvey, see Brook's Puritans, ii. 85-6.

[11] From the 'Honovr of Vertve' we also learn that Usher had baptised our Richard; another very interesting fact. We give the opening words, after the monumental inscription: 'The Funerall Sermon was made by Doctor Vsher of Ireland, then in England, and now Lord Bishop of Meath, in Ireland. It was her owne earnest request to him, that he would preach at the baptisme of her sonne, as he had eight yeares afore, being then also in England, at the baptisme of her husband's elder sonne. Now because it proued to be both the baptisme of the sonne and buriall of the mother, as she often said it would, he therefore spake out of this text, 1 Sam. iv. 2.' It will be noticed that 'eight years' from 1620 take us back to 1612-13, our Crashaw's birth-year. I add farther this on Mrs. Crashaw: 'Being yong, faire, comely, brought vp as a gentlewoman, in musick, dancing, and like to be of great estate, and therefore much sought after by yong gallants and rich heires, and good joinctures offered, yet she chose a Divine twise her owne age.'

[12] The longest poem is anonymous. It commences with a curious enumeration of popular 'omens' supposed to precede death or misfortune. The lines onward put some of the sweet commonplaces of our Literature very well:

'Her time was short, the longer is her rest; God takes them soonest whom He loveth best; For he that's borne to-day and dyes to-morrow Looseth some dayes of ioy, but yeares of sorrow.'

A fragment of it is in the Dr. Farmer Chetham MS. (as edited by us).

[13] The title-page of the 'Iesvites' Gospell,' is extremely disingenuous, as there is no hint whatever of a prior publication, and the wording indeed is such as to make it seem that the Author, though dead well-nigh a quarter of a century at the time, was still living; for it thus runs: 'By W.C. And now presented to the Honourable the House of Commons in Parliament Assembled' (1641). Crashaw senior was Ultra-Protestant, but he is made insulting and offensive beyond his intention, as his own title-pages show. Any title-page after 1626 was not his.

[14] Robert Dixon, gent., proved the Will on 16th October 1626, and power was reserved for farther proof by Richard Crashaw, who, as under age, could not then act. Except that young Richard is named executor, there is no special provision made for him; and we must assume that as only son and child he necessarily inherited his portion over and above the (considerable) legacies. It was no uncommon thing at the period to name one young as Master Richard an executor; there are instances even of an unborn child being nominated.

[15] Yet is it notable that the elder Crashaw instituted 'a daily Morning Exercise'--reckoned High-churchly then and since. The 'Honour of Vertue' records that 'many hundred poore soules' had to bless God for the 'Exercise.'

[16] Thomas Baker's note in W. Crashaw's 'Romish Forgeries' (as partly quoted before) is utterly mistaken and misdirectedly strong: 'Erat ille [the elder Crashaw] acerrimus Propugnator Religionis Reformatae, quam Filius ejus Ric. Crashaw, injuriis vexatus, pressus inopia, Patria extorris, et complexu Matris Ecclesiae avulsus, abjuravit.'

[17] The passage occurs in his Sermon before 'Lord Lawarre' on setting out for Virginia (see its title-page ante). After disposing of (1) the divels, (2) the Papists, he comes, as follows, to (3) the Plaiers. 'As for the Plaiers: (pardon me, right honourable and beloued, for wronging this place and your patience with so base a subject), they play with Princes and Potentates, Magistrates and Ministers, nay with God and Religion and all holy things: nothing that is good, excellent, or holy can escape them: how then can this action? But this may suffice, that they are Players: they abuse Virginia, but they are Players: they disgrace it; true, but they are but Players, and they haue played with better things, and such as for which, if they speedily repent not, I dare say, vengeance waites for them. But let them play on; they make men laugh on earth, but "Hee that sits in heaven laughes them to scorne;" because like the flie, they so long play with the candle, till first it singe their wings, and at last burnes them altogether. But why are the Players enemies to this Plantation and doe abuse it? I will tell you the causes. First, for that they are so multiplied here, that one cannot liue by another, and they see that wee send of all trades to Virginia, but wee send no Players, which if wee would doe, they that remaine would gaine the more at home. Secondly, as the diuell hates vs because wee purpose not to suffer Heathens, and the Pope because wee have vowed to tolerate no Papists, so doe the Players, because wee resolue to suffer no idle persons in Virginia; which course, if it were taken in England, they know they might turne to new occupations' [sheet H 3, unpaged]. The 'Talk' in Selden's 'Table-Talk' is as follows: 'I never converted but two; the one was Mr. Crashaw, from writing against Plays, by telling him a way how to understand that place [of putting on women's apparel], which has nothing to do in the business [as neither has it]--that the Fathers speak against Plays in their time with reason enough, for they had real idolatries mixed with their Plays, having three altars perpetually upon the stage' ('Poetry,' Sec, 3). In confirmation farther of our correction of a long-continued error, I find the elder Crashaw in another of his sermons touching incidentally on the very point of 'women's apparel,' as follows: 'The ungodly playes and enterludes so rife in this nation: what are they but a bastard of Babylon, a daughter of error and confusion, a hellish device (the divel's own recreation to mock at holy things), by him delivered to the heathen, from them to the Papists, and from them to us?... They know all this, and that God accounts it abomination for a man to put on woman's apparel, and that the ancient Fathers expounded that place against them' (Sermon preached at the Crosse, Feb. 14, 1607 ... justified by the Author ... 1609, 4to, p. 169). Probably the preacher intimated his intention to pursue his condemnation farther, and so the great Scholar put him right on the well-known text.

[18] See Professor Mayor's 'Nicholas Ferrar' (1855), pp. vi. vii. 330. He has satisfied us that Crashaw was not the author of the Epitaph on Nicholas Ferrar, as Sancroft supposed. See p. 144.

[19] His reading included Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish. His 'exercises' were 'Poetry, Drawing, Limming, Graving' ('exercises of his curious invention and sudden fancy'). See our vol. i. p. xlvii.

[20] 'Pope Alexander the Seventh and the College of Cardinals.' By John Bargrave, D.D., Canon of Canterbury [1662-1680]. With a Catalogue of Dr. Bargrave's Museum. Edited by J.C. Robertson, M.A., Canon of Canterbury. Camden Society, 1867, 4to. Todd, in his Milton (i. 250-1), first quoted the above from the MS.

[21] Crashaw's name is duly entered in the list of Converts of the 1648-9 edition of Dr. Carier's 'Missive to his Majesty of Great Britain ... containing the Motives of his Conversion to Catholike Religion'--thus: 'Mr. Richard Crashaw, Master of Arts of Peterhouse, Cambridge, now Secretary to a Cardinall in Rome, well known in England for his excellent and ingenious Poems.' The Countess of Denbigh is also in the list.

[22] In its place (vol. i. p. 234) an Epitaph is headed 'Vpon Doctor Brooke.' This may possibly have been Brook of the Charterhouse; but I had thought it the brother of Christopher Brook (or Brooke)--Dr. Samuel Brooke, the associate of Dr. Donne, and author of a dainty little poem on 'Tears.' I am not aware that the Master of the Charterhouse was 'Doctor.' But his name is spelled Brooks in 'Domus Carthusiana,' p. 139. With reference to 'Priscianus' and 'Stomachus' and 'Hymn to Venus,' &c., two things are noticeable: (1) that earlier Crashaw was of the 'earth earthy,' as much as any of his contemporary poets;--his 'Royal' and other early poetry (as above) is heathenish almost--in strange and suggestive contrast with his later, when every atom of him was religious: (2) that he was not without humour or power of satire. It is a man's loss to be without humour--he has a poorer nature if he be without it; and for myself, I relish the human-ness of some of Crashaw's earlier Verse, as distinguished from his after intensely-unearthly spiritual Poetry.

[23] The following entry from the Admission-Book of Pembroke College refers to Crashaw's Tournay: 'Mar. 1, 1620. Joannes Turney, Cantianus, annos habens [blank] admissus est sizator sub custodia Mri Duncon.' In another account of the Fellows of Pembroke by Attwood in continuation of Bishop Wren is this: 'Joannes Tourney, Cantianus, scholaris Collegii Mro Vaughan [i.e. 20 Oct. 1627] titulum obtinet eodem anno. An. 1632 Praedicator Academiae. An. 1634, Thesaurarius Junior et S. Theologiae Baccalaureus. Thesaurarius Senior an. 1635, et Attornatus Collegii cum Mro Vaughan in negotiis collegium quocunque modo spectantibus.'

[24] From the Admission-Book of Christ's College I get the following: 'Gulielmus Harris, Essexiensis, filius Gulielmi Equitis de Margret-Ing. institutus in rudimentis grammaticis sub Mro Plumtrae Scholae publicae de Brentwood Archididasculo, admissus Mar. 2, 1623, aetatis 16, sub Mro Siddall.' The family of Harris, lords of the manor of Shenfield in the parish of Margaret-Ing in Essex, occurs in Morant's 'Essex.' Sir William Herrys married Frances Astley. From Attwood (as before) I glean these farther entries: 'Gulielmus Herrys, Essexiensis, Colegii Christi alumnus, Artium Baccalaureus; electus et ille Jan. 8, an. 1630. An. 1631 incipit in Artibus. Monitor autem illo anno, Oct. 15. Optimae spei juvenis.' He may have died of the plague (cf. Cooper's 'Annals of Cambridge,' iii. 243). (From Mr. Wright, as before.)

[25] Stanynough has also verses in the Univ. Collections of 1625 and 1633. He was buried in Queen's College Chapel, 5 March 1634-5 (St. Bot. Regr.). I do not deem it necessary to record the college entries concerning him, from his admission as pensioner, 30 April 1622, to 'leave to forbear to take orders,' Sept. 1631: renewed 22 July 1633.

[26] The whole Sec,, pp. 34-37, is full of anecdote and of rare interest, and sorrowfully confirmatory of Crashaw's words.

[27] I find I cannot spare room for Cowley's own separate poem on Hope. It is in all the editions of his Poems.

[28] Bishop Laud, in his Defence, pleads that he had retained many in the Church of England, and names the Duke of Buckingham, spite of his mother's and sister's influence (Works, s.n.). Buckingham's mother was a fervent Catholic, and here his 'sister,' i.e. Susan first Countess of Denbigh, is placed with her as Roman Catholic. Other references go to make the fact certain. I hope to be called on hereafter to give details (as supra).

[29] The poems entitled 'Prayer: an Ode which was prefixed to a little prayer-book given to a young gentlewoman,' and 'To the same Party: covncel concerning her choise' (vol. i. pp. 128-137), have much of the sentiment and turn of wording of the Verse-Letters to the Countess of Denbigh; but I have failed to discover who is designated by their 'M.R.' It is clear she was a 'gentle'-born Lady. 'Mrs.' does not necessarily designate a married person. She may have been a 'fair young Lady.'

[30] The 'Epiphanie' has some of the grandest things of Crashaw, and things so original in the thought and wording as not easily to be paralleled in other Poets: e.g. 'Dread Sweet' (l. 236), and the superb 'Something a brighter shadow, Sweet, of thee' (l. 250). The most Crashaw-like of early 'Epiphany' or Christmas Hymns is that of Bishop Jeremy Taylor, from which I take these lines:

'Awake, my soul, and come away! Put on thy best array; Least if thou longer stay, Thou lose some minitts of so blest a day. Goe run, And bid good-morrow to the sun; Welcome his safe return To Capricorn; And that great Morne Wherein a God was borne, Whose story none can tell, But He whose every word's a miracle.'

(Our ed. of Bp. Taylor's Poems, pp. 22-3.)

En passant, since our edition of Bishop Taylor's Poems was issued we have discovered that a 'Christmas Anthem or Carol by T.P.,' which appeared in James Clifford's 'Divine Services and Anthems' (1663), is Bishop Taylor's Hymn. This we learn from 'The Musical Times,' Feb. 1st, 1871, in a paper on Clifford's book. Criticising the words as by an unknown T.P.--ignorant that he was really criticising Bp. Jeremy Taylor--the (I suppose) learned Writer thus appreciatively writes of the grand Hymn and these passionate yearning words: 'Who, for instance, could seriously sing in church such stuff as the following Christmas Anthem or Carol, by T.P.? which Mr. William Childe (not yet made Doctor) had set to music.' Ahem! And so on, in stone-eyed, stone-eared stupidity.--Of modern celebrations I name as worthy of higher recognition than it has received the following 'Hymn to the Week above every Week,' by Thomas H. Gill; Lon., Mudie, 1844 (pp. 24). There is no little of the rich quaint matter and manner of our elder Singers in this fine Poem.

[31] Cf. vol. i. p. 143.

[32] Like Macaulay in his History of England (1st edition), Dr. Macdonald by an oversight speaks of Crashaw as 'expelled from Oxford,' instead of Cambridge (cf. our vol. i. p. 32).

[33] The Letter of Pope to Mr. Henry Cromwell is in all the editions of his Correspondence. Willmott (as before) also gives it in extenso. Of The Weeper Pope says: 'To confirm what I have said, you need but look into his first poem of The Weeper, where the 2d, 4th, 6th, 14th, 21st stanzas are as sublimely dull as the 7th, 8th, 9th, 16th, 17th, 20th, and 23d stanzas of the same copy are soft and pleasing. And if these last want anything, it is an easier and more unaffected expression. The remaining thoughts in that poem might have been spared, being either but repetitions, or very trivial and mean. And by this example one may guess at all the rest to be like this; a mixture of tender gentle thoughts and suitable expressions, of forced and inextricable conceits, and of needless fillers-up of the rest,' &c. &c. 'Sweet' is the loftiest epithet Pope uses for Crashaw, and that in the knowledge of the 'Suspicion of Herod.' In The Weeper he passes some of the very finest things. In his Abelard and Eloisa he incorporates felicities from Crashaw's 'Alexias' within inverted commas; but elsewhere is not very careful to mark indebtedness.

[34] He also quotes, as complete in themselves and 'best alone,' these two lines from No. LI.:

'This new guest to her eyes new laws hath given; Twas once look up, 'tis now look down to heaven.'

Dr. Robert Wilde in his Epitaph upon E.T. has the same idea, and puts it quaintly:

'Reader, didst thou but know what sacred dust Thou tread'st upon, thou'dst judge thyself unjust Shouldst thou neglect a shower of tears to pay, To wash the sin of thy own feet away. That actor in the play, who, looking down When he should cry 'O heaven!' was thought a clown And guilty of a solecism, might have Applause for such an action o'er this grave. Here lies a piece of Heaven; and Heaven one day Will send the best in heaven to fetch't away.'

(Hunt's edition, p. 30.)

[35] The 'conceit' is found in Vida's Christiad, lib. ii. 431, iii. 984: also in a Hymn of St. Ambrose. Cf. too Psalm lxvii. 16. Victor Hugo has adapted it as follows: 'Here is a whimsical explanation of the miracle of the wedding at Cana in Galilee:

La nymphe de ces eaux apercut Jesus-Christ, Et son pudique front de rougeur se couvrit.'

The nymph of these waters perceived Jesus Christ, And her modest brow was dyed with shame.

(Victor Hugo: a Life, 1863, i. 269). Whence the brilliant Frenchman fetched his 'whimsical explanation' is not doubtful. In the last line of Crashaw's epigram the reading in Poemata Anglorum Latina is

'Vidit et erubuit nympha pudica Deum.'

'Lympha' is inferior, and a (mis)reading for 'nympha.'

[36] From Prolusiones of Strada.

[37] Gifford here has one of his many singular notes, because he could think of no other meaning than 'merriment' for 'mirth,' which, as 'joy' or 'gladness,' is quite in place, and indeed accurately descriptive of the combined gladness and sadness of the pathetic contest.

[38] Professor M'Carthy, who finds the influence of Crashaw in Shelley, has suggested one line from the 'Suspicion' as a motto for Hood's 'Song of the Shirt,' viz. in st. xliii.

'They prick a bleeding heart at every stitch.'

(N. and Q. 2d S. v. 449-52.)

[39] I place here a copy of the document that had gone astray (Vol. I. p. xxxv.): 'It results from a Papal Bull dated 24th April 1649, that Richard Crashaw, an Englishman, was admitted to a benefice ('Beneficiato') of the Basilica-Church of our Lady of Loreto, through strong interest in his favour by Cardinal Pallotta, then Protector of the so-called Holy House of Loreto, and in whose service Richard Crashaw was. But as it appears from another Bull dated 25th August 1649, that a successor was named to Richard Crashaw, it is evident that he was a Beneficiary in Loreto for only about three months--too short a time to furnish sufficient materials for the illustration of his biography.--N.B. A Beneficiary in ecclesiastical hierarchy is a grade under a Canon, and his duty in church is more assiduous than that of the Canon; but it is not necessary to be a Beneficiary before becoming a Canon.'

[40] See our Essay for notice of Lany. G.

[41] See our Essay in the present volume for notices of Lany. G.

[42] Perhaps a virgin-priestess being dedicated is intended. G.

[43] Balaami asinus. CR.

[44] By a singular misprint Barksdale thus reads:

'The thief which bless'd upon the Cross with Me,' &c. G.

[45] Barksdale thus renders the first couplet:

'Magdalen! thou prevent'st the morning light; =anticipatest But thy Sun was already in thy sight.' G.

[46] Phil. i. 23, {ten epithymian echon eis to analysai}.

[47] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the latter couplet:

'All things subside by their own weight: I think Thy lightness only, Peter, makes thee sink.'

[48] Christi scilicet. C. [The reference is to a runaway slave, whose punishment would be crucifixion. G.]

[49] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the latter couplet:

'After so many miracles done well, He that believes not is a miracle.'

[50] Query: Is there a punning-play on Judas' 'All Hail' (i.e. All Hallow) before the Betrayal? G.

[51] Cf. Crashaw's own hitherto unpublished poem, amplifying the epigram, in 'Airelles,' vol. i. pp. 185-6. G.

[52] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the closing couplet:

'Thou receiv'st and receiv'st not Christ; for He Comes not into thy house, but into thee.'

[53] Barksdale, as before, translates the last couplet thus:

'Enough! I have seen, have seen my Saviour: Beside Thee, Christ, I would see nothing more.'

[54] Joan. vii. 46.

[55] Cf. our vol. i. pp. 50-1. G.

[56] See vol. i. pp. 47-8, for Crashaw's own poem enlarging the epigram. G.

[57] Barksdale thus renders the latter couplet:

'That Saul was blind, I will not say: Sure Saul was captus lumine.'

[58] Ver. 24. Non enim mortua est puella, sed dormit. CR.

[59] For Crashaw's own full rendering of this epigram, see our vol. i. pp. 48-9. G.

[60] Barksdale thus renders one couplet:

'See, O my guests, a Deity is here: The chast nymph saw a God, and blusht for fear.'

For Dryden's and others, see our Essay in this volume. G.

[61] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the last couplet:

'To see Christ was first in my desire: Next, having seen Thee, forthwith to expire.'

[62] Barksdale, as before, inserts an anonymous epigram on the same subject as supra, being the only one not by Crashaw in the volume. It is as follows: '40. Mulier Canaanitis. Matt. 15. Femina tam fortis, &c.

'O woman, how great is that faith of thine! Fides more than a grammar's feminine.'

In another application, quaint old Dr. Worship, in his 'Earth raining upon Heaven' (1614), in rebuking the unfeminine boldness of the sex, says, 'Harke yee grammarians: Hic mulier ere long will be good Latin' (pp. 5, 6). G.

[63] For Crashaw's own rendering of this epigram or poem, see our vol. i. pp. 50-1. G.

[64] Cf. St. Matt. iv. 3. G.

[65] Joan. xix. 41. {en ho oudepo oudeis etethe} CR.

[66] Ver. 2. {seismos egeneto megas.} CR.

[67] Ver. 4. {eseisthesan hoi terountes, kai egenonto hosei nekroi.} CR.

[68] Barksdale, as before, renders the closing couplet thus:

'Is He the Christ? And the inquiry is Of Himself? Why, the dumb can answer this.'

[69] Barksdale, as before, renders the latter couplet. G.

[70]

Or--To the Jews it is not fire, Yet the name best tells Heav'n's ire. G.

[71] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the last couplet:

'Most worthy nest this for the Bird above; Most worthy of this nest is th' holy Dove.' G.

[72] Barksdale, as before, renders the latter couplet. G.

[73] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the latter couplet:

'These loaves of Christ are well bestow'd: if fed With these, they hunger after living bread.' G.

[74] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the latter couplet:

'By your opposing force, Greeks, what is meant? That you have no convincing argument.' G.

[75] Barksdale, as before, renders the latter couplet. G.

[76] Barksdale, as before, renders the opening couplet. G.

[77] = reckoning or debt to be paid. G.

[78] By an oversight Willmott renders ora 'regions' instead of 'eyes.' G.

[79] Barksdale thus renders the second couplet:

'This house a stable! No: Thy blessed birth, Jesus, converts it to a heaven on earth.' G.

[80] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the closing couplet:

'John is Christ's flame; Domitian, in thine ire, Canst thou e'er hope with oil to extinguish fire?' G.

[81] Barksdale thus renders the latter couplet:

'Do, Dragon, do, thy snakes together call, That by Christ's virtue they may perish all.' G.

[82] Barksdale, as before, thus renders the closing couplet:

'Shine forth, my Sun: soon as Thy beams are felt, Thy gracious healing beams, my snow will melt.' G.

[83] Ver. 31. Sustulerunt lapides. CR.

[84] ... Et continuo exivit sanguis et aqua. CR.

[85] Act. i. Nubes susceptum eum abstulit. CR.

[86] Crashaw must have stopped short in his Greek version of the present and succeeding epigram. G.

[87] Rev. i. 16. CR.

[88] Is the allusion to Peter's following 'afar off,' and after-denial of the Lord? G.

[89] The allusion in l. 5 is to wrestlers anointing themselves to prevent their adversaries grasping them. R. WI.

[90] See the above Epigram, with only a few verbal changes, at pp. 160-1, with translation by Rev. Richard Wilton. I add my own, as the inadvertent repetition was not observed until too late. G.

[91] This was overlooked in its proper place as Crashaw's own rendering of Epigram VI. p. 39. G.

[92] LVI. and LVII. from Tanner MSS., as before. G.

[93] Ecclesia. CR.

[94] Cf. Wordsworth's 'A faculty for storms' ('Happy Warrior'). G.

[95] MS. has no stop here, and leaves a space nearly wide enough for a line. Mr. Wilton has excellently supplied it. Doubtless it was left blank by Sancroft in order to consult the Text, or as unable to decipher the MS. G.

[96] I have ventured to supply a connecting line in place of the pentameter here dropt out; which might have been something like this:

'Inque brevi vita splendida facta micent.' R. WI.

[97] From 'The Recommendation' illustration in 'Carmen D. nostro' (Paris, 1652). See vol. i. in 4to, p. 43. G.

[98] See Illustration (in 4to) by Mrs. Blackburn to ll. 13-14 as vignette in Essay. G.

[99] Query, in the heading (Latin), 'In Apolline_m_'? but 'Apolline_a_' is in all the texts. G.

[100] Appeared originally in 1648 edition (pp. 63-4), under the title of 'Elegia.' It was subsequently headed 'In eundem,' following the Epitaph-poem on Harris (see above). G.

[101] In agro Sudovolgorum.

[102] Nomen Elda (Cancrorum idiomate) [backwards].

[103] Pretium annuum haud invidendum, XX_s._

[104] Patibulo, quod tribus constat lignis, arrectariis binis, et trabe transversa.

[105] Quattuor, quia equus quadrupes videbatur in eam sententiam quasi pedibus ire.

[106] Vulgo acquietantia.

[107] Organum est librite hydrobapticum ad omnium ripas situm, linguae fervore refrigerando.

[108] The Common Pleas in Westminster Hall.

[109] A writ.

[110] The return of the writ [the morrow of All Souls].

[111] The plaintiff.

[112] Stylus curiae. Si quis alicui in jurgio pilum imminuerit, prodit tragica accusatio de insultu et vulnere, ita quod de ejus vita desperabatur. O forensem exaggerationem!

[113] It is not easy to bring-out the play on terga dabit--'terga dare' being equivalent to 'fugere'--and yet indicative of the boy's punishment on the back of the whipping-horse.

[114] Alluding to Pegasus, and the fountain caused by stroke of hoof.

[115] See Memorial-Introduction, vol. i., and our Essay in the present Volume, for notices of Brooke. G.

[116] See notice of Dr. Mansell in note to the translation. The present poem is printed by Mr. Searle in his 'History of the Queen's College &c.' 1871, pp. 448-9. G.

[117] 'John Mansel or Mansell was of the county of Lincoln, and was entered at the college (Queen's) as a sizar 29th March 1594, under Clement Smith, nephew of Sir Thomas Smith. He was B.A. 1597-8, was made scholar in 1598, and elected fellow of the college 31st June 1600. Romney and Bilsington, priories in Kent, were founded in 1257 by John Maunsell, provost of Beverley, treasurer of York, rector of Maidstone, Kent, and of Wigan, Lancashire; he was also Chief-justice of England. "I have seen a pedigree of the Mansels, from Philip de Mansel, who came in with the Conqueror, untill our times. Of this name and familie is that orthodoxall sound Divine and worthy Master of Queen's Colledge in Cambridge, John Mansel, Doctor of Divinitie, and a generall schollare in all good literature." (Weever, Fun. Mon. 273-4.) He commenced M.A. in 1601, and was B.D. in 1609. From the year 1604 to the year 1617 he seems to have been in residence, as he held various college offices and college lectureships in every year of that period. He was senior bursar for the two years 1609-10 and 1610-11. He was vicar of Hockington from 2d September 1614 to May 1616. He vacated his fellowship in the course of the year 1616-17, receiving his stipend for three and half weeks in the third quarter, so that he ceased to be fellow towards the end of July 1617. He became D.D. in 1622. He was elected president [of Queen's College] 29th April 1622.... Dr. Mansel died 7th October 1631.' (From Mr. Searle's 'History of the Queen's College &c.,' as before, pp. 447-8.) Agreeably to the heading, Dr. Samuel Brooke died September 1631 (MS. Baker xxvi. 167; Wood's Fasti (Bliss), pt. i. p. 400. Crashaw celebrated Brooke, as did Dr. Donne. See English Poems in vol. i., and Epitaphium onward. G.

PART SECOND. SECULAR. III. (part 2)

[118] See notice of Heath in note to the translation. G.

[119] 'Lord' is titular, not of the peerage. Doubtless Crashaw celebrates Sir Robert Heath, Kt., who was successively Recorder of London, Solicitor-General, Attorney-General, and finally, 26th October 1631, Chief-Justice of the Common Pleas. From this post he appears to have been dismissed three years later; but in 1641 he was appointed a Judge of the King's Bench, and in 1643 Chief-Justice of that court, when he would be commonly called 'Lord Chief-Justice of England.' Being a Royalist, he fled into France in 1646, and died at Calais 30th August 1649. His remains were brought to England and buried at Brasted, Kent, in which church there is a fine monument. His age was seventy-five. G.

[120] That is, from the Scotch trip of 1663. This appeared in the University collection, 'Rex Redux' &c. (see Preface in present Volume), 1633. Among other contributors were Edward King ('Lycidas'), Thomas Randolph, Waller, and Henry More. G.

[121] The following is a note of Charles I.'s family:

Charles James, born May 13, 1628; died same day.

Charles, born May 29, 1630; afterwards Charles II.

Mary, born November 4, 1631; afterwards mother of William III.

James, born October 14, 1633; afterwards James II., probably the unborn child of this poem.

Elizabeth, born December 28, 1635; died of grief for her father 5th September 1650 (see Vaughan's fine poem to her memory, Works by us, s.n.).

Anne, born March 17, 1636-7; died December 8, 1640.

Henry, born July 8, 1640; afterwards Duke of Gloucester and Earl of Cambridge.

Henrietta-Anne, born June 16, 1644. G.

[122] The King (Charles I.) had the small-pox in 1632. This appeared originally in the University Collection on the occasion, 'Anthologia in Regis,' &c. (see Preface to present volume). Henry More and Edward King ('Lycidas') contributed also. G.

[123] See note to preceding poem. From Voces Votivae &c. (see Preface to this volume). G.

[124] From 'Delights of the Muses,' 1648, pp. 47-8; not in Turnbull. G.

[125] Turnbull gives simply as the heading 'Natales Principis Mariae.' The date is Nov. 4, 1631. This Princess was born Nov. 4, 1631. G.

[126] From Tanner MS., as before; hitherto unprinted. See note to preceding poem. G.

[127] Originally headed 'Natalis Ducis Eboracensis;' but altered as above, as the English poem on this subject was so changed when other children were born, and the earlier title became inapplicable. Appeared originally in the University collection 'Ducis Eboracensis' &c. (see Preface in present volume). This was afterwards James II. G.

[128] On 'Peterhouse' see our Memorial-Introduction, vol. i. and Essay in the present volume. G.

[129] See Memorial-Introd. vol. i., and Essay in the present vol. as below. G.

[130] Apparently the churches in the gift of the College. W.

[131] John Tournay was of Kent: B.A. 1623; M.A. 1627; B.D. 1634; elected Fellow of Pembroke Hall 20th October 1627, and had the College title for orders the same year (Loder's Framlingham, p. 250). See our Essay in present volume on the group of College friends. G.

[132] See Memorial-Introduction, vol. i. and our Essay, for notices of Brooke; also present volume for other poems, &c. addressed to him. G.

[133] Dr. Samuel Brooke, brother of Christopher Brooke, author of sweet lines, as 'Tears,' and others. He died in September 1631. See note on Dr. Mansell ante. G.

[134] For notice of Herres or Harris, see Essay in the present volume. Curiously enough, in line 2, the original misprints 'tempe' for 'nempe,' as in the 'Bulla' is misprinted 'nempe' for 'tempe;' and onward 'morte' for 'mortem;' while 'Oratorem' and 'Poetam' are exchanged wrongly. In the heading too it is 'Dominum' for 'Gulielmum.' G.

[135] In 1648 (last four lines), l. 2 is misprinted 'Anglica nec' for 'Anglicana,' and l. 3 'militia' for 'malitia' of 1646 edition. There is some obscurity in the 'ad vesperas legit.' The intransitive use seems unusual, unless it means as above = the Anglican Church performs the evening service at the close of its day, or before it ceased to exist as the Church of the land. Laud was now commencing those innovations which led to the destruction of the Church of England. G.

[136] From 'Delights of the Muses,' after 'Upon the Death of Mr. Herrys' (of vol. i. pp. 220-1). Not given by Turnbull. G.

[137] For Crashaw's own translation of this see vol. i. p. 217. G.

# Project Gutenberg #61586

THE POETICAL WORKS OF

THOMAS TRAHERNE

[Illustration: Facsimile of the original MS. of one of Traherne's Poems]

THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS TRAHERNE 1636?-1674

FROM THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPTS

EDITED BY BERTRAM DOBELL

WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR

SECOND EDITION

"I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall."

William Blake

"Heaven lies about us in our infancy."

William Wordsworth

LONDON PUBLISHED BY THE EDITOR 77 CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C. 1906

TO

G. THORN DRURY

My youth was ever constant to one dream, Though hope failed oft--so hopeless did it seem-- That in the ripeness of my days I might Something achieve that should the world requite For my existence; for it was a pain To think that I should live and live in vain: And most my thoughts were turned towards the Muse, Though long she did my earnest prayers refuse, And left me darkling and despairing; then By happy chance there came within my ken A hapless poet, whom--I thank kind fate!-- It was my privilege to help instate In that proud eminence wherein he shines Now that no more on earth he sadly pines. This was a fortune such as I must ever Be thankful for--yet still 'twas my endeavour, With what, I hope, was no unworthy zeal, My life-work with some other deed to seal, And lo! when such a dream might well seem vain, Propitious fate smiled on me once again, And through the mists of time's close-woven pall A glint of light on one dim form did fall, Which, as I gazed more earnestly, became A living soul, discovered by the flame Of glowing inspiration which possessed Even now, as when he lived, the poet's breast. Did I deceive myself? Could it be true A new poetic star was in my view, And shining with a lustre bright and clear, Where, constellated in the heavenly sphere, Herbert and Vaughan, Crashaw and Milton shine With varying brightness, yet alike divine? I gazed again, but still that star burned on, And ever with a deeper radiance shone, Until I knew no Will-o'-th'-Wisp's false light, No meteor delusive mocked my sight, But 'twas indeed a fulgent planet which Henceforth shall with its beams the heavens enrich.

Some vanity, I know, is in this strain, But men may be with reason sometimes vain: Shall he alone who does a worthy deed Not pay himself, if so he will, that meed Of self-applause from which all virtues spring,-- Without it who would do a noble thing? So let the world arraign me as it will, It cannot now my satisfaction chill, Since you, dear friend! and all whose praise I prize, Look on my labours with approving eyes.

This book to you 'tis fit I dedicate Since you, my friend, so well appreciate-- Nay, rather love, our poets of old time, Responding ever to their notes sublime: Who, though you treasure most those sons of light, Whose radiance glitters on the brow of night, Do not despise the faintest twinkling star That shines where Shakespeare, Spenser, Milton are: Who can, like Lamb, a brilliant flower descry Where all seems sterile to the common eye, Who, like Lamb, too, to no strait bounds confined, Have room for all fair fancies in your mind, And, with a taste that never errs, discover Faults like a censor, beauties like a lover.

Here is another offering for your store, Though not arrayed in that brown garb of yore Which, with quaint type and paper stained with age, Were for the Spirit of our Poet-Sage A fitter dwelling, more becoming page. I could not give him these, and so have sought To match his noble and exalted thought With the best raiment that our time affords Of comely type, fine paper, seemly boards, Which, centuries hence, to our children's children's eyes May have an antique look which they shall prize, When Traherne's name, familiar to their ears, Shall hold assured a place among his peers.

CONTENTS

PAGE

DEDICATION v

CONTENTS ix

INTRODUCTION xiii

THE SALUTATION 1

WONDER 4

EDEN 8

INNOCENCE 11

THE PREPARATIVE 15

THE INSTRUCTION 19

THE VISION 21

THE RAPTURE 24

THE IMPROVEMENT 26

THE APPROACH 31

DUMBNESS 34

SILENCE 38

MY SPIRIT 42

THE APPREHENSION 48

FULLNESS 49

NATURE 51

EASE 55

SPEED 58

THE CHOICE 60

THE PERSON 65

THE ESTATE 69

THE ENQUIRY 73

THE CIRCULATION 76

AMENDMENT 80

THE DEMONSTRATION 83

THE ANTICIPATION 88

THE RECOVERY 94

ANOTHER 98

LOVE 101

THOUGHTS.--I 104

THOUGHTS.--II 109

[THE INFLUX] 112

THOUGHTS.--III 115

DESIRE 119

THOUGHTS.--IV 123

GOODNESS 128

[THE SOUL'S GLORY] 132

[FINITE YET INFINITE] 134

ON NEWS 135

[THE TRIUMPH] 138

[THE ONLY ILL] 140

THE RECOVERY 142

[THE GLORY OF ISRAEL] 143

[ASPIRATION] 148

[SUPPLICATION] 152

AN HYMN UPON ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY 153

POEMS FROM TRAHERNE'S "CHRISTIAN ETHICKS"--

"FOR MAN TO ACT AS IF HIS SOUL DID SEE" 156

"ALL MUSICK, SAWCES, FEASTS, DELIGHTS, AND PLEASURES" 157

"AS IN A CLOCK 'TIS HINDER'D FORCE DOTH BRING" 157

"WERE ALL THE WORLD A PARADISE OF EASE" 159

OF MEEKNESS 160

OF CONTENTMENT 166

"AND IF THE GLORY AND ESTEEM I HAVE" 167

APPENDIX--

BLISS 170

[LIFE'S BLESSEDNESS] 171

[THE RESURRECTION] 172

THE WAYS OF WISDOM 174

TRAHERNE'S "SERIOUS AND PATHETICALL CONTEMPLATION OF THE MERCIES OF GOD" 179

THE WILL OF THOMAS TRAHERNE 185

Note: The poems of which the titles are enclosed within brackets are without titles in the original manuscripts. It seemed better to give them names, in order to facilitate reference to them.

INTRODUCTION

It is with a more than ordinary degree of pleasure that I have undertaken the task of introducing to readers of the present day the writings of a hitherto unknown seventeenth-century poet. Centuries had drawn their curtains around him, and he had died utterly, as it seemed, out of the minds and memories of men; but the long night of his obscurity is at length over, and his light henceforth, if I am not much mistaken, is destined to shine with undiminished lustre as long as England or the English tongue shall endure.

The author of the poems contained in the present volume belongs to that small group of religious poets which includes Herbert, Vaughan, and Crashaw, though he is much more nearly allied to the authors of "The Temple" and "Silex Scintillans" than to the lyrist of Roman Catholicism. Yet he is neither a follower nor an imitator of any of these, but one who draws his inspiration from sources either peculiar to himself or made his own by the moulding force of his own fervent spirit. Of the inner life of the author of these poems we have abundant and satisfactory knowledge, for it is certain that no man's writings ever furnished a clearer or more faithful mirror of their author's personality than do those of Thomas Traherne. But of the outward incidents of his life little can be told, though that little is sufficient to show that he was a man of the finest and noblest character. Profession and practice in his case went together, and he was no less admirable as a man than he was as a poet and a minister of religion. That he was a person of great sweetness of disposition, of most happy temperament, and of singularly attractive character, is certain; and to know so much of a man is to know everything we really need to know. We cannot help, however, craving for more than this, and we would give much indeed for such a record of Traherne as Walton gave of Hooker, Herbert, Donne, and Sanderson. It is likely, indeed, that other particulars of Traherne's career will in time be discovered; but for the present the reader must be content with the scanty details which are given in the following pages.

I regret to say that the inquiries which I have made, or caused to be made, as to the time and place of Thomas Traherne's birth have been, so far, without result. Probably he was born at Hereford, since his father was a shoemaker in that town; but this is not certain. He may have been born at Ledbury, which is a village a few miles from Hereford, for it seems pretty certain that his family was in some way connected with that place. The earlier portion of the registers of that village has been printed by the Parish Registers Society, and from this it appears that there were "Trayernes" there in the sixteenth century. Unfortunately, the portion of the Ledbury registers which covers the period during which it is probable that our author was born is missing. That also seems to be the case as regards the Hereford registers of the same period. This is very disappointing; but we may hope that further inquiries will prove more successful.

That the family from which the poet sprang was Welsh by descent seems to be highly probable. It is true that the name is also found in a slightly different form in Cornwall; but no doubt both branches sprang from the same root at some distant period. The poet's character and temperament, as displayed in his writings, almost proclaim his nationality. Herbert and Vaughan, the two poets to whom he is most near akin, were both Welsh by descent, and though neither of them is deficient in warmth of feeling, Traherne certainly surpasses them in the passionate fervour which he infuses into his writings. It is hardly possible to think of them as having emanated from the cooler and less enthusiastic Anglo-Saxon temperament.

All that I am able to say, then, as to the time of Traherne's birth is that it was probably in the year 1636. Wood informs us that he became a commoner of Brazennose College, Oxford, in 1652; and as the age at which it was then usual for youths to commence their college career was about sixteen, the above date seems the most likely one, though it may, of course, have been a year earlier or later. His father was in all probability the "John Traherne, Shoemaker," who is recorded to have received, in conjunction with another person, "from Mistress Joyce Jefferies the sum of three pounds for the shipping money."[A] This lady is also recorded to have paid money to one John Traherne (who may or may not have been the same person) for training as the soldier whom she had to provide for the Trained-bands.

John Traherne, it seems likely, was related to a man of considerable note and influence in Hereford. This was Philip Traherne (the name is sometimes spelt Traheron), who was twice Mayor of Hereford. He was born in 1566, and was noted for his fidelity to the cause of King Charles I., and, to follow the eulogium upon his tombstone, "for his fervent zeal for the Established Church and clergy, and friendly and affectionate behaviour in conversation, which rendered him highly valuable to all the loyal party." He was mayor of Hereford at the time when the Scots attacked it. He died in 1645, aged 79. It would thus appear that the Traherne family was one which occupied a fairly good position in the middle class of the community. It would seem, however, from a passage in Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations" ("Sitting in a little obscure room in my father's poor house") that John Traherne's circumstances were not very flourishing.

Of the poet's infancy and youth, the only source of information we have is that which we find in his own writings. That the poems in which he dwells so lovingly, and with so much enthusiasm, upon the happiness and innocence of his infancy are somewhat coloured by the warmth of his imagination may, perhaps, be suspected, but not, I think, with justice. It is possible that he, to some extent, confused reflections of later date with those which he represents himself to have experienced in his infancy; but he was evidently a very precocious child, and the dawn of consciousness and thought was surely much earlier in him than it is in ordinary children. I think, therefore, we may trust the evidence of the poems, in which he speaks of his infancy and childhood, as affording a true, or but little idealised, picture of his early life. It might be unsafe to depend upon the evidence of the poems if they stood alone, but the earnestness with which he dwells upon the same topic, and repeats in prose (in his "Centuries of Meditations") what he asserts in his verse, is sufficiently convincing. I know of no author whose writings convey to the reader a stronger conviction of their author's entire sincerity and absolute truthfulness than do those of Thomas Traherne.

Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations" consists of a series of reflections on religious and moral subjects, divided into short numbered paragraphs. The manuscript (which was probably written in the last years of his life, and therefore contains his most mature thoughts) comprises four complete "Centuries," and ten numbers of a fifth "Century." From the fact that it was left unfinished it would seem that his labour upon it was cut short by his death. It was written for the benefit and instruction of a lady, a friend from whom he had received as a present the book in which it is written. It bears the following inscription on the first page:

"This book unto the friend of my best friend, As of the wisest love a mark, I send, That she may write my Maker's praise therein, And make herself thereby a cherubim."

In the third "Century" of the "Meditations" we find many details of the author's infancy and childhood. I cannot do better that give the greater part of these in the author's own words:

I

Will you see the infancy of this sublime and celestial greatness? Those pure and virgin apprehensions I had in my infancy, and that divine light wherewith I was born, are the best unto this day wherein I can see the universe. By the gift of God they attended me into the world, and by His special favour I remember them till now. Verily they form the greatest gift His wisdom could bestow, for without them all other gifts had been dead and vain. They are unattainable by books, and therefore I will teach them by experience. Pray for them earnestly, for they will make you angelical and wholly celestial. Certainly Adam in Paradise had not more sweet and curious apprehensions of the world than I when I was a child.

II

All appeared new and strange at first, inexpressibly rare and delightful and beautiful. I was a little stranger which at my entrance into the world was saluted and surrounded with innumerable joys. My knowledge was Divine; I knew by intuition those things which since my apostacy I collected again by the highest reason. My very ignorance was advantageous. I seemed as one brought into the estate of innocence. All things were spotless and pure and glorious; yea, and infinitely mine and joyful and precious. I knew not that there were any sins, or complaints or laws. I dreamed not of poverties, contentions, or vices. All tears and quarrels were hidden from mine eyes. Everything was at rest, free and immortal. I knew nothing of sickness or death or exaction. In the absence of these I was entertained like an angel with the works of God in their splendour and glory; I saw all in the peace of Eden; heaven and earth did sing my Creator's praises, and could not make more melody to Adam than to me. All Time was Eternity, and a perpetual Sabbath. Is it not strange that an infant should be heir of the whole world, and see those mysteries which the books of the learned never unfold?

III

The corn was orient and immortal wheat which never should be reaped nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold: the gates were at first the end of the world. The green trees when I saw them first through one of the gates transported and ravished me; their sweetness and unusual beauty made my heart to leap, and almost mad with ecstacy, they were such strange and wonderful things. The Men! O what venerable and reverend creatures did the aged seem! Immortal Cherubims! And young men glittering and sparkling angels, and maids strange seraphic pieces of life and beauty! Boys and girls tumbling in the street were moving jewels: I knew not that they were born or should die. But all things abided eternally as they were in their proper places. Eternity was manifest in the Light of the Day, and something infinite behind everything appeared, which talked with my expectation and moved my desire. The City seemed to stand in Eden or to be built in Heaven. The streets were mine, the temple was mine, the people were mine, their clothes and gold and silver were mine, as much as their sparkling eyes, fair skins, and ruddy faces. The skies were mine, and so were the sun and moon and stars, and all the world was mine; and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it. I knew no churlish proprieties, nor bounds nor divisions; but all proprieties and divisions were mine, all treasures and the possessors of them. So that with much ado I was corrupted, and made to learn the dirty devices of this world, which now I unlearn, and become, as it were, a little child again that I may enter into the Kingdom of God.

These passages are succeeded in the MS. by the poem entitled "The Approach," which the reader will find at page 31 of the present volume.

In the following sections of the "Meditations" the author tells how these thoughts were first dimmed, and afterwards almost entirely lost owing to the evil influence of those around him. It is clear that his parents failed to appreciate the fact that their child was of a very uncommon type, and that the ordinary methods of dealing with children were inapplicable in his case. His early and innocent thoughts, he says, were quite obliterated by the influence of a bad education. He found that those around him were immersed in the trivial cares and vanities of common life; that they were wholly wrapped up in the outward shows of things, and were moved only by common and mercenary motives. Alas! this is the discovery that every poet makes, and it is this which constitutes the tragedy of life for him. Had any one, Traherne says, spoken to him on the great and sublime truths of God and Nature; had he been taught that God was good, and had made him the sole heir of a glorious universe; had he been assured that earth was better than gold, and water, every drop of it, a precious jewel, he would have thankfully received and gladly believed the lessons. But instead of this they tried to instil into his mind the lessons of selfishness and worldly wisdom.

IX

It was a difficult matter to persuade me that the tinseled ware upon a hobby horse was a fine thing. They did impose upon me and obtrude their gifts that made me believe a ribbon or a feather curious. I could not see where was the curiousness or fineness. And to teach me that a purse of gold was at any value seemed impossible, the art by which it becomes so, and the reasons for which it is accounted so were so deep and hidden to my inexperience. So that nature is still nearest to natural things, and farthest off from preternatural; and to esteem that the reproach of nature is an excuse in them only who are unacquainted with it. Natural things are glorious, and to know them glorious; but to call things preternatural natural monstrous. Yet all they do it who esteem gold, silver, houses, land, clothes, &c., the riches of nature, which are indeed the riches of invention. Nature knows no such riches, but art and error makes them. Not the God of Nature, but sin only was the parent of them. The riches of Nature are our souls and bodies, with all their faculties, senses, and endowments. And it had been the easiest thing in the whole world [to teach me] that all felicity consisted in the enjoyment of all the world, that it was prepared for me before I was born, and that nothing was more divine and beautiful.

Surely Traherne was here anticipating much which seems to belong to a far later date! The doctrine here urged is in essentials the same as that which was insisted upon by Rousseau and other philosophers of the eighteenth century. Shelley himself hardly enforced the idea of the return to nature more strenuously than Traherne does in this passage. "Natural things are glorious and to know them glorious"--is not this the whole burden of Walt Whitman's poetry? Nay, is it not the whole burden of all poetry worthy of the name?

X

Thoughts are the most present things to thoughts, and of the most powerful influence. My Soul was only apt and disposed to great things; but souls to souls are like apples, one being rotten rots another. When I began to speak and go, nothing began to be present to me but what was present to me in their thoughts. Nor was anything present to me any other way than it was so to them. The glass of imagination was the only mirror wherein anything was represented or appeared to me. All things were absent which they talked not of. So I began among my playfellow's to prize a drum, a fine coat, a penny, a gilded book, &c., who before never dreamed of any such wealth. Goodly objects to drown all the knowledge of Heaven and Earth! As for the Heavens and Sun and Stars, they disappeared, and were no more unto me than the bare walls. So that the strange riches of man's invention quite overcame the riches of nature, being learned more laboriously and in the second place.

By this, Traherne proceeds, parents and nurses should learn the right way of teaching children. Nothing is easier than to teach the truth because the nature of the thing confirms the teaching; whereas to teach children to value "gugaus," baubles, and rattles puts false ideas into their heads, and blots out all noble and divine thoughts, rendering them uncertain about everything, and dividing them from God. "Verily," he says, "there is no savage nation under the cope of Heaven that is more absurdly barbarous than the Christian World.... I am sure that those barbarous people that go naked come nearer to Adam, God, and Angels in the simplicity of their wealth, though not in knowledge."

XIV

Being swallowed up therefore in the miserable gulf of idle talk and worthless vanities, thenceforth I lived among shadows, like a prodigal son feeding upon husks with swine. A comfortless wilderness full of thorns and troubles the world was or worse: a waste place covered with idleness and play, and shops, and markets, and taverns. As for churches they were things I did not understand, and schools were a burden: so that there was nothing in the world worth the having or enjoying but my game and sport, which also was a dream, and being passed wholly forgotten. So that I had wholly forgotten all goodness, bounty, comfort, and glory; which things are the very brightness of the Glory of God, for lack of which therefore He was unknown.

XV

Yet sometimes in the midst of these dreams I should come a little to myself, so far as to feel I wanted something, secretly to expostulate with God for not giving me riches, to long after an unknown happiness, to grieve that the world was so empty and to be dissatisfied with my present state because it was vain and forlorn. I had heard of Angels and much admired that here upon earth nothing should be but dirt and streets and gutters. For as for the pleasures that were in great men's houses I had not seen them: and it was my real happiness they were unknown. For because nothing deluded me I was the more inquisitive.

XVI

Once I remember (I think I was about four years old) when I thus reasoned with myself. Sitting in a little obscure room in my father's poor house: If there be a God certainly He must be Infinite in Goodness, and that I was prompted to, by a real whispering instinct of nature. And if He be Infinite in Goodness and a perfect Being in Wisdom and Love, certainly He must do most glorious things and give us infinite riches; how comes it to pass, therefore, that I am so poor? Of so scanty and narrow a fortune, enjoying few and obscure comforts? I thought I could not believe Him a God to me unless all His power were employed to glorify me. I knew not then my Soul or Body, nor did I think of the Heavens and the Earth, the Rivers and the Stars, the Sun or the Seas: all those were lost and absent from me. But when I found them made out of nothing for me, then I had a God indeed whom I could praise and rejoice in.

XVII

Sometimes I should be alone and without employment, when suddenly my Soul would return to itself, and forgetting all things in the whole world which mine eyes had seen, would be carried away to the end of the earth, and my thoughts would be deeply engaged with inquiries--How the Earth did end? Whether walls did bound it or sudden precipices? Or whether the Heavens by degrees did come to touch it, so that the faces of the Earth and Heaven were so near that a man with difficulty could creep under? Whatever I could imagine was inconvenient, and my reason being posed was quickly wearied. What also upheld the Earth (because it was heavy) and kept it from falling; whether pillars or dark waters? And if any upheld these, what then upheld those, and what again those, of which I saw there would be no end? Little did I think that the Earth was round and the World so full of Beauty, Light, and Wisdom. When I saw that, I knew by the perfection of the work there was a God, and was satisfied and rejoiced. People underneath and fields and flowers, with another Sun and another Day pleased me mightily; but more when I knew it was the same Sun that served them by Night that served us by day.

XVIII

Sometimes I should soar above the stars, and inquire how the Heavens ended, and what was beyond them? Concerning which by no means could I receive satisfaction. Sometimes my thoughts would carry me to the Creation, for I had heard now that the World which at first I had thought was Eternal had a beginning: how therefore that beginning was, and why it was; why it was no sooner, and what was before, I mightily desired to know. By all which I easily perceived my Soul was made to live in communion with God in all places of His dominion, and to be satisfied with the highest reason in all things. After which it so eagerly aspired that I thought all the gold and silver in the world but dirt in comparison of satisfaction in any of these. Sometimes I wondered why men were made no bigger? I would have had a man as big as a giant, a giant as big as a castle, and a castle as big as the Heavens. Which yet would not serve, for there was infinite space beyond the Heavens, and all was defective and but little in comparison; and for man to be made infinite, I thought it would be to no purpose, and it would be inconvenient. Why also there was not a better Sun and better Stars, a better Sea, and better Creatures I much admired. Which thoughts produced that poem upon moderation which afterwards was written.

Following this the author quotes a part of the poem he refers to, which, as it is printed on page 132, need not be given here. The argument of his verses is that everything is for the best and in the best possible proportion:

"God made man greater while he made him less."

XXII

These liquid clear satisfactions were the emanations of the highest reason, but not achieved till a long time afterwards. In the meantime I was sometimes, though seldom, visited and inspired with new and more vigorous desires after that Bliss which Nature whispered and suggested to me. Every new thing quickened my curiosity, and raised my expectation. I remember once, the first time I came into a magnificent and noble dining-room and was left there alone, I rejoiced to see the gold and state and carved imagery, but when all was dead and there was no motion, I was weary of it and departed dissatisfied. But afterwards when I saw it full of lords and ladies and music and dancing, the place which once seemed not to differ from a solitary den had now entertainment and nothing of tediousness in it. By which I perceived (upon a reflection made long after) that men and women are, when well understood, a principal part of our true felicity. By this I found also that nothing that stood still could, by doing so, be a part of Happiness: and that affection, though it were invisible, was the best of motions. But the august and glorious exercise of virtue was more solemn and divine, which yet I saw not. And that all men and angels should appear in Heaven.

XXIII

Another time, in a lowering and sad evening, being alone in the field, when all things were dead and quiet, a certain want and horror fell upon me, beyond imagination. The unprofitableness and silence of the place dissatisfied me, its wildness terrified me; from the utmost ends of the earth fears surrounded me. How did I know but dangers might suddenly arise from the East, and invade me from the unknown regions beyond the seas? I was a weak and little child and had forgotten there was a man alive in the earth. Yet something also of hope and expectation comforted me from every border. This taught me that I was concerned in all the world: and that in the remotest borders the causes of peace delight me, and the beauties of the earth, when seen, were made to entertain me: that I was made to hold a communion with the secrets of Divine Providence in all the world: that a remembrance of all the joys I had from my birth ought always to be with me: that the presence of Cities, Temples, and Kingdoms ought to sustain me, and that to be alone in the world was to be desolate and miserable. The comfort of houses and friends, and the clear assurance of treasures everywhere, God's care and love, His Wisdom, Goodness, and Power, His Presence and watchfulness in all the ends of the earth were my strength and assurance for ever: and that those things being absent to my eye were my joys and consolations: as present to my understanding as the wideness and emptiness of the Universe which I saw before me.

XXIV

When I heard of any new Kingdom beyond the seas the light and glory of it entered into me, it rose up within me, and I was enlarged wonderfully. I entered into it, I saw its commodities, springs, meadows, riches, inhabitants, and became possessor of that new room as if it had been prepared for me, so much was I magnified and delighted in it. When the Bible was read my spirit was present in other ages. I saw the light and splendour of them, the Land of Canaan, the Israelites entering into it, the ancient glory of the Amorites, their peace and riches, their cities, houses, vines, and fig-trees, the long prosperity of their Kings, their milk and honey, their slaughter and destruction, with the joys and triumphs of God's people. All which entered into me, and God among them. I saw all and felt all in such a lively manner as if there had been no other way to those places but in spirit only. This shewed me the liveliness of interior presence, and that all ages were for most glorious ends accessible to my understanding, yea with it, yea within it. For without changing place in myself I could behold and enjoy all those. Anything, when it was proposed, though it was a thousand ages ago being always before me.

Some few other passages relating to Traherne's boyhood might be quoted; but as I hope soon to publish the "Centuries of Meditations" in complete form, it is hardly necessary to give further extracts here. I have quoted enough, I trust, to create a desire in the reader's mind to see the whole work in print. I have found the narrative so interesting myself that I would fain hope it will be not less so to others. It displays with a vividness seldom equalled the eager, enthusiastic, thoughtful, affectionate, and, above all, poetic character of its author. It was doubtless because he retained in his manhood so much of the fresh, unspoiled, and uncorrupted spirit of his youth that he was able to give such an engaging picture of his early years. It bears the stamp of veracity and sincerity in every line; and leaves no room in the reader's mind (as so many autobiographies do) for the suspicion that the author was posing himself in the most favourable light, and suppressing the darker shades of his portraiture. I do not think there is anything resembling it in English literature; nor could more than one or two other English poets have written such a narrative. It is fortunate indeed that the "Centuries of Meditations," which so narrowly escaped destruction or oblivion, should have been preserved to afford us this valuable record of the inner life of a spirit touched to such fine issues as was that of Thomas Traherne.

Turning from the brilliant illumination of our author's own account of his youthful experiences it is very disappointing to find that no information about him from external sources can be discovered before the time when he became an Oxford undergraduate. But we may, I think, conclude with little chance of error that the course of his early life was somewhat as follows: His parents, seeing the precocity and unusual promise of their child, determined to give him the best education within their power, and therefore sent him to the local Grammar School. This was founded by Bishop Gilbert in 1386. While there he must have distinguished himself so much by his good conduct and aptitude for learning that some patron--or perhaps some of his relatives who were in a better position than his father--furnished the means to enable him to proceed to Oxford and become a student there. His course at the University is thus related in the Athenæ Oxonienses:

Thomas Traherne, a shoemaker's son of Hereford, was entered a Commoner of Brasen-nose College on the first day of March, 1652, took one degree in Arts, left the House for a time, entered into the sacred function, and in 1661 he was actually created Master of Arts. About that time he became Rector of Credinhill, commonly called Crednell, near to the city of Hereford ... and in 1669 Bachelor of Divinity.

To the above it may perhaps be as well to add the exact dates of the degrees bestowed upon him at the University. He was made Bachelor of Arts on October 13, 1656; Master of Arts on November 6, 1661; and Bachelor of Divinity on December 11, 1669. Why or when he "left the House for a time" does not appear; possibly it was on account of the political troubles of the period.

When at the University we may be certain that Traherne's inclination and natural genius would lead him to study for the ministry; and he was undoubtedly an earnest and diligent student of the history and doctrines of the Christian faith, and more especially of those of the Church of England. He found in that communion his ideal Church. We have seen that Philip Traherne, the Mayor of Hereford, was noted for his "fervent zeal for the Established Church and clergy"--and probably we shall not be wrong in thinking that the Trahernes generally were members of the English Church. That circumstance doubtless had its influence in determining the faith of Thomas Traherne; but his own deeply fervent and religious nature found in the national faith, as George Herbert had found before him, the peace and satisfaction which he could find nowhere else. That the Anglican Church can boast of having attracted to its service such fine spirits as those of Herbert, Vaughan, Traherne, and the many others that might be mentioned, is surely one of its greatest honours.

We have the evidence of Antony à Wood and that of Traherne's book entitled "Roman Forgeries" to prove that he was an unwearied student of the antiquities of the Church, of its Fathers, Councils, and Doctrines. But the best evidence on this point is to be found in the "Advertisement to the Reader" prefixed to "Roman Forgeries." Herein the author gives us a lively account of a discussion which took place between himself and a Roman Catholic gentleman on the questions in dispute between the two Churches. This passage must be quoted in full, for the story is so vividly told that the reader becomes almost a spectator of the scene:

Before I stir further I shall add one passage which befell me in the Schools as I was studying these things, and searching the most old and authentic records in pursuance of them. One evening as I came out of the Bodleian Library, which is the glory of Oxford, and this nation, at the stairs-foot I was saluted by a person that has deserved well of scholars and learning, who being an intimate friend of mine, told me there was a gentleman, his cousin, pointing to a grave person, in the quadrangle, a man that had spent many thousand pounds in promoting Popery, and that he had a desire to speak with me. The gentleman came up to us of his own accord: we agreed, for the greater liberty and privacy, to walk abroad into the New Parks. He was a notable man, of an eloquent tongue, and competent reading, bold, forward, talkative enough; he told me, that the Church of Rome had eleven millions of martyrs, seventeen Oecumenical Councils, above one hundred Provincial Councils, all the Doctors, all the Fathers, Unity, Antiquity, Consent, &c. I desired him to name one of his eleven millions of martyrs, excepting those that died for treason in Queen Elizabeth's and King James his days: for the martyrs of the primitive times, were martyrs of the Catholic, but not of the Roman Church: they only being martyrs of the Roman Church, that die for transubstantiation, the Pope's Supremacy, the doctrine of Merits, Purgatory, and the like. So many he told me they had, but I could not get him to name one. As for his Councils, Antiquities and Fathers, I asked him what he would say, if I could clearly prove that the Church of Rome was guilty of forging them, so far that they had published Canons in the Apostles names, and invented Councils that never were, forged letters of Fathers, and Decretal Epistles, in the name of the first Bishops and Martyrs of Rome, made 5, 6, 700 years after they were dead, to the utter disguising and defacing of antiquity, for the first 480 years next after our Saviour? "Tush, these are nothing but lies," quoth he, "whereby the Protestants endeavour to disgrace the Papists." Sir, answered I, you are a scholar, and have heard of Isidore, Mercator, James Merlin, Peter Crabbe, Laurentius Surius, Severinus Binius Labbè, Cossartius, and the Collectio Regia, books of vast bulk and price, as well as of great majesty and magnificence: you met me this evening at the Library door; if you please to meet me there to-morrow morning at eight of the clock, I will take you in; and we will go from class to class, from book to book, and there I will first shew in your own authors, that you publish such instruments for good Records: and then prove, that those instruments are downright frauds and forgeries? "What hurt is that to the Church of Rome?" said he. No! (cried I, amazed) Is it no hurt to the Church of Rome, to be found guilty of forging Canons in the Apostles names, and Epistles in the Fathers' names, which they never made? Is it nothing in Rome to be guilty of counterfeiting Decrees and Councils, and Records of Antiquity? I have done with you! whereupon I turned from him as an obdurate person. And with this I thought it meet to acquaint the Reader.

No other particulars of Traherne's University career are now available, but those which I have related are sufficient to show that it was not an unsuccessful one. It is plain that he made his way entirely by his own ability, for he could have had no other means of advancing himself.

It appears from a passage in our author's "Centuries of Meditations" that there was at one time a conflict in his mind as to his future course in life. He debated with himself as to whether he should pursue the path that might lead to worldly prosperity, at the cost of sacrificing or suppressing his higher aspirations, or whether he should, at the risk of poverty and obscurity, follow out the promptings of his better self. Such a conflict, in his case, could have only one result:

When I came into the country, and being seated among silent trees and woods and hills, had all my time in mine own hands, I resolved to spend it all, whatever it cost me, in the search of Happiness, and to satiate the burning thirst which Nature had enkindled in me from my youth. In which I was so resolute that I chose rather to live upon ten pounds a year, and to go in leather clothes and to feed upon bread and water, so that I might have all my time clearly to myself, than to keep many thousands per annum in an estate of life where my time would be devoured in care and labour. And God was so pleased to accept of that desire that from that time to this I have had all things plentifully provided for me without any care at all, my very study of Felicity making me more to prosper than all the care in the whole world. So that through His blessing I live a free and a kingly life, as if the world were turned again into Eden, or, much more, as it is at this day.

Truly a memorable resolution! which has had not too many parallels, though the failure to make it has caused many a man of fine abilities to fall into the ranks of those whom the world has conquered and subdued to its own purposes. One remembers the similar resolution of the great founder of Quakerism, which Traherne might possibly have heard of. One thinks also of Thoreau and of his life in the woods; and of the few others who have dared to live out their own lives in their own way, regardless of the disdain or censure of the worldly-minded. That nothing but good came to Traherne from his resolution we might have been sure even if he had not himself told us so; for what harm can come to those who are animated with such a spirit as his? The spiritually minded derive their sustenance from the spirit, and are the richer on the ten pounds a year which Traherne speaks of than are the masters of untold wealth who are spiritually destitute.

At what period Traherne came to the decision which he has thus recorded does not appear; but it seems probable it was at the time when, as Wood tells us, he left the University for a time. Wood places the commencement of his ministry at Credenhill at about 1661, when he was made Master of Arts. This, however, seems to be an error. Mr. E. H. W. Dunkin has kindly informed me that he has in his possession a copy of a manuscript preserved at Lambeth Library (MS. 998) containing particulars of admissions to Benefices temp. Commonwealth, in which the following entry appears:

Thomas Traherne, clerk, admitted 30 Dec., 1657, by the Commissioners for the Approbation of Public Preachers to the Rectory of Crednell, alias Creddenhill, Co. Hereford: patron Amabella, Countess Dowager of Kent.

In 1657 Traherne could not have been more than 21 or 22 years of age--hardly old enough, one would think, to assume entire charge of the parish. Possibly at first he only acted as assistant to the minister whom he afterwards succeeded.

Of the course of Traherne's life at Credenhill nothing is now known, but, as far as outward events were concerned, it was doubtless quiet and uneventful. He remained there, it would appear, for rather more than nine and a half years. Then he was summoned to London to become private chaplain to Sir Orlando Bridgman, who, on August 30, 1667, was created Lord Keeper of the Seals. Whether he owed his promotion to a friend's recommendation, or whether he had, before this time, become personally acquainted with Sir Orlando, we do not know, but it is certain that he must henceforth have been highly esteemed and valued by his patron. When Bridgman was, in 1672, deprived of the Seals, and went into retirement, he still retained Traherne in his service, and it was in his patron's house at Teddington, about three months after the latter's decease, that he died. We may indeed feel certain that a mutual regard and even affection existed between them; and perhaps it is not too great a stretch of imagination to think that the death of Traherne may have been hastened by his grief at the loss of his patron.

Sir Orlando Bridgman was not only a very able lawyer, but also an honourable, conscientious, and upright statesman. He was, perhaps, a little wanting in strength of character, and therefore appeared to his contemporaries to be something of a trimmer. He was a royalist, and remained such all through the Civil War and the Commonwealth; though it appears that during the last years of Cromwell's reign he had in some degree made his peace with the Protector. But he was not disposed to be a mere tool in the hands of the Court party. He was made Keeper of the Seals because it was supposed that he would have been subservient to the designs of the ministry then in power; but when it was found that he was not disposed to be a compliant tool in their hands he was dismissed from his office. He had nothing in him of a Scroggs or a Jeffries, and was therefore no fit instrument of the crew of unscrupulous and corrupt intriguers who then misruled the country. That he was of a most charitable disposition--though he has not hitherto, I believe, received credit for the fact--we have sufficient evidence. In Traherne's "Christian Ethicks" we find the following passage (p. 471): "My Lord Bridgman, late Lord Keeper, confessed himself in his Will to be but a Steward of his Estate, and prayed God to forgive all his offences in getting, mis-spending, or not spending it as he ought to do. And that after many Charitable and Pious Works, perhaps surmounting his estate tho concealed from the notice or knowledge of the world."

It has been seen from one of the extracts quoted from "Centuries of Meditations" that Traherne esteemed himself fortunate in having "all things plentifully provided for me without any care at all, my very study of Felicity making me more to prosper than all the care in the whole world." That he was perfectly sincere in this statement, and that he had all the riches and advancement he required, is certain; but very few men, and certainly no ambitious man, under the same circumstances would have made such a declaration. To the worldly-minded his destiny must have seemed a poor, if not mean one. To be the parson of two small and obscure parishes, and the private chaplain of the Keeper of the Seals, while possessing abilities which would have adorned the highest possible station, must have seemed, to a less happily constituted temperament, a fate which would have justified much repining and discontent. That Traherne was not merely contented but happy under such circumstances is but one more proof that

Happiness to no outward cause we owe, From inward sources only doth it flow.

The position of chaplain to Lord Bridgman must have brought Traherne into contact with many distinguished persons of the time; but no trace of his intercourse with them seems now to be discoverable, save in one instance. John Aubrey, the famous gossip, to whose undiscriminating industry we are indebted for the preservation of much chaff indeed, but also for not a little precious wheat, in his "Miscellanies," under the heading "Apparitions," gives us a remarkable reference to our author. I quote the passage in full:

Mr. Trahern, B.D. (chaplain to Sir Orlando Bridgman, Lord Keeper), a learned and sober person, was son of a shoemaker in Hereford: one night as he lay in bed, the moon shining very bright, he saw the phantom of one of the apprentices, sitting in a chair in his red waistcoat, and head-band about his head, and strap upon his knee; which apprentice was really in bed and asleep with another fellow-apprentice, in the same chamber, and saw him. The fellow was living, 1671. Another time, as he was in bed, he saw a basket come sailing in the air, along by the valence of his bed; I think he said there was fruit in the basket: it was a phantom. From himself.

It is highly probable that it was Aubrey who furnished Wood with the account of Traherne which appears in the Athenæ Oxonienses, and doubtless he could have given us much more information about him had he chosen to do so. But he was incapable of appreciating so fine a spirit as Traherne's; nor was the latter likely to reveal to him the profounder depths of his nature. It is much to be regretted that Aubrey gives us such a confused account of what he was told. The stories were doubtless related to him at his own direct request, he being ever eager to collect accounts of the marvellous and the supernatural. It seems evident that Traherne attached little importance to these two visions, purposeless as they apparently were, and as visions of the kind usually are. No one nowadays would attribute such phantoms of the brain to any supernatural cause, nor does it appear that Traherne himself did. I find no trace in his writings of a belief in the common superstitions of his time as to ghosts, witches, or evil spirits.

The date of the interview in which Traherne related these things to Aubrey is fixed by the date given in it (1671) to a period within two or three years of the poet's death. During these latter years he was, according to Wood, minister of the parish of Teddington, Middlesex. It was there that Sir Orlando Bridgman's country residence was situated; and it was doubtless owing to his lordship's influence that Traherne was appointed minister. That he did hold that position seems to be certain, though, curiously enough, his name does not appear in the list of ministers of the parish which is given in Newcourt's "Repertorium Ecclesiasticum." Perhaps this may be accounted for by the fact that though Traherne was actually the working minister, the post was nominally held by a clerical pluralist of the time. The succession of curates as given by Newcourt during the period of Traherne's connection with the parish is as follows: 1664,--Badcock; 1668, Car. Bryan; 1673, Joh. Graves; 1677, Jacobus Elsby.

It was not until the year before his death that the first fruit of Traherne's long and laborious studies was offered to the readers of the time. His poems--or some of them, at least--were written early in life, for he speaks of one of them as having been written "long since"; but his "Roman Forgeries," "Christian Ethicks," and "Centuries of Meditations" were almost certainly his latest productions. Without undervaluing his two published works, it must be regretted that he did not send to the press in preference to them his poems, which would then have had the advantage of his own supervision, and would have saved his name from the total obscurity in which it has now been sunk for upwards of two centuries. But doubtless he did not anticipate so untimely an end of his career, and may well have preferred to make his first appearance in print as a serious student and thinker rather than as a poet. I feel sure that he did not undervalue his poems (what poet ever did?); but he must have believed that his prose writings were better calculated to influence the world, as he desired to influence it, than they were. His "Roman Forgeries" and "Christian Ethicks" probably cost him far more labour and hard thought than his poems did; and authors, it has been observed, usually value most highly the works which have cost them the greatest pains.

It was in 1673 that "Roman Forgeries" was published. There never was a period in the history of England when theological questions were more hotly debated than during the second half of the seventeenth century. Political and theological questions were then far more closely connected than is now the case, so that a double degree or vehemence was imparted to all the subjects of dispute which then divided the nation. Hence it was that a continual flood of partisan books and pamphlets issued from the press, to contemplate which nowadays is to be filled with a melancholy sense of the energy and intellect which our ancestors wasted in angry disputations and futile controversies.

That Traherne should have plunged into this whirlpool of controversy is, I must needs think, matter for regret. His "Roman Forgeries" is, it is true, a very able work; and as to its main contentions a very convincing one to those who need no convincing, and possibly even to the very few Catholics who could be induced to peruse it. But most of the latter, it is probable, would brush the whole question aside, as did the Catholic gentleman whom Traherne encountered at Oxford, merely exclaiming "What does it matter?"

As to the object of the work, the passage which I have quoted from it on p. xxxiv will give the reader a good idea of its scope and purpose. It is, in fact, an indictment of the Roman Church as being guilty of the most flagrant forgeries of documents and falsifications of historical facts for the purpose of supporting its spiritual and temporal pretensions. To those who are able to take any interest in its subject the book is by no means a dull one. Traherne, indeed, felt such a lively concern in his theme that he has succeeded in infusing much of his own animation into his pages. He deals his blows at his adversaries with such hearty good will, and has so much confidence in the justice of his cause, that the reader can hardly fail to sympathise with so earnest a combatant. Yet, as I have said, one can hardly help regretting that the book should have been written, for, well as it is done, it might have been done equally well by a writer of far inferior gifts, while it is impossible not to feel that Traherne was wasting his genius in its composition.[B]

Within twelve months after the publication of "Roman Forgeries" its author was dead. But he had, during the few months of life still left to him, finished another long and elaborate work. This was his "Christian Ethicks," a work of much more value and interest than his first book, though it seems to have fallen still-born from the press, and to have remained neglected and unknown ever since.

The satisfaction of seeing his second work in print was denied to its author. He had sent it to the press, but was dead before the printing of it was commenced. Sir Orlando died on June 25, 1674, and was interred in the church at Teddington, where a monument was erected to him. Three months afterwards Traherne died in his patron's house, and was also buried in the church at Teddington under the reading-desk. Of the exact date of his decease we are ignorant, but he was buried on October 10, 1674.

About a fortnight before his death, Traherne sent for his friend, John Berdo, and his sister-in-law, Susan Traherne, and in their presence made his Will--a nuncupative one. This Will, which I have to thank my friend, Gordon Goodwin, for communicating to me, was registered in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury. It is a curious and interesting document, and I have therefore printed it in full in the Appendix to the present volume. From its terms, it is very evident that Traherne had accumulated no wealth, and that he died possessed of little indeed beyond his books and other personal effects.

At the time of his death Traherne was probably not more than thirty-eight years of age, but certainly under forty. He was thus in the very prime of life, and his intellect was in its fullest vigour. Had he lived he would surely have produced a succession of works which would have sensibly enriched our literature, for his industry was not less remarkable than his ability and his learning. As it was, his career must have seemed to those who were capable of appreciating his fine qualities a failure, for his books brought him little reputation; and beyond the mention of him in the Athenæ Oxonienses, his name quickly sank into entire oblivion, so to remain for upwards of two centuries. A strange fate! the strangest, perhaps, that ever befell an author of such fine genius. During all this period his manuscripts were lying unknown and neglected, and exposed to all the accidents of time and chance. Yet not altogether so, for it seems that those into whose hands his papers fell had at least a dim perception of their value. Twenty-five years after his death a little book stole into the world the title of which was as follows: "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation of the Mercies of God, in several most Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings for the same. Published by the Reverend Doctor Hickes at the request of a friend of the Authors." It was the fortunate issue of this work of Traherne's that, after the lapse of upwards of two centuries, was to be the means of identifying him as the author of the poems contained in the present volume, which else might now be masquerading as those of Henry Vaughan. But for this we have not altogether to thank the friend of Traherne's who brought about the issue of the "Serious and Patheticall Contemplation." He certainly laid us under considerable obligations to him when he procured its publication; but his curious idea that it was not to the purpose to tell us the author's name might have caused it to remain for ever unknown but for one clue that he gave us, which ultimately led to its discovery.

The "Serious and Patheticall Contemplation" opens with a letter from the Rev. George Hickes (then a well-known writer on theological subjects), in which he says that the work was recommended to him for publication by "a devout person who was a great Judge of Books of Devotion, having given the world one already which had been well received in three impressions." He intended, he says, to have written a Preface to the book himself, but had received from a friend of the deceased author an account of him, which rendered it unnecessary for him "who can only tell how greatly the author of them wrote, but knew not how greatly he lived" to fulfil his intention. Dr. Hickes's Letter is followed by an Address "To the Reader," written by Traherne's friend. As this contains the best and most valuable account of our author which has descended to us, I need make no apology for quoting it in full:

Tho' the unhappy decay of true Piety and the Immoralities of the Age we live in may be a discouragement to the multiplying such Books as this, yet on the other hand this degeneracy of Manners, and too evident contempt of Religion makes it (it may be) the more necessary to endeavour to retrieve the Spirit of Devotion and the sacred Fires of Primitive Christianity. And since 'tis hop'd this ensuing Treatise may somewhat conduce to these noble Ends: It is thought to be no unprofitable undertaking to commit it to the Press, it being part of the Remains of a very devout Christian, who is long since removed to the Regions of Beatified Spirits, to sing those Praises and Hallelujahs, in which he was very vigourously employ'd whilst he dwelt amongst us: and since somewhat of Preface is become, as it were, a necessary part of every book, instead of any particular Dedication (which is commonly over-stuft with Flattery and Complements) I will only give thee some Account of the Author. To tell thee who he was, is, I think, to no purpose: And therefore I will only tell thee what he was, for that may possibly recommend the following Thanksgivings and Meditations to thy use. He was a Divine of the Church of England, of a very comprehensive Soul and very acute Parts, so fully bent upon that Honourable Function in which he was engaged; and so wonderfully transported with the Love of God to Mankind, with the excellency of those Divine Laws which are prescribed to us, and with those inexpressible Felicities to which we are entitled by being created in, and redeemed to the Divine Image that he dwelt continually amongst these thoughts with great delight and satisfaction, spending most of his time when at home in digesting his notions of these things into writing, and was so full of them when abroad that those who would converse with him were forced to endure some discourse upon these subjects, whether they had any sense of Religion or not. And therefore to such he might be sometimes thought troublesome, but his company was very acceptable to all such as had any inclination to Vertue and Religion. And tho' he had the misfortune to come abroad into the world in the late disordered Times, when the Foundations were cast down, and this excellent Church laid in the dust, and dissolved into Confusion and Enthusiasme; yet his Soul was of a more refin'd alloy, and his Judgment in discerning of things more solid and considerate than to be infected with that Leaven, and therefore became much in love with the beautiful order and Primitive Devotions of this our excellent Church. Insomuch that I believe he never failed any one day either publickly or in his private Closet to make use of her publick Offices, as one part of his devotion, unless some very unavoidable business interrupted him. He was a man of a cheerful and sprightly Temper, free from anything of the sourness or formality by which some great pretenders to Piety rather disparage and misrepresent true Religion than recommend it; and therefore was very affable and pleasant in his conversation, ready to do all good offices to his Friends, and Charitable to the Poor almost beyond his ability. But being removed out of the Country to the service of the late Lord Keeper Bridgman as his Chaplain, he died young and got early to those blissful Mansions to which he at all times aspir'd.

This eulogy of Traherne, it will be observed, was written twenty-five years after his death, when the writer could have had no possible motive to pen it, beyond a desire to do justice to the memory of his friend. It is a most attractive picture; but not, I am convinced, one in which truth was sacrificed to flattery. It is exactly what might have been inferred from the poems and "Centuries of Meditations"; but since it does not always happen that an author's personality tallies with that which might be deduced from his writings, it is fortunate that the impression derived from Traherne's works is thus confirmed by independent evidence. The poet was, it is plain, one of those rare and enviable individuals in whom no jarring element is present, who come into the world as into their rightful inheritance, and whose whole life is a song of thankfulness for the happiness which they enjoy in it. His was indeed

A happy soul that all the way To Heaven hath a summer's day,

and though we, who are not so constituted, and who may question whether in a world, which to us seems to give at least as much reason for lamenting as for rejoicing, any man has a right to be so happy as Traherne was, the feeling is perhaps only an outcome of that envy which those who are tortured with a thousand doubts and misgivings must needs entertain for those who enjoy an existence of entire serenity.

It is fortunate that Traherne's friend, though he did not mention his name, yet gave us a clue to him by mentioning that he was private chaplain to Lord Keeper Bridgman. Without this clue we should probably have had to remain in ignorance of his authorship of the poems contained in this volume: for though there was (as will be seen later on) another clue, it was hidden away so deeply that it is unlikely it would ever have been discovered. Why Traherne's friend should have thought that it was not to the purpose to tell us who he was, and yet gave us such a means of discovering him, is rather a puzzle; but we have reason to be ever grateful to him for what he has told us, while regretting that he has told us no more.

I must now give some account of Traherne's "Christian Ethicks." It is so rare a book that I have only just obtained a copy of it, after searching for it for nearly two years. Few books surely have had so unfortunate a fate. If there is a better book of its kind in the English language I have not been so fortunate as to meet with it. It is a work full of eloquence, persuasiveness, sagacity, and piety. While the author's concern, as might be expected, is chiefly with the spiritual life, he is by no means destitute of worldly wisdom, and he often exhibits a shrewdness and knowledge of human nature which would scarcely be expected from him. Open the book anywhere you please you can hardly fail to discover a fine thought finely expressed. How then shall we account for the fact that the work has remained in total obscurity from the time of its first publication to the present day? The fact that the author died before its appearance, and it was thus thrown into the world without a parent or friend to foster it, was no doubt in some degree accountable for its ill-fortune. It is true that the author makes no appeal to the uninstructed or the fanatical, and keeps throughout the work upon a higher level of thought than the generality of readers can ascend to. He is somewhat too fond of debating abstruse points of metaphysics, and of dwelling upon the subtleties of theological speculation. Yet there is in the book enough, one would think, of homely wisdom, and even of wit, to have secured it a warm welcome from all those to whom it appealed.

I think the reader--since he is not likely to obtain a copy of "Christian Ethicks," however much he may desire it--will be glad to see a few extracts from it. And first I will quote a passage from the chapter "Of Magnanimity." I do this because of its personal interest--for Traherne, in painting the character of a magnanimous man, was, whether consciously or unconsciously, drawing his own portrait. Flattering as the picture may seem, I do not doubt in the least that it is a true one.

Magnanimity and contentment are very near allied; like brothers and sisters they spring from the same parents, but are of several features. Fortitude and Patience are kindred to this incomparable virtue. Moralists distinguish Magnanimity and Modesty, by making the one the desire of greater, the other of less and inferior, honours. But in my apprehension there is more in Magnanimity. It includes all that belongs to a Great Soul: a high and mighty courage, an invincible Patience, an immoveable Grandeur which is above the reach of injuries, a contempt of all little and feeble enjoyments, and a certain kind of majesty that is conversant with great things; a high and lofty frame of spirit, allied with the sweetness of Courtesy and Respect; a deep and stable resolution founded on humility without any baseness; an infinite hope and a vast desire; a Divine, profound, uncontrollable sense of one's own capacity; a generous confidence, and a great inclination to heroical deeds; all these conspire to complete it, with a severe and mighty expectation of Bliss incomprehensible. It soars up to Heaven, and looks down upon all dominion of fortune with pity and disdain. Its aims and designs are transcendent to all concerns of this little world. Its objects and its ends are worthy of a soul that is like God in Nature; and nothing less than the Kingdom of God, his Life and Image; nothing beneath the friendship and communion with Him can be its satisfaction. The terrors, allurements, and censures of men are the dust of its feet: their avarice and ambition are but feebleness before it. Their riches and contentions, and interests and honours, but insignificant and empty trifles. All the world is but a little bubble; Infinity and Eternity the only great and sovereign things wherewith it converseth. A Magnanimous Soul is always awake. The whole globe of the earth is but a nutshell in comparison of its enjoyments. The sun is its lamp, the sea its fishpond, the stars its jewels, men, angels, its attendants, and God alone its sovereign delight and supreme complacency. The earth is its garden, all palaces its summer houses, cities are its cottages, empires its more spacious Courts, all ages and kingdoms its demeans, monarchs its ministers and public agents, the whole Catholick Church its family, the Eternal Son of God its pattern and example. Nothing is great if compared to a Magnanimous Soul but the sovereign Lord of all Worlds.

* * * * *

If you would have the character of a Magnanimous Soul, he is the son of Eternal Power, and the friend of Infinite Goodness, a Temple of Divine and Heavenly Wisdom, that is not imposed upon by the foul and ragged disguises of Nature, but acquainted with her great capacities and principles, more than commonly sensible of her interests, and depths, and desires. He is one that has gone in unto Felicity, and enjoyed her beauties, and comes out again her perfect Lover and Champion: a man whose inward stature is miraculous; and his complexion so divine that he is king of as many kingdoms as he will look on: one that scorns the smutty way of enjoying things like a slave, because he delights in the celestial way, and the Image of God. He knows that all the world lies in wickedness; and admires not at all that things palpable and near and natural, are unseen, though most powerful and glorious, because men are blind and stupid. He pities poor vicious kings that are oppressed with heavy crowns of vanity and gold, and admires how they can content themselves with such narrow territories: yet delights in their regiment of the world, and pays them the honour that is due unto them. The glorious exaltation of good kings he more abundantly extols, because so many thousand Magnanimous Creatures are committed to their trust, and they that govern them understand their value. But he sees well enough that the king's glory and true repose consists in the Catholick and Eternal kingdom. As for himself he is come unto Mount Sion, and to the City of the Living God, the Heavenly Jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of Angels, to the General Assembly and Church of the Firstborn, which are written in Heaven, and to God the Judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to Jesus the Mediator of the New Covenant: and therefore receiving a Kingdom which cannot be moved, he desires to serve God acceptably with reverence and godly fear: and the truth is we can fear nothing else, for God alone is a consuming fire.

The above passage is a fairly representative one. If the reader is pleased with it, he would be equally pleased with the whole work; if he sees nothing to admire in it, he may conclude that "Christian Ethicks" is not a book which has any message in it for him.

The following extract is taken from the chapter "Of Charity to our Neighbours":

That which yet further commendeth this virtue of love unto us is that it is the only soul of all pleasure and felicity in all estates. It is like the light of the sun, in all the kingdoms and houses and eyes and ages, in Heaven, in earth, in the sea, in shops and temples, in schools and markets, in labours and recreations, in theatres and fable. It is the great demon of the world, and the sole cause of all operations. It is evidently impossible for any fancy, or play, or romance, or fable to be composed well and made delightful without a mixture of Love in the composure. In all theatres and feasts and weddings and triumphs and coronations Love is the Soul and Perfection of all. In all persons, in all occupations, in all diversions, in all labours, in all virtues, in all vices, in all occasions, in all families, in all cities and empires, in all our devotions and religious actions, Love is all in all. All the sweetness of society is seated in Love, the life of music and dancing is Love; the happiness of houses, the enjoyment of friends, the amity of relations, the providence of kings, the allegiance of subjects, the glory of empires, the security, peace, and welfare of the world is seated in Love. Without Love all is discord and confusion. All blessings come upon us by Love, and by Love alone all delights and blessings are enjoyed. All happiness is established by Love, and by Love alone is Glory attained. God knoweth that Love uniteth Souls, maketh men of one heart in a house, fills them with liberality and kindness to each other, makes them delightful in presence, faithful in absence, tender of the honour and welfare of the beloved, apt to obey, ready to please, constant in trials, patient in sufferings, courageous in assaults, prudent in difficulties, victorious and triumphant. All that I shall need to observe further is that it completed the Joys of Heaven. Well, therefore, may wisdom desire Love, well may the Goodness of God delight in Love. It is the sum and glory of his Eternal Kingdom.

The following spirited, vigorous, and eloquent passage is from the chapter "Of Courage":

What a glorious and incomparable virtue this is appeareth from the baseness and ineptitude of its contrary. A coward and an honest man can never be the same; a coward and a constant lover can never be the same; cowardice and wisdom are as incompatible for ever as Love and Wisdom were thought to be of old. A coward is always despicable and wretched, because he dares not expose himself to any hazards, nor adventure upon any great attempt for fear of some little pain and damage that is between him and an excellent achievement. He is baffled from the acquisition of the most great and beautiful things, and nonplust with every impediment. He is conquered before he begins to fight. The very sight of danger makes him a slave. He is undone when he sees his enemy afar off, and wounded before the point of his sword can touch his shadow. He is all ways a terror and burden to himself, a dangerous knave, and a useless creature.

Strange is the vigour in a brave man's soul. The strength of his spirit and his irresistible power, the greatness of his heart and the height of his condition, his mighty confidence and contempt of dangers, his true security and repose in himself, his liberty to dare and do what he pleaseth, his alacrity in the midst of fears, his invincible temper, are advantages which make him master of fortune. His courage fits him for all attempts, makes him serviceable to God and man, and makes him the bulwark and defence of his being and country.

Let those debauched and unreasonable men that deny the existence of virtue contemplate the reality of its excellency here, and be confounded with shame at their prodigious blindness. Their impiety designs the abolishment of Religion, and the utter extirpation of all faith, and piety, while they pretend the distinction between virtue and vice to be merely feigned for the aweing of the world, and that their names have no foundation in Nature but the craft of politicians and the traditions of their nurses. Are there no base fellows, nor brave men in the world? Is there no difference between a Lion and a Hare? a faint-hearted Coward and a glorious Hero? Is there nothing brave nor vile in the world? What is become of these Rodomontadoes wits? Where is the boasted glory of their personal valour, if there be no difference, but courage and cowardice be the same thing?

I have marked, I find, at least twenty other passages for quotation; and indeed it would be easy to extract from the book enough notable sayings to form a pocket volume of religious and moral philosophy; but I must content myself with only one other quotation. It is from the chapter "Of Knowledge":

The sun is a glorious creature, and its beams extend to the utmost stars; by shining on them it clothes them with light, and by its rays exciteth all their influences. It enlightens the eyes of all the creatures: it shineth on forty kingdoms at the same time, on seas and continents in a general manner; yet so particularly regardeth all, that every mote in the air, every grain of dust, every spire of grass is wholly illuminated thereby as if it did entirely shine upon that alone. Nor does it only illuminate all these objects in an idle manner; its beams are operative, enter in, fill the pores of things with spirits, and impregnate them with powers, cause all their emanations, odors, virtues, and operations; springs, rivers, minerals and vegetables are all perfected by the sun; all the motion, life and sense of birds, beasts and fishes dependeth on the same. Yet the sun is but a little spark among all the creatures that are made for the Soul; the Soul, being the most high and noble of all, is capable of far higher perfections, far more full of life and vigour in its uses. The sphere of its activity is illimited, its energy is endless upon all its objects. It can exceed the heavens in its operations, and run out into infinite spaces. Such is the extent of knowledge that it seemeth to be the Light of all Eternity. All objects are equally near to the splendour of its beams: As innumerable millions may be conceived in its Light, with a ready capacity for millions more; so can it penetrate all abysses, reach to the centre of all Nature, converse with all beings, visible and invisible, corporeal and spiritual, temporal and eternal, created and increated, finite and infinite, substantial and accidental, actual and possible, imaginary and real; all the mysteries of bliss and misery, all the secrets of heaven and hell are objects of the Soul's capacity, and shall be actually seen and known here.

It seems strange indeed that no compiler in search of material for a book of selections, no student in search of forgotten excellence, no seeker for wisdom conjoined with piety, has ever lighted in his search upon "Christian Ethicks." But it came into the world in a time of general dissoluteness of manners, and amid the jarrings of contending sects and the venomous contests of political parties. Probably very few copies of the book were sold, and its rarity in after times has prevented it from becoming known to any one who had the will and the power to proclaim its merits.

"Poetry," says Milton, if he be indeed the author of "Nova Solyma," "is the impetuous rush of a mind full to overflowing, strained, exalted to its utmost powers, yea, rather, lifted into ecstacy beyond itself."[C] Could we accept this (as we cannot) as a complete definition of the poetic faculty, we might then place Traherne in the very front rank of inspired singers. It would be impossible to give a better description of the leading characteristics of his poetry than that which we find in the words of Milton. Not Milton himself, nor even Shelley, has more of the impetuous rush of a mind lifted into ecstacy beyond itself than Traherne. No poet writes with more absolute spontaneity than he. Whatever may be wanting in him, however he may occasionally fail in expression, he has always this impetuous rush, this ecstacy that rises beyond itself. A glowing ardour of conviction, a passionate spirit of love and devotion, a profound sense of the beauty and sublimity which he saw everywhere around him, a never-failing aspiration towards that Goodness which he believed to be the Fountain and the Ocean, the Beginning and the End of Things, were the sources of his inspiration, the impelling forces of his genius. Where these qualities are present their possessor can never altogether fail in expressing them, however deficient he may be in the technical accomplishments of the poet's art. These things indeed are the root, if not the flower, of all poetry worthy of the name. That Traherne was essentially a poet we might be certain even if none of his lyrical work had remained to prove it. The man who could say, "You never enjoy the world aright till the sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars"--a sentence which contains the essence of everything that has been said by the poets who have sung of the relation between the soul of man and the spirit of Nature--did not need to write in verse in order to prove that he was beyond all question a poet. There is enough of the spirit of poetry in "Christian Ethicks" and "Centuries of Meditations" to set up a dozen versifiers. It was as impossible for Traherne to see things as a Jeremy Bentham or a Cobbett saw them, as it was for either or the latter to have written the sentence I have just quoted. And who shall say that the light of imagination through which Traherne and those who resemble him behold the universe is a light which misleads them? Why should we assume that those who view it with eyes that are blind to all but its prosaic aspects are its true interpreters? Whatever else it may be, the universe, it is certain, is a marvellous and stupendous poem; and it is singular indeed if those who are insensible to this truth are able to see it in a clearer light than those who are alive to all its beauty, to all its magnificence, and to all its mystery.

With Traherne poetry was no elegant recreation, no medium for the display of a lively fancy, no means of exhibiting his skill as a master of metrical effects, but the vehicle through which he expressed his deepest convictions and his profoundest thoughts. He used it as a gift which it was his duty to employ only for the highest purposes and the most sacred ends. All that he saw, felt, and apprehended was transmuted by the alchemy of his mind into that mysterious union of thought, imagination, and expression, which we half praise and half disparage when we term it poetic inspiration. He possessed--or rather was possessed by--that "fine madness" without which no poet, painter, or musician ever yet created a work which deserved to outlive its author. He saw in the universe no "foul and pestilent congregation of vapours," but a majestic dwelling-place for gods, angels, and men. All nature to him was lovely and perfect; and if the existence of evil, injustice, and sin disquieted him for a moment he had little difficulty in persuading himself that these things were owing not to defect or imperfection in nature, but to the folly or perverseness of men in departing from it. It may indeed be said of him, as Matthew Arnold said of Wordsworth, that his eyes refused to dwell upon the darker aspects of life and nature; but that, in his case, as in Wordsworth's, was in a great degree the source of his greatness, and is the reason why he interests us. It is only those that possess an undoubting faith who can inspire it in others. It is given only to a Shakespeare or a Goethe to "see life steadily and see it whole." Almost all other authors see it, as their nature prompts them, in colours which are either too glowing or too sombre. It has been said of the author of "The City of Dreadful Night" that he was born that we might have things stated at their worst, once for all:[D] may we not likewise say of Traherne that he was born that things might be stated, once for all, at their best? Perhaps the reader may think that his poems do not justify so strong a claim; but when they are taken in conjunction with his "Christian Ethicks" and "Centuries of Meditations" I do not think it can be considered as an overstatement. Whether his moral and theological views were right or wrong, Traherne at least was warranted in holding them, because they were exactly suited to his peculiar temperament, if indeed they were not the outcome of it. Were all men blessed with so happy a disposition as his, then indeed might the world become the Eden which to him it appeared to be. He believed that all men might be as happy as he was if they would only firmly resolve to follow the path which had led him to felicity. Like all enthusiasts and most reformers of human nature or human institutions, he made the mistake of supposing that others were, or might be made, like-minded with himself, and did not take into account the infinite varieties of character and temperament which exist among mankind. But to believe that men are better and nobler is at least a less fault than to believe them to be worse and baser than they are.

PART SECOND. SECULAR. III. (part 3)

To claim for Traherne a place in the front rank of poets is hardly possible. Considering his limited range of subjects, we cannot put him on an equality with the poets who have exhibited more varied powers, and shown a deeper insight into human nature. But, excluding Milton, we may at least place him in the front rank of poets of his class. It is possible my opinion may be somewhat biassed by a reason which the reader will be at no loss to divine; but I cannot help thinking that neither Herbert, Crashaw, nor Vaughan can compare with Traherne in the most essential qualities of the poet. He alone has that "impetuous rush of a mind ... lifted into ecstasy beyond itself" which Milton, as we have seen, regarded as the chief requisite of poetry. Herbert has a finer sense of proportion, a keener perception of the importance of form and measure; Vaughan appeals more strongly to the common sympathies of mankind; while Crashaw, when at his best, has more fine passages of quintessential poetry, more curious felicities of expression, than Traherne; but none of them has the vitality, the sustained enthusiasm, the power imparted by intense conviction, which we find in our author. Vitality, indeed, seems to me to be the keynote of Traherne's character. That he was himself aware of this we may see from his poem on Contentment:

Employment is the very life and ground Of life itself; whose pleasant motion is The form of Bliss: All Blessedness a life with Glory crown'd; Life! Life is all: in its most full extent Stretcht out to all things, and with all Content.

Not, be it observed, the still life of contemplation or inaction, but an active, eager, energetic enjoying of life, to be so used as to get from it the utmost degree of felicity or blessedness. Traherne repudiates energetically the idea that the more unhappy we make ourselves here the greater will be our happiness hereafter. In his "Centuries of Meditations" he says:

There are Christians that place and desire all their happiness in another life, and there is another sort of Christians that desire happiness in this. The one can defer their enjoyment of wisdom to the world to come, and dispense with the increase and perfection of enjoyment for a little time; the other are instant and impatient of delay, and would fain see that happiness here which they shall enjoy hereafter.... Whether the first sort be Christians indeed, look you to that. They have much to say for themselves. Yet certainly they that put off Felicity with long delays are to be much suspected. For it is against the nature of love and desire to defer, nor can any reason be given why they should desire it at last, and not now.

While we may not claim for Traherne's work as a whole that it is of the first order of excellence, we may, I think, make that claim for some of it. We can hardly have a better test of a poet's merits than to inquire how many of his pieces are fit to take their place in such anthologies as the "Golden Treasury," or Mr. Quiller-Couch's "Oxford Book of English Verse." Judged in this way Traherne makes, I think, a very good showing, considering (as I have elsewhere explained) that we possess only a part of his poetical works, and that what we have had probably not received his final revision. Were I asked to name the pieces which, in my opinion, deserve the honour which I have mentioned, I think my first choice would fall upon "The Salutation," "Wonder," "The Approach," "The Circulation," "Desire," "Goodness," and "On News."[E] I am not at all sure, however, that this is the best selection that could be made. "Innocence," "The Rapture," "Silence," "The Choice," "The Person," "The Recovery," "Love," and "Thoughts--I. and II." have perhaps equal or almost equal claims to be included in a list of Traherne's best work. But individual tastes differ so much that I daresay other readers would make another choice, for Traherne is a remarkably equal writer, and does not often fall below his own level of excellence. Yet all the poems I have mentioned, fine as they are when standing alone, gain considerably when they are read as parts of a continuous poem, the subject of which is the history of the author's progress in his pilgrimage towards the kingdom of perfect Blessedness. He too, like Bunyan's pilgrim, found difficulties and dangers in the way; but with him it was rather a triumphant progress from victory to victory than a long and bitter struggle against enemies who might at any time have overcome him. Very few of his poems dwell upon his discouragements; most of them are songs of rejoicing for victories achieved or happiness attained.

In the last analysis it will always be found that it is the poet himself and not his poetry that has the greatest interest for us. Unless he is interesting in himself he will not interest us in his writings. No amount of study and pains will suffice to render the work of a shallow and commonplace personality interesting to us. From the strong only shall sweetnesss come forth. I do not know whether I have succeeded in any degree in convincing the reader that Traherne was, both as a man and as a poet, a very interesting character; but if I have not, the fault assuredly is mine, and not his. We may study him in two aspects: firstly, as a representative of the poetic temperament; and secondly, as a representative of the religious idiosyncrasy in conjunction with the poetic--for religion in many of its professors is often enough altogether disjoined from any tincture of poetry. In both aspects we have ample materials for studying him: and I cannot help thinking that few writers of his age are better worth studying.

Were Traherne a smaller man than he is, and therefore less able to afford to have the whole truth told about him, I should hesitate long before printing the following remarks on some of his shortcomings. It is the less needful to attempt to conceal his defects, since they are for the greater part the defects of his qualities, and therefore inseparable from them. Constituted as he was, it was not possible for him to see things in a wholly clear and uncoloured light. He is elevated so high above ordinary humanity that he is unable to see clearly what is so much beneath him. Nor is it always easy for us, the dwellers upon the plain, to ascend to his altitude. He is so exempt from the ordinary failings of humanity that we feel almost as if he belonged to a different race. He died a bachelor, and I do not find anything in his writings which shows that he ever experienced the passion of love in relation to the female sex. His love for the divine seems to have swallowed up all thought of sexual love, though not his love for humanity in the mass. He is sometimes so mystical or metaphysical that the ordinary reader finds it difficult to comprehend him. But, after all, if the reader will only exercise a little patience and be at the expense of a little thought, he will not find it hard to understand the poet, even in his most difficult passages. Those who are able to follow Browning through all his intricacies will find no knot in Traherne which they will not easily unravel.

The charge which is most likely to be pressed against Traherne is that he appears to have been a man of few ideas, and is consequently much given to repetition of thoughts and even of words and phrases. That there is some foundation for this charge may be admitted, but it is nevertheless unjust. No one, after the examination of his manuscripts and of his two published works, could believe it. A scholar so well versed in the classics, a student so eager for knowledge of all kinds, a thinker so acute, could not possibly be a man of narrow ideas and restricted sympathies. What is true, however, is that his mind dwelt with so much delight upon certain thoughts that it was continually recurring to them, setting them in different lights, and repeating them, even as a musician will execute ever-new variations upon a favourite theme. Those who care for Traherne's themes will not complain that he dwells too much upon them.

It must be owned, I think, that while Traherne is usually happy in the selection of his themes, he is sometimes less happy in developing and expressing them. Lines which leave something to be desired in smoothness (though he is not usually chargeable with this fault, his handling of the heroic couplet being particularly good), and now and then lines which to our modern ideas appear to be somewhat prosaic, are certainly to be found in his poems, and do, to a small extent, interfere with the reader's pleasure in them. But for such faults as these we ought surely to make large allowance. The reader should, and doubtless will, remember that he has before him a work for which the author himself has but a limited responsibility. Had he himself published the poems we should have been entitled to think that he deliberately chose to give them to the world with all their faults upon them. As it is, I think we may assume that had he lived to publish them they would have undergone a good deal of revision before they were sent forth to the world. Most of their defects are such as might be easily remedied, and such, indeed, as it was sometimes hard to refrain from remedying. But I have resisted all such temptations, and have confined myself to the task of making the printed text as nearly as possible a reproduction of the original manuscripts. The reader will gather from the facsimile of one of Traherne's poems, which I have given as a frontispiece to this volume, a good general idea as to the character of his handwriting, his spelling, and his punctuation. It would have been an interesting thing could the whole of Traherne's poems have been reproduced in the same style, for, as the reader will see, there is a picturesqueness, a beauty, and a life about the manuscripts which is lost in the cold regularity of type. Some readers may perhaps think that it would have been better to follow the author's original spelling and punctuation; but after giving full consideration to this point, it did not seem advisable to do this. Traherne's spelling is by no means uniform--Deity, for instance, is sometimes "Dietie" and sometimes "Deitie"--and his punctuation, which is, I think, quite peculiar to himself, differs so much from our modern practice, that if it had been reproduced without modification it would often have obscured his meaning and puzzled the reader without any compensating advantage.

Traherne, as will be perceived from the frontispiece, made much use of capital letters and occasionally of italics in his writings. This was the custom of the time, as any one who examines a seventeenth-century printed book will see. In the first edition of this book I preserved most of the author's capitals and italicised passages: but here I have thought it unnecessary to do so. Upon the whole there seemed to be no advantage in retaining them, since they look a little odd to eyes accustomed to the uniformity of modern typography. In the case of the poems taken from "Christian Ethicks," however, I have preserved the old spelling and the capitals very nearly as they appear in the book.

Traherne, so far as English authors were concerned, was very little indebted to his predecessors. He was, of course, greatly influenced by the writers of the Old and New Testaments, from whom he is continually quoting in his "Christian Ethicks." Next to the Scriptures, the book which seems most to have influenced him was that ancient mystical and philosophical work which is attributed to Hermes Trismegistus. Those who are well acquainted with that remarkable production will find frequent traces of its influence in the prose and verse of Traherne. He gives several extracts from it in "Christian Ethicks," and in his "Commonplace Book" there are continual references to it. It might almost be said that, after the Bible, it was his chief manual of philosophy and of divine wisdom.

That Traherne was well acquainted with the writings of Herbert is evident from the fact that in one of his manuscript books he has copied out that writer's poem, "To all Angels and Saints"; but I do not find any traces of Herbert's influence upon him either in prose or verse. Nor do I find any proof that he was acquainted with the writings of Vaughan. The resemblance between Traherne's line,

How, like an Angel came I down,

and Vaughan's reference to his "angel infancy" is probably no more than an accidental coincidence. Though their points of view were similar in many respects, Traherne possessed a much stronger personality than Vaughan, and therefore had little or nothing to learn from him. It is likely enough that he owed something to Donne, as most of the poets of his time did; but I do not find any clear indications of that poet's influence in his writings. Traherne's style, indeed, is that of his age, but as to his matter, few poets, I think, can boast of more originality.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Traherne's poetry is that it anticipates so much that seems to belong to much later periods of our literary history. Traherne, indeed, is likely to suffer to some extent in his reputation because ideas which with him were certainly original--or at least as much so as any ideas in any poets can be said to be original--have since become commonplaces in our literature. The praise of the beauty and innocence of childhood is familiar enough to us now, and has, perhaps, in some instances been carried to a rather ridiculous extreme. That certainly was not the case in Traherne's time. So far as I know, he was the first who dwelt upon those ideas in any other than an incidental and allusive manner. It is true that we find in Vaughan some passages of a similar tendency, but they are few and slight in comparison with those which we find in Traherne. If there are similar passages in other poets previous to, or contemporary with, the latter, I must confess that I am unacquainted with them. Nor were the poetical possibilities of the theme discovered until more than a century afterwards, when William Blake, who by the light of genius--or shall we say lunacy?--discovered so much else, discovered them. It was fitting, indeed, that Blake, whose youthful experiences seem to have more nearly resembled Traherne's than those of any other poet, should have followed all unknowingly in the elder writer's footsteps. Had he ever sat down to record the events of his infancy and childhood, Blake's narrative, I think, however different in detail, must have been like that of his predecessor in its chief features. I do not believe that there is any point out of all those which I have quoted respecting Traherne's childhood which Blake might not also have recorded of himself. Much as they differed in matters of faith, there was a deep and fundamental agreement in character and temperament between the two poets. To both of them the things seen by their imaginations were more real than the things seen with the eye, and to neither of them was there any dividing line between the natural and the supernatural. Their faiths were founded upon intuition rather than reason, and they were no more troubled by doubt or disbelief than a mountain is. Their capacity for faith was infinite, and stopped short only when their imagination failed them--if it ever did fail them.

Another poet with whom Traherne has some remarkable affinities is Wordsworth--not the Wordsworth of later life, when his poetic vein, if not exhausted, had at least grown thin and unproductive, but the Wordsworth of the magnificent ode "Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." Let the reader once more peruse that poem, and note carefully the leading points in it. Then let him, bearing in mind the foregoing extracts from Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations," go carefully through the various poems in which the earlier poet celebrates the happiness of his infancy and childhood. When he has done this, let him ask himself if he would have believed that Wordsworth was unacquainted with Traherne's writings, supposing that they had been published before the later poet's time? I cannot think myself that it would have been easy in that case to think that the modern poet was entirely unindebted to the older one. It is hardly too much to say that there is not a thought of any value in Wordsworth's Ode which is not to be found in substance in Traherne. Of course, I do not say this with any view of disparaging Wordsworth, whose Ode, even if it had been, as we know it was not, derived from Traherne, would still have been a masterpiece. Its merit, like that of Gray's "Elegy," depends at least as much upon its form as upon its substance, and that, of course, was all Wordsworth's own. It is in a measure a testimony to the authentic character of their inspiration when two poets, unknown to each other, produce works which are so nearly identical in substance and spirit.

The reader will remember that Traherne in his youth determined to follow the bent of his own inclination at whatever cost of poverty or want of worldly success. That was the case also with Wordsworth. Another point in which, as it seems to me, they resembled each other was in the matter of poetic style. At first sight, indeed, there does not appear to be any likeness between them in this respect; yet, allowing for the difference in their times and their temperaments, I think we may find a good deal of similarity. Traherne's style, allowing for the nature of his subjects, is always simple and direct. His aim is to affect the minds of his readers by the weight of his thought and the enthusiasm of his utterance, not to astonish them by far-fetched metaphors or delight them with dulcet melodies. He has no ornament for ornament's sake, and he never attempts to clothe his "naked simple thought" in silken raiment or cloth of gold. He does not indulge in the metaphysical conceits and ingenuities with which the works of Donne and Cowley are so plentifully besprinkled. "Poetic diction" was as little sought for by him as by Wordsworth. He did not, however, fall into the error that Wordsworth sometimes did, of mistaking puerility for simplicity. I do not wish to press this point too far. I only desire to show that both poets were more solicitous about the substance than the form of their poetry. Wordsworth would have heartily endorsed the doctrine of Traherne that the best things are the commonest, and that natural objects and not artificial inventions are the true well-springs of delight.

Though the reader will, I hope, have agreed with my contention that Traherne anticipated a good many poetical ideas which have been thought to belong to much later dates, I can hardly expect him to accept without demur the claim I am now about to make on the poet's behalf. That Traherne had a considerable genius for metaphysics will be evident to any one who reads his "Christian Ethicks," or who studies at all carefully the contents of the present volume. But to claim that he was the originator of the metaphysical system which, since it was first made known, has created more discussion and exercised more influence than any other has done, will probably seem at first to be a very extravagant assertion. Yet that he had at least a clear prevision of that famous system which is known as the Berkeleian philosophy is, I think, incontestable. That theory, it seems to me, could hardly be stated in a clearer or more precise manner than it is in Traherne's poem entitled "My Spirit." I am much mistaken if the theory of "the non-existence of independent matter," which is the essence of Berkeley's system, is not to be found in this poem--not, it is true, stated as a philosophical dogma, but yet clearly implied, and not merely introduced as a flight of poetical fancy. It seems to me that if the following stanza from that poem is not altogether meaningless, no other construction can be placed upon it than that its author was a Berkeleian before Berkeley was born:

This made me present evermore With whatsoe'er I saw. An object, if it were before My eyes, was by Dame Nature's law Within my soul. Her store Was all at once within me: all Her treasures Were my immediate and internal pleasures, Substantial joys which did inform my Mind.

With all She wrought My Soul was fraught And every object in my Heart a Thought Begot or was; I could not tell Whether the things did there Themselves appear, Which in my Spirit truly seem'd to dwell; Or whether my conforming Mind Were not even all that therein shin'd.

The idea that matter has no existence, apart from its existence in the Spirit of the Eternal, or in the soul of man, is surely clearly, if not positively, advanced in the last six lines of the above stanza. The thought, so strangely fascinating to a poet--and Berkeley no less than Traherne was one--that the whole exterior universe is not really a thing apart from and independent of man's consciousness of it, but something which exists only as it is perceived, is undeniably to be found in "My Spirit." I have quoted only one stanza of it, but the whole poem should be carefully studied, for it is throughout an assertion of the supremacy of mind over matter, and an averment that it is the former and not the latter which has a real existence. If it be thought that it is going too far to say that the Berkeleian system is to be found in the poem--which of course it is not as a reasoned-out and complete theory--it yet cannot be denied that it is there in germ and in such a form that it only required to be seized upon by an acute intellect to be developed in the way Berkeley developed it. That the latter knew nothing of Traherne's poem is certain, and therefore I am not attempting to detract in any way from the credit which belongs to him. I am only anxious to give the poet his due as the first who caught a glimpse of so notable a truth or error--which ever it may be.[F]

Deeply as Traherne was penetrated with a sense of the glory of the universe, and of the infinite greatness of its Creator, it was with no sense of abasement that he contemplated them. He felt that in his own soul, so capable of the sublimest conceptions and the most exalted aspirations, there must needs be a divine element. He was no outcast thrust out of Eden into a wilderness of spiritual destitution, but the son of a loving Father, born to a splendid inheritance, and at least as necessary to the Deity as servants and dependents are to keep up the state and dignity of a king. If God confers benefits on man it is in order that He may witness man's delight in them and gratitude for them. To see this is a supreme delight to Him, and without it there would be something wanting to His felicity. But I must quote a stanza from "The Recovery," lest the reader should think that I am misrepresenting the poet:

For God enjoy'd is all His End. Himself He then doth comprehend When He is blessed, magnified, Extoll'd, exalted, prais'd and glorified, Honor'd, esteem'd, belov'd, enjoy'd, Admired, sanctified, obey'd, That is received. For He Doth place His whole Felicity In that, who is despised and defied, Undeified almost if once denied.

Matthew Arnold said of Goethe that he

Neither made man too much a God Nor God too much a man.

That could hardly be said of Traherne. It is scarcely possible, I think, to deny that in the above-quoted passage he committed the fault of making "God too much a man." That, however, was a fault which he shared with most of the theologians of his time. Perhaps it is a fault which is almost inseparable from a sincere and fervent faith. Without refining away the conception of God to a mere abstraction, it is impossible to think of Him otherwise than as an infinitely magnified and glorified man. Since the human mind is so constituted, it is surely vain to attempt to set limits within which we are to think of Him. Every man will do this according to the law of his own temperament. The man of cool reason and well-controlled passions will form a very different conception of the Deity from the man of enthusiastic disposition and ardent emotions. To think of the Deity as "a power not ourselves which makes for righteousness" is no more possible for a Traherne, than it is for an Arnold to think of God as One

who is despised and defied, Undeified almost if once denied.

To make all men think alike, whether on political, moral, or theological subjects, is now seen by all but a very few reactionaries to be an impossible task. It is needless to defend Traherne for the views he took regarding the relations between God and man; I have only thought it expedient to show that the line he followed was that to which he was impelled by the character of his individuality.

An excellent poet, a prose-writer of equal or perhaps greater excellence, an exemplary preacher and teacher, who gave in his own person an example of the virtues which he inculcated, one with whom religion was not a garment to be put on, but the life of his life and the spring of all his actions--such was Thomas Traherne. Much as I dissent from his opinions, and much as my point of view as regards the meaning and the purpose of life differs from his, I have yet found it easy to appreciate the fineness of his character, and the charm of his writings. It is not necessary that we should believe as Traherne believed in order to derive benefit from his works. Men of all faiths may study them with profit, and derive from them a new impulse towards that "plain living and high thinking" by which alone happiness can be reached and peace of mind assured.

* * * * *

It remains for me to tell the strange story of the fate of Traherne's manuscripts after his death. They passed, we may reasonably suppose, together with his books, into the hands of his brother Philip, as directed in his will. Philip Traherne, I imagine, was in some way--perhaps by marriage--connected with a family named Skipp, which dwelt at Ledbury, in Herefordshire. These Skipps appear to have become the owners and custodians of the poet's remains; and in their hands they probably rested down to the year 1888, when it seems that the property belonging to the family was dispersed. Into what hands the Traherne manuscripts then fell cannot now be ascertained; but it was certainly into hands that were ignorant of their value. In the latter part of 1896, or the early months of 1897, some of them had descended to the street bookstall, that last hope of books and manuscripts in danger of being consigned to the waste-paper mills. Here, most fortunately, two of them were discovered by my friend, Mr. William T. Brooke, who acquired them at the price of a few pence. They could hardly have fallen into better hands, for Mr. Brooke's knowledge of our poetical literature, and especially of sacred poetry and hymnology, is no less remarkable for its extent than for its exactness. As soon as he could find time to examine the manuscripts he at once saw that they were of great interest and value. He could hardly imagine that writings so admirable could be the work of an unknown author; and he at length came to the conclusion, from the fact that the poems resembled those of Henry Vaughan in their subjects and partly in their sentiments, that they must be his. This was an unfortunate idea, since it caused a considerable delay in the tracing out of the real author. Mr. Brooke communicated his discovery to the late Dr. Grosart, who became so much interested in the matter that he purchased the two manuscripts. He, too, after some waverings of opinion, during which he was disposed to attribute the manuscripts, first to Theophilus Gale, and secondly to Thomas Vaughan, became convinced that they must be Henry Vaughan's. Under this persuasion he prepared for the press a most elaborate edition of Vaughan's works, in which the matter contained in the manuscripts was to be included. This edition he was, at the time of his death, endeavouring to find means to publish. That the work thus projected was not actually published must, I think, be regarded as a fortunate circumstance. Whether the poems, on the authority of Dr. Grosart, would have been accepted as Vaughan's, can only be conjectured; but it seems probable that they would, since it is unlikely that any critic, however much he might have doubted their imputed authorship, would have been able to trace out the real author. An irreparable injury would thus have been inflicted upon Traherne, while Vaughan would have received an unneeded accession of fame, at the expense of puzzling all readers of a critical disposition by the exhibition of inconsistent and irreconcilable qualities.

Upon Dr. Grosart's death his library was purchased by the well-known bookseller, Mr. Charles Higham, of Farringdon Street. Included in it were the two Traherne manuscript volumes. Having learned from Mr. Brooke the story of the manuscripts, and that they were in Mr. Higham's hands, I became interested in the matter, and ultimately purchased them. Afterwards, when a part of Dr. Grosart's library was sold at Sotheby's, I became the possessor of the third manuscript volume, which their late owner appears not to have known to be Traherne's, though nothing is needed but to compare it with the other volumes in order to see that all three are in the same handwriting.

It is due to Mr. Higham to say that he most liberally allowed me to examine the manuscripts before purchasing them, so that I might form my own opinion as to their authorship. I need not say that I should have been delighted if I could have come to the same conclusion that Mr. Brooke and Dr. Grosart had arrived at. Inclination and interest alike impelled me to take their view. But when I sat down to read the poems and to compare them with the acknowledged writings of Henry Vaughan, I soon began to doubt, and it required but a little time for that doubt to develop into a conviction that whoever might have been their author, they were assuredly not written by the Silurist. It is true that the poems deal, as most of Vaughan's do, solely with religious or moral subjects, and that the author dwells continually, as Vaughan did, upon the subjects of childhood and innocence; and that both authors display the same love of nature and of a simple and natural life. It is true also that we find both poets making use of some rather uncommon words and phrases, and that we find in both the same free use of defective rhymes. These resemblances, however, are merely superficial. In all the deeper matters of style, thought, and temperament, Traherne and Vaughan were as far apart as any two men, animated as both were by a deep spirit of piety and beneficence, could well be. To me, had there been no other difference, one striking note of dissimilarity would have sufficed to prove that the poems in manuscript and those of Vaughan could not have proceeded from the same pen. In the manuscript poems an ever-present quality is a passionate fervour of thought, an intense ardour of enthusiasm, which is not to be found, or at least only rarely, in Vaughan's works. Restrained emotion, expressed in verse which moves slowly and not without effort, is, it seems to me, the leading characteristic of Vaughan's poetry; emotion in full flood, expressed in lively and energetic diction, is that of Traherne's. With Traherne all nature is bathed in warmth and light: with Vaughan we feel sensible of a certain coolness of temperament, and are conscious that he rejoices rather in the twilight than in the radiance of noonday.

With the conviction that the poems could not be Vaughan's, while yet it seemed unlikely that they could be the work of an altogether unknown or unpractised writer, I began to search for indications by which their author might possibly be discovered. Here again I found Mr. Brooke's assistance most valuable. To an edition of Giles Fletcher's "Christ's Victory and Triumph," which he had edited, he had appended a number of previously uncollected seventeenth-century poems. Among these was one entitled "The Ways of Wisdom." To this poem he now drew my attention, as he had previously drawn Dr. Grosart's. It was at once evident to me that its style was very similar to that of the manuscript poems. In fact, that poem, as any reader will see who cares to study it in comparison with the other poems in this volume, presents such strong resemblances and parallels with them that it is hardly too much to say that the question as to their common authorship might have been rested entirely upon it. However, it was of course desirable to find further evidence. Mr. Brooke told me that he had found the poem in a little book in the British Museum, entitled "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation of the Mercies of God, in several most Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings for the same."[G] The book, Mr. Brooke also told me, contained other pieces in verse. These I desired him to copy out. When he had done so it at once became evident to me that the author of the manuscript poems and of the "Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings" must be, beyond all doubt, one and the same person. The fact was as clearly demonstrated to my mind as the truths of the multiplication table. That point being settled, the next thing was to discover, if possible, who was the author of the "Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings." That might have remained unknown to the end of time, but for one clue which the book luckily afforded. This was, as the reader has seen, the statement in the "Address to the Reader" that the author was private chaplain to Sir Orlando Bridgman. This clue had only to be patiently followed up to lead to the discovery of the author's name. This Mr. Brooke at last found to be Thomas Traherne. It was from Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses that the information was obtained, and from that we also learned that Traherne was the author of two books, "Roman Forgeries" and "Christian Ethicks." The next step was to examine these works to see if any evidence could be found which would connect them with the author of the manuscripts. That evidence was found in "Christian Ethicks." This was the poem which the reader will find on p. 157. The same poem, though in a shorter form and with a good many textual variations, appears in the manuscript "Centuries of Meditations" (see p. 134). Here then was proof positive that Traherne and no other was the author of the manuscripts in my possession. Though I did not require this evidence myself, it was fortunate it was found, since its discovery put the matter beyond all doubt. Will the reader accuse me of undue vanity if I say that it was with a good deal of self-satisfaction, and no little rejoicing, that I welcomed this confirmation of the opinion which I had formed solely upon critical grounds? One might be tempted to think that the whole train of circumstances by which Traherne was discovered, first to be the author of the anonymous "Thanksgivings," and through that of the more important manuscripts, has the appearance of being something more than the work of chance, were it not that their long concealment, their narrow escape from entire destruction, and the fact that the verses printed in the present volume form only a part of Traherne's poetical works, seem to forbid us to entertain such an idea.[H]

The manuscripts from which the contents of this book have been derived are three in number. They consist of one folio and two octavo volumes. The folio volume contains all the poems from "The Salutation" to "Goodness" which are here printed. The same volume contains a large number of prose essays and memoranda alphabetically arranged so as to form a kind of commonplace book. The greater part of these are in a handwriting which differs from Traherne's. They appear to have been written by a friend of the poet's, since Traherne has in many cases added remarks of his own to those in the other writer's handwriting. I believe it was Dr. Grosart's intention to print the whole of this material; but although it certainly has a curious interest, it does not appear to me that it is worth while to publish it at present. Some parts of this commonplace book appear to have been used as material for "Christian Ethicks" and "Centuries of Meditations"; and the whole of it, as might be expected, is more like the notes of a student than the finished work of an essayist.

The second manuscript volume contains Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations," which I have already described and quoted largely from. The third volume contains Traherne's private religious meditations, devotions, and prayers. It is in this latter volume that the "Hymn on St. Bartholomew's Day," a facsimile of which is given as a frontispiece to the present volume, is found.

I must not conclude without thanking my friends, G. Thorn Drury and E. V. Lucas, to both of whom I am indebted for many valuable suggestions. I have also to thank the Rev. Canon Beeching for similar and not less appreciated assistance. Thanks are due also to the Rev. J. C. Foster, who drew my attention to the passage in Aubrey's "Miscellanies" relating to Traherne's visions, and to Miss Isabel Southall, who searched diligently, though without success, to find out the time and place of Traherne's birth. I have already acknowledged my obligations to Mr. W. T. Brooke, Mr. E. H. W. Dunkin, and Mr. Gordon Goodwin.

THE SALUTATION

I

These little limbs, These eyes and hands which here I find, These rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins, Where have ye been? behind What curtain were ye from me hid so long, Where was, in what abyss, my speaking tongue?

II

When silent I So many thousand, thousand years Beneath the dust did in a chaos lie, How could I smiles or tears, Or lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? Welcome ye treasures which I now receive.

III

I that so long Was nothing from eternity, Did little think such joys as ear or tongue To celebrate or see: Such sounds to hear, such hands to feel, such feet, Beneath the skies on such a ground to meet.

IV

New burnisht joys! Which yellow gold and pearls excel! Such sacred treasures are the limbs in boys, In which a soul doth dwell; Their organised joints and azure veins More wealth include than all the world contains.

V

From dust I rise, And out of nothing now awake, These brighter regions which salute mine eyes, A gift from God I take. The earth, the seas, the light, the day, the skies, The sun and stars are mine; if those I prize.

VI

Long time before I in my mother's womb was born, A God preparing did this glorious store, The world for me adorn. Into this Eden so divine and fair, So wide and bright, I come His son and heir.

VII

A stranger here Strange things doth meet, strange glories see; Strange treasures lodg'd in this fair world appear, Strange all and new to me; But that they mine should be, who nothing was, That strangest is of all, yet brought to pass.

WONDER

I

How like an Angel came I down! How bright are all things here! When first among His works I did appear O how their Glory me did crown! The world resembled His Eternity, In which my soul did walk; And every thing that I did see Did with me talk.

II

The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air; Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem.

III

A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all his Glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all Spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine; I nothing in the world did know But 'twas divine.

IV

Harsh ragged objects were concealed, Oppressions, tears and cries, Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes Were hid, and only things revealed Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize. The state of Innocence And bliss, not trades and poverties, Did fill my sense.

V

The streets were paved with golden stones, The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! The sons of men were holy ones, In joy and beauty they appeared to me, And every thing which here I found, While like an angel I did see, Adorned the ground.

VI

Rich diamond and pearl and gold In every place was seen; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great Wonders clothed with glory did appear, Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was everywhere; No joy to this!

VII

Cursed and devised proprieties, With envy, avarice And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise, Flew from the splendour of mine eyes, And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, I dreamed not aught of those, But wandered over all men's grounds, And found repose.

VIII

Proprieties themselves were mine And hedges ornaments, Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents Did not divide my joys, but all combine. Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed My joys by others worn: For me they all to wear them seemed When I was born.

EDEN

I

A learned and a happy ignorance Divided me From all the vanity, From all the sloth, care, pain, and sorrow that advance The madness and the misery Of men. No error, no distraction I Saw soil the earth or overcloud the sky.

II

I knew not that there was a serpent's sting, Whose poison shed On men, did overspread The world; nor did I dream of such a thing As sin, in which mankind lay dead. They all were brisk and living wights to me, Yea, pure and full of immortality.

III

Joy, pleasure, beauty, kindness, glory, love, Sleep, day, life, light, Peace, melody, my sight, My ears and heart did fill and freely move. All that I saw did me delight. The Universe was then a world of treasure, To me an universal world of pleasure.

IV

Unwelcome penitence was then unknown, Vain costly toys, Swearing and roaring boys, Shops, markets, taverns, coaches, were unshown; So all things were that drowned my joys: No thorns choked up my path, nor hid the face Of bliss and beauty, nor eclipsed the place.

V

Only what Adam in his first estate, Did I behold; Hard silver and dry gold As yet lay under ground; my blessed fate Was more acquainted with the old And innocent delights which he did see In his original simplicity.

VI

Those things which first his Eden did adorn My infancy Did crown. Simplicity Was my protection when I first was born. Mine eyes those treasures first did see Which God first made. The first effects of Love My first enjoyments upon earth did prove;

VII

And were so great, and so divine, so pure, So fair and sweet, So true; when I did meet Them here at first, they did my soul allure, And drew away my infant feet Quite from the works of men; that I might see The glorious wonders of the Deity.

INNOCENCE

I

But that which most I wonder at, which most I did esteem my bliss, which most I boast, And ever shall enjoy, is that within I felt no stain nor spot of sin.

No darkness then did overshade, But all within was pure and bright, No guilt did crush nor fear invade, But all my soul was full of light.

A joyful sense and purity Is all I can remember, The very night to me was bright, 'Twas Summer in December.

II

A serious meditation did employ My soul within, which taken up with joy Did seem no outward thing to note, but fly All objects that do feed the eye,

While it those very objects did Admire and prize and praise and love, Which in their glory most are hid, Which presence only doth remove.

Their constant daily presence I Rejoicing at, did see, And that which takes them from the eye Of others offered them to me.

III

No inward inclination did I feel To avarice or pride; my soul did kneel In admiration all the day. No lust, nor strife, Polluted then my infant life.

No fraud nor anger in me mov'd No malice, jealousy, or spite; All that I saw I truly lov'd: Contentment only and delight

Were in my soul. O Heav'n! what bliss Did I enjoy and feel! What powerful delight did this Inspire! for this I daily kneel.

IV

Whether it be that Nature is so pure, And custom only vicious; or that sure God did by miracle the guilt remove, And made my soul to feel his Love

So early: or that 'twas one day, Wherein this happiness I found, Whose strength and brightness so do ray, That still it seems me to surround,

Whate'er it is, it is a Light So endless unto me That I a world of true delight Did then, and to this day do see.

V

That prospect was the gate of Heaven, that day The ancient Light of Eden did convey Into my soul: I was an Adam there, A little Adam in a sphere

Of joys! O there my ravisht sense Was entertained in Paradise, And had a sight of Innocence, Which was beyond all bound and price.

An antepast of Heaven sure! I on the Earth did reign, Within, without me, all was pure: I must become a child again.

THE PREPARATIVE

I

My body being dead, my limbs unknown; Before I skill'd to prize Those living stars mine eyes, Before my tongue or cheeks were to me shown, Before I knew my hands were mine, Or that my sinews did my members join, When neither nostril, foot nor ear As yet was seen, or felt, or did appear: I was within A house I knew not, newly cloth'd with skin.

II

Then was my soul my only all to me, A living endless eye, Just bounded with the sky. Whose power, whose act, whose essence, was to see: I was an inward Sphere of Light, Or an interminable Orb of Sight, An endless and a living day, A vital Sun that round about did ray All life, all sense, A naked simple pure Intelligence.

III

I then no thirst nor hunger did perceive, No dull necessity, No want was known to me; Without disturbance then I did receive The fair ideas of all things, And had the honey even without the stings. A meditating inward eye Gazing at quiet did within me lie, And every thing Delighted me that was their heavenly King.

IV

For sight inherits beauty, hearing sounds, The nostril sweet perfumes, All tastes have hidden rooms Within the tongue; and feeling wounds With pleasure and delight; but I Forgot the rest, and was all sight or eye: Unbodied and devoid of care, Just as in Heaven the holy Angels are, For simple sense Is Lord of all created excellence.

V

Being thus prepared for all felicity, Not prepossest with dross, Nor stiffly glued to gross And dull materials that might ruin me, Nor fettered by an iron fate With vain affections in my earthly state To any thing that might seduce My sense, or else bereave it of its use, I was as free As if there were nor sin, nor misery.

VI

Pure empty powers that did nothing loath, Did like the fairest glass, Or spotless polished brass, Themselves soon in their object's image clothe. Divine impressions when they came Did quickly enter and my soul inflame. 'Tis not the object, but the light That maketh Heaven: 'tis a purer sight. Felicity Appears to none but them that purely see.

VII

A disentangled and a naked sense, A mind that's unpossest, A disengaged breast, An empty and a quick intelligence Acquainted with the golden mean, An even spirit pure and serene, Is that where beauty, excellence, And pleasure keep their Court of Residence. My soul retire, Get free, and so thou shalt even all admire.

THE INSTRUCTION

I

Spue out thy filth, thy flesh abjure; Let not contingents thee defile, For transients only are impure, And aery things thy soul beguile.

II

Unfelt, unseen, let those things be Which to thy spirit were unknown, When to thy blessed infancy The world, thyself, thy God was shown.

III

All that is great and stable stood Before thy purer eyes at first: All that in visibles is good Or pure, or fair, or unaccurst.

Whatever else thou now dost see In custom, action, or desire, 'Tis but a part of misery In which all men at once conspire.

THE VISION

I

Flight is but the preparative. The sight Is deep and infinite, Ah me! 'tis all the glory, love, light, space, Joy, beauty and variety That doth adorn the Godhead's dwelling-place, 'Tis all that eye can see. Even trades themselves seen in celestial light, And cares and sins and woes are bright.

II

Order the beauty even of beauty is, It is the rule of bliss, The very life and form and cause of pleasure; Which if we do not understand, Ten thousand heaps of vain confused treasure Will but oppress the land. In blessedness itself we that shall miss, Being blind, which is the cause of bliss.

III

First then behold the world as thine, and well Note that where thou dost dwell. See all the beauty of the spacious case, Lift up thy pleas'd and ravisht eyes, Admire the glory of the Heavenly place And all its blessings prize. That sight well seen thy spirit shall prepare, The first makes all the other rare.

IV

Men's woes shall be but foils unto thy bliss, Thou once enjoying this: Trades shall adorn and beautify the earth, Their ignorance shall make thee bright, Were not their griefs Democritus his mirth? Their faults shall keep thee right: All shall be thine, because they all conspire, To feed and make thy glory higher.

V

To see a glorious fountain and an end, To see all creatures tend To thy advancement, and so sweetly close In thy repose: to see them shine In use, in worth, in service, and even foes Among the rest made thine: To see all these unite at once in thee Is to behold felicity.

VI

To see the fountain is a blessed thing, It is to see the King Of Glory face to face: but yet the end, The glorious, wondrous end is more; And yet the fountain there we comprehend, The spring we there adore: For in the end the fountain best is shewn, As by effects the cause is known.

VII

From one, to one, in one to see all things, To see the King of Kings But once in two; to see His endless treasures Made all mine own, myself the end Of all his labours! 'Tis the life of pleasures! To see myself His friend! Who all things finds conjoined in Him alone, Sees and enjoys the Holy One.

THE RAPTURE

I

Sweet Infancy! O fire of heaven! O sacred Light! How fair and bright! How great am I, Whom all the world doth magnify!

II

O Heavenly joy! O great and sacred blessedness Which I possess! So great a joy Who did into my arms convey!

III

From God above Being sent, the Heavens me enflame: To praise his Name The stars do move! The burning sun doth shew His love.

IV

O how divine Am I! To all this sacred wealth, This life and health, Who raised? Who mine Did make the same? What hand divine?

THE IMPROVEMENT

I

'Tis more to recollect, than make. The one Is but an accident without the other. We cannot think the world to be the Throne Of God, unless His Wisdom shine as Brother Unto His Power, in the fabric, so That we the one may in the other know.

II

His goodness also must in both appear, And all the children of His love be found In the creation of the starry sphere, And in the forming of the fruitful ground; Before we can that happiness descry Which is the Daughter of the deity.

III

His wisdom shines in spreading forth the sky, His power's great in ordering the Sun, His goodness very marvellous and high Appears, in every work His hand hath done: And all His works in their variety United or asunder please the eye.

IV

But neither goodness, wisdom, power, nor love, Nor happiness itself in things could be, Did they not all in one fair order move, And jointly by their service end in me: Had He not made an eye to be the Sphere Of all things, none of these would e'er appear.

V

His wisdom, goodness, power, as they unite, All things in one, that they may be the treasures Of one enjoyer, shine in the utmost height They can attain; and are most glorious pleasures, When all the universe conjoined in one, Exalts a creature as if that alone.

VI

To bring the moisture of far-distant seas Into a point, to make them present here, In virtue, not in bulk; one man to please With all the powers of the Highest Sphere From East, from West, from North and South, to bring The pleasing influence of every thing,

VII

Is far more great than to create them there Where now they stand; His wisdom more doth shine In that His might and goodness more appear In recollecting; He is more divine In making every thing a gift to one Than in the sev'ral parts of all His spacious Throne.

VIII

Herein we see a marvellous design, And apprehending clearly the great skill Of that great Architect, whose love doth shine In all His works, we find His Life and Will: For lively counsels do the Godhead shew, And these His love and goodness make us know.

IX

By wise contrivance He doth all things guide, And so dispose them, that while they unite For man He endless pleasures doth provide, And shows that happiness is His delight, His creatures' happiness as well as His: For that in truth He seeks, and 'tis His bliss.

X

O rapture! wonder! ecstasie! delight! How great must then His glory be, how great Our blessedness! How vast and infinite Our pleasure, how transcendent, how complete, If we the goodness of our God possess, And all His joy be in our blessedness.

XI

Almighty power when it is employed For one, that He with glory might be crown'd; Eternal wisdom when it is enjoyed By one whom all its pleasures do surround, Produce a creature that must, all his days, Return the sacrifice of endless praise.

XII

But Oh! the vigour of mine infant sense Drives me too far: I had not yet the eye, The apprehension, or intelligence Of things so very great, divine, and high. But all things were eternal unto me, And mine, and pleasing which mine eye did see.

XIII

That was enough at first: eternity, Infinity, and love were silent joys; Power, wisdom, goodness, and felicity; All these which now our care and sin destroys, By instinct virtually were well discern'd, And by their representatives were learn'd.

XIV

As sponges gather moisture from the earth Whereon there is scarce any sign of dew; As air infecteth salt: so at my birth All these were unperceiv'd, yet near and true: Not by reflexion, and distinctly known, But by their efficacy all mine own.

THE APPROACH[I]

I

That childish thoughts such joys inspire, Doth make my wonder and His glory higher: His bounty and my wealth more great, It shows His Kingdom and His Work complete: In which there is not anything Not meet to be the joy of Cherubim.

II

He in our childhood with us walks, And with our thoughts mysteriously he talks; He often visiteth our minds, But cold acceptance in us ever finds: We send Him often grieved away; Else would He shew us all His Kingdom's joy.

III

O Lord, I wonder at Thy Love, Which did my Infancy so early move: But more at that which did forbear, And move so long, tho' slighted many a year: But most of all, at last that Thou Thyself shouldst me convert I scarce know how.

IV

Thy Gracious motions oft in vain Assaulted me: my heart did hard remain Long time: I sent my God away, Grieved much that He could not impart His joy. I careless was, nor did regard The end for which He all those thoughts prepar'd;

V

But now with new and open eyes, I see beneath as if above the skies; And as I backward look again, See all His thoughts and mine most clear and plain. He did approach, He me did woo; I wonder that my God this thing would do.

VI

From nothing taken first I was; What wondrous things His glory brought to pass! Now in this world I Him behold, And me enveloped in more than gold; In deep abysses of delights, In present hidden precious benefits.

VII

Those thoughts His goodness long before Prepared as precious and celestial store, With curious art in me inlaid, That Childhood might itself alone be said My tutor, teacher, guide to be, Instructed then even by the Deity.

DUMBNESS

Sure Man was born to meditate on things, And to contemplate the eternal springs Of God and Nature, glory, bliss, and pleasure; That life and love might be his Heavenly treasure; And therefore speechless made at first, that He Might in himself profoundly busied be: And not vent out, before he hath ta'en in Those antidotes that guard his soul from sin. Wise Nature made him deaf, too, that He might Not be disturbed, while he doth take delight In inward things, nor be deprav'd with tongues, Nor injured by the errors and the wrongs That mortal words convey. For sin and death Are most infused by accursed breath, That flowing from corrupted entrails, bear Those hidden plagues which souls may justly fear. This, my dear friends, this was my blessed case; For nothing spoke to me but the fair face Of Heaven and Earth, before myself could speak, I then my Bliss did, when my silence, break. My non-intelligence of human words Ten thousand pleasures unto me affords; For while I knew not what they to me said, Before their souls were into mine convey'd, Before that living vehicle of wind Could breathe into me their infected mind, Before my thoughts were leaven'd with theirs, before There any mixture was; the Holy Door, Or gate of souls was close, and mine being one Within itself to me alone was known. Then did I dwell within a world of light, Distinct and separate from all men's sight, Where I did feel strange thoughts, and such things see That were, or seem'd, only reveal'd to me, There I saw all the world enjoyed by one; There I was in the world myself alone; No business serious seemed but one; no work But one was found; and that did in me lurk. D'ye ask me what? It was with clearer eyes To see all creatures full of Deities; Especially one's self: And to admire The satisfaction of all true desire: 'Twas to be pleased with all that God hath done; 'Twas to enjoy even all beneath the sun: 'Twas with a steady and immediate sense To feel and measure all the excellence Of things; 'twas to inherit endless treasure, And to be filled with everlasting pleasure: To reign in silence, and to sing alone, To see, love, covet, have, enjoy and praise, in one: To prize and to be ravish'd; to be true, Sincere and single in a blessed view Of all His gifts. Thus was I pent within A fort, inpregnable to any sin: Until the avenues being open laid Whole legions entered, and the forts betrayed: Before which time a pulpit in my mind, A temple and a teacher I did find, With a large text to comment on. No ear But eyes themselves were all the hearers there, And every stone, and every star a tongue, And every gale of wind a curious song. The Heavens were an oracle, and spake Divinity: the Earth did undertake The office of a priest; and I being dumb (Nothing besides was dumb), all things did come With voices and instructions; but when I Had gained a tongue, their power began to die. Mine ears let other noises in, not theirs, A noise disturbing all my songs and prayers. My foes pulled down the temple to the ground; They my adoring soul did deeply wound And casting that into a swoon, destroyed The Oracle, and all I there enjoyed: And having once inspired me with a sense Of foreign vanities, they march out thence In troops that cover and despoil my coasts, Being the invisible, most hurtful hosts. Yet the first words mine infancy did hear The things which in my dumbness did appear, Preventing all the rest, got such a root Within my heart, and stick so close unto 't, It may be trampled on, but still will grow And nutriment to soil itself will owe. The first Impressions are Immortal all, And let mine enemies hoop, cry, roar, or call, Yet these will whisper if I will but hear, And penetrate the heart, if not the ear.

SILENCE

A quiet silent person may possess All that is great or high in Blessedness. The inward work is the supreme: for all The other were occasioned by the fall. A man that seemeth idle to the view Of others, may the greatest business do. Those acts which Adam in his innocence Performed, carry all the excellence. Those outward busy acts he knew not, were But meaner matters of a lower sphere. Building of churches, giving to the poor, In dust and ashes lying on the floor, Administering of justice, preaching peace, Ploughing and toiling for a forct increase, With visiting the sick, or governing The rude and ignorant: this was a thing As then unknown. For neither ignorance Nor poverty, nor sickness did advance Their banner in the world, till sin came in. Those therefore were occasioned all by sin. The first and only work he had to do, Was in himself to feel his bliss, to view His sacred treasures, to admire, rejoice, Sing praises with a sweet and heavenly voice, See, prize, give hourly thanks within, and love, Which is the high and only work above Them all. And this at first was mine; these were My exercises of the highest sphere. To see, approve, take pleasure, and rejoice Within, is better than an empty voice. No melody in words can equal that; The sweetest organ, lute, or harp is flat And dull, compared thereto. And O that still I might admire my Father's love and skill! This is to honour, worship, and adore, This is to love Him: nay, it is far more, It is to enjoy Him, and to imitate The life and glory of His high Estate. 'Tis to receive with holy reverence, To understand His gifts, and with a sense Of pure devotion and humility, To prize His works, His Love to magnify. O happy ignorance of other things Which made me present with that King of Kings! And like Him too! All spirit, life, and power, All love and joy, in His Eternal Bower, A world of innocence as then was mine, In which the joys of Paradise did shine: And while I was not here I was in Heaven, Not resting one, but every, day in seven, For ever minding with a lively sense, The universe in all its excellence. No other thoughts did intervene, to cloy, Divert, extinguish, or eclipse my joy, No other customs, new-found wants, or dreams Invented here polluted my pure streams, No aloes or drugs, no wormwood star Was seen to fall into the sea from far; No rotten soul, did like an apple near My soul approach. There's no contagion here. An unperceived donor gave all pleasures, There nothing was but I, and all my treasures. In that fair world, one only was the Friend, One golden stream, one spring, one only end. There only one did sacrifice and sing To only one Eternal Heavenly King. The union was so strait between them two, That all was either's which my soul could view: His gifts and my possessions, both our treasures; He mine, and I the ocean of His pleasures. He was an ocean of delights from Whom The living springs and golden streams did come: My bosom was an ocean into which They all did run. And me they did enrich. A vast and infinite capacity, Did make my bosom like the Deity, In whose mysterious and celestial mind All ages and all worlds together shin'd, Who tho' He nothing said did always reign, And in Himself Eternity contain. The world was more in me, than I in it. The King of Glory in my soul did sit, And to Himself in me he always gave All that He takes delight to see me have, For so my spirit was an endless Sphere, Like God Himself, and Heaven, and Earth was there.

MY SPIRIT

I

My naked simple Life was I; That Act so strongly shin'd Upon the earth, the sea, the sky, It was the substance of my mind; The sense itself was I. I felt no dross nor matter in my Soul, No brims nor borders, such as in a bowl We see. My essence was capacity, That felt all things; The thought that springs Therefrom's itself. It hath no other wings To spread abroad, nor eyes to see, Nor hands distinct to feel, Nor knees to kneel. But being simple like the Deity In its own centre is a sphere Not shut up here, but everywhere.

II

It acts not from a centre to Its object as remote, But present is when it doth view, Being with the Being it doth note Whatever it doth do. It doth not by another engine work, But by itself; which in the act doth lurk. Its essence is transformed into a true And perfect act, And so exact Hath God appeared in this mysterious fact, That 'tis all eye, all act, all sight, And what it please can be, Not only see, Or do; for 'tis more voluble than light: Which can put on ten thousand forms, Being cloth'd with what itself adorns.

III

This made me present evermore With whatsoe'er I saw. An object, if it were before My eye, was by Dame Nature's law, Within my soul. Her store Was all at once within me; all Her treasures Were my immediate and internal pleasures, Substantial joys, which did inform my mind. With all she wrought My soul was fraught, And every object in my heart a thought Begot, or was; I could not tell, Whether the things did there Themselves appear, Which in my Spirit truly seem'd to dwell; Or whether my conforming mind Were not even all that therein shin'd.

IV

But yet of this I was most sure, That at the utmost length, (So worthy was it to endure) My soul could best express its strength. It was so quick and pure, That all my mind was wholly everywhere, Whate'er it saw, 'twas ever wholly there; The sun ten thousand legions off, was nigh: The utmost star, Though seen from far, Was present in the apple of my eye. There was my sight, my life, my sense, My substance, and my mind; My spirit shin'd Even there, not by a transient influence: The act was immanent, yet there: The thing remote, yet felt even here.

V

O Joy! O wonder and delight! O sacred mystery! My Soul a Spirit infinite! An image of the Deity! A pure substantial light! That Being greatest which doth nothing seem! Why, 'twas my all, I nothing did esteem But that alone. A strange mysterious sphere! A deep abyss That sees and is The only proper place of Heavenly Bliss. To its Creator 'tis so near In love and excellence, In life and sense, In greatness, worth, and nature; and so dear, In it, without hyperbole, The Son and friend of God we see.

VI

A strange extended orb of Joy, Proceeding from within, Which did on every side, convey Itself, and being nigh of kin To God did every way Dilate itself even in an instant, and Like an indivisible centre stand, At once surrounding all eternity. 'Twas not a sphere, Yet did appear, One infinite. 'Twas somewhat everywhere, And tho' it had a power to see Far more, yet still it shin'd And was a mind Exerted for it saw Infinity. 'Twas not a sphere, but 'twas a might Invisible, and yet gave light.

VII

O wondrous Self! O sphere of light, O sphere of joy most fair; O act, O power infinite; O subtile and unbounded air! O living orb of sight! Thou which within me art, yet me! Thou eye, And temple of His whole infinity! O what a world art Thou! A world within! All things appear All objects are Alive in Thee! Supersubstantial, rare, Above themselves, and nigh of kin To those pure things we find In His great mind Who made the world! Tho' now eclipsed by sin There they are useful and divine, Exalted there they ought to shine.

THE APPREHENSION

If this I did not every moment see, And if my thoughts did stray At any time, or idly play, And fix on other objects, yet This Apprehension set In me Was all my whole felicity.

FULLNESS

That light, that sight, that thought, Which in my soul at first He wrought, Is sure the only act to which I may Assent to-day: The mirror of an endless life, The shadow of a virgin wife, A spiritual world standing within, An Universe enclosed in skin, My power exerted, or my perfect Being, If not enjoying, yet an act of seeing. My bliss Consists in this, My duty too In this I view. It is a fountain or a spring, Refreshing me in everything. From whence those living streams I do derive, By which my thirsty soul is kept alive. The centre and the sphere Of my delights are here. It is my David's tower Where all my armour lies, The fountain of my power, My bliss, my sacrifice: A little spark That shining in the dark, Makes and encourages my soul to rise, The root of hope, the golden chain, Whose end is, as the poets feign, Fastened to the very throne Of Jove. It is a stone, On which I sit, An endless benefit, That being made my regal throne, Doth prove An Oracle of His Eternal Love.

NATURE

That Custom is a second Nature, we Most plainly find by Nature's purity. For Nature teacheth nothing but the truth; I'm sure that mine did in my virgin youth: The very Day my Spirit did inspire, The world's fair beauty set my soul on fire. My senses were informers to my heart, The conduits of His glory, power, and art. His greatness, wisdom, goodness, I did see, His glorious Love, and His Eternitie, Almost as soon as born; and every sense Was in me like to some Intelligence. I was by nature prone and apt to love All light and beauty, both in Heaven above, And Earth beneath, prone even to admire, Adore, and praise as well as to desire. My inclinations raised me up on high, And guided me to all Infinity. A secret self I had enclosed within, That was not bounded with my clothes or skin, Or terminated with my sight, the sphere Of which was bounded with the Heavens here: But that did rather, like the subtile light, Secured from rough and raging storms by night, Break through the lanthorn's sides, and freely ray Dispersing and dilating every way: Whose steady beams too subtile for the wind, Are such that we their bounds can scarcely find. It did encompass, and possess rare things, But yet felt more, and on its angel's wings Pierced through the skies immediately, and sought For all that could beyond all worlds be thought. It did not move, nor one way go, but stood, And by dilating of itself, all good It strove to see, as if 'twere present there, Even while it present stood conversing here: And more suggested than I could discern, Or ever since by any means could learn. Vast, unaffected wonderful desires, Like inward, native, uncaus'd hidden fires, Sprang up with expectations very strange, Which into new desires did quickly change: For all I saw beyond the azure round, Was endless darkness with no beauty crown'd. Why beauty should not there, as well as here, Why goodness should not likewise there appear, Why treasures and delights should bounded be, Since there is such a wide Infinitie; These were the doubts and troubles of my Soul, By which I do perceive without control, A world of endless joys by Nature made, That needs must flourish ever, never fade. A wide, magnificent and spacious sky, So rich 'tis worthy of the Deity, Clouds here and there like winged charets flying, Flowers ever flourishing, yet always dying, A day of glory where I all things see, As 'twere enrich'd with beams of light for me, And drown'd in glorious rays of purer light, Succeeded with a black, yet glorious night; Stars sweetly shedding to my pleased sense, On all things their nocturnal influence, With secret rooms in times and ages more, Past and to come enlarging my great store: These all in order present unto me My happy eyes did in a moment see, With wonders there-too, to my Soul unknown, Till they by men and reading first were shewn. All which were made that I might ever be With some great workman, some Great Deity. But yet there were new rooms and spaces more, Beyond all these, new regions o'er and o'er, Into all which my pent-up Soul like fire Did break, surmounting all I here admire. The spaces fill'd were like a cabinet Of joys before me most distinctly set: The empty like to large and vacant room For fancy to enlarge in, and presume A space for more, remov'd, but yet adorning Those near at hand, that pleased me every morning. Here I was seated to behold new things, In the fair fabric of the King of Kings. All, all was mine. The fountain tho' not known, Yet that there must be one was plainly shewn, Which fountain of delights must needs be Love, As all the goodness of the things did prove. It shines upon me from the highest skies, And all its creatures for my sake doth prize, Of whose enjoyment I am made the end, While how the same is so I comprehend.

EASE

I

How easily doth Nature teach the soul How irresistible is her infusion! There's nothing found that can her force control But sin. How weak and feeble's all delusion!

II

Things false are forc'd and most elaborate, Things pure and true are obvious unto sense; The first impressions in our earthly state Are made by things most great in excellence.

III

How easy is it to believe the sky Is wide and great and fair! How soon may we Be made to know the Sun is bright and high, And very glorious, when its beams we see!

IV

That all the Earth is one continued globe, And that all men therein are living treasures, That fields and meadows are a glorious robe Adorning it with smooth and heavenly pleasures.

V

That all we see is ours, and every one Possessor of the whole; that every man Is like a God Incarnate on the Throne, Even like the first for whom the world began;

VI

Whom all are taught to honour, serve, and love, Because he is belov'd of God unknown; And therefore is on Earth itself above All others, that His wisdom might be shewn.

VII

That all may happy be, each one most blest, Both in himself and others; all most high, While all by each, and each by all possest Are intermutual joys beneath the sky.

VIII

This shows a wise contrivance, and discovers Some great Creator sitting on the Throne, That so disposeth things for all His lovers, That every one might reign like God alone.

SPEED

I

The liquid pearl in springs, The useful and the precious things Are in a moment known. Their very glory does reveal their worth (And that doth set their glory forth); As soon as I was born they all were shewn.

II

True living wealth did flow In crystal streams below My feet, and trilling down In pure, transparent, soft, sweet, melting pleasures, Like precious and diffusive treasures, At once my body fed, and soul did crown.

III

I was as high and great As Kings are in their seat. All other things were mine. The world my house, the creatures were my goods, Fields, mountains, valleys, woods, Men and their arts to make me rich combine.

IV

Great, lofty, endless, stable, Various and Innumerable, Bright, useful, fair, divine. Immovable and sweet the treasures were, The sacred objects did appear More rich and beautiful, as well as mine.

V

New all! new-burnisht joys; Tho' now by other toys Eclipst: new all and mine. Great Truth so sacred seemed for this to me, Because the things which I did see Were such, my state I knew to be divine.

VI

Nor did the Angels' faces, The glories and the graces, The beauty, peace and joy Of Heaven itself, more sweetness yield to me. Till filthy sin did all destroy Those were the offspring of the Deity.

THE CHOICE

I

When first Eternity stoop'd down to nought And in the Earth its likeness sought, When first it out of nothing fram'd the skies, And form'd the moon and sun That we might see what it had done, It was so wise, That it did prize Things truly greatest, brightest, fairest, best, All which it made, and left the rest.

II

Then did it take such care about the Truth, Its daughter, that even in her youth, Her face might shine upon us, and be known, That by a better fate, It other toys might antedate As soon as shewn; And be our own, While we were hers; and that a virgin love Her best inheritance might prove.

III

Thoughts undefiled, simple, naked, pure; Thoughts worthy ever to endure, Our first and disengaged thoughts it loves, And therefore made the truth, In infancy and tender youth So obvious to Our easy view That it doth prepossess our Soul, and proves The cause of what it all ways moves.

IV

By merit and desire it doth allure; For truth is so divine and pure, So rich and acceptable, being seen, (Not parted, but in whole) That it doth draw and force the soul, As the great Queen Of bliss, between Whom and the Soul, no one pretender ought Trust in to captivate a thought.

V

Hence did Eternity contrive to make The truth so fair for all our sake That being truth, and fair and easy too, While it on all doth shine, We might by it become divine, Being led to woo The thing we view, And as chaste virgins early with it join, That with it we might likewise shine.

VI

Eternity doth give the richest things To every man, and makes all Kings. The best and richest things it doth convey To all, and every one, It raised me unto a throne! Which I enjoy, In such a way, That truth her daughter is my chiefest bride, Her daughter truth's my chiefest pride.

VII

All mine! And seen so easily! How great, how blest! How soon am I of all possest! My infancy no sooner opes its eyes, But straight the spacious Earth Abounds with joy, peace, glory, mirth, And being wise The very skies, And stars do mine become; being all possest Even in that way that is the best.

THE PERSON

I

Ye Sacred limbs, A richer blazon I will lay On you than first I found: That like celestial kings, Ye might with ornaments of joy Be always crown'd. A deep vermilion on a red, On that a scarlet I will lay, With gold I'll crown your head, Which like the Sun shall ray. With robes of glory and delight I'll make you bright. Mistake me not, I do not mean to bring New robes, but to display the thing: Nor paint, nor clothe, nor crown, nor add a ray, But glorify by taking all away.

II

The naked things Are most sublime, and brightest show, When they alone are seen: Men's hands than Angels' wings Are truer wealth even here below: For those but seem. Their worth they then do best reveal, When we all metaphors remove, For metaphors conceal, And only vapours prove. They best are blazon'd when we see The anatomy, Survey the skin, cut up the flesh, the veins Unfold: the glory there remains: The muscles, fibres, arteries, and bones Are better far than crowns and precious stones.

III

Shall I not then Delight in those most sacred treasures Which my great Father gave, Far more than other men Delight in gold? Since these are pleasures That make us brave! Far braver than the pearl and gold That glitter on a lady's neck! The rubies we behold, The diamonds that deck The hands of queens, compared unto The hands we view; The softer lilies and the roses are Less ornaments to those that wear The same, than are the hands, and lips and eyes Of those who those false ornaments so prize.

IV

Let verity Be thy delight; let me esteem True wealth far more than toys: Let sacred riches be, While falser treasures only seem, My real joys. For golden chains and bracelets are But gilded manacles, whereby Old Satan doth ensnare, Allure, bewitch the eye. Thy gifts, O God, alone I'll prize, My tongue, my eyes, My cheeks, my lips, my ears, my hands, my feet; Their harmony is far more sweet; Their beauty true. And these in all my ways Shall themes become and organs of Thy praise.

THE ESTATE

I

But shall my soul no wealth possess, No outward riches have? Shall hands and eyes alone express Thy bounty? Which the grave Shall strait devour. Shall I become Within myself a living tomb Of useless wonders? Shall the fair and brave And great endowments of my soul lie waste, Which ought to be a fountain, and a womb Of praises unto Thee? Shall there no outward objects be, For these to see and taste? Not so, my God, for outward joys and pleasures Are even the things for which my limbs are treasures.

II

My palate is a touch-stone fit To taste how good Thou art, And other members second it Thy praises to impart. There's not an eye that's fram'd by Thee, But ought Thy life and love to see: Nor is there, Lord, upon mine head an ear, But that the music of Thy works should hear. Each toe, each finger, framed by Thy skill, Ought ointments to distil. Ambrosia, nectar, wine should flow From every joint I owe, Or things more rich; while they Thy holy will Are instruments adapted to fulfill.

III

They ought, my God, to be the pipes And conduits of Thy praise. Men's bodies were not made for stripes, Nor anything but joys. They were not made to be alone: But made to be the very throne Of Blessedness, to be like Suns, whose rays, Dispersed, scatter many thousand ways. They drink in nectars, and disburse again In purer beams, those streams, Those nectars which are caus'd by joys, And as the spacious main Doth all the rivers, which it drinks, return, Thy love receiv'd doth make the soul to burn.

IV

Elixirs richer are than dross, And ends are more divine Than are the means; but dung and loss Materials (tho' they shine Like gold and silver) are, compar'd To what Thy Spirit doth regard, Thy will require, Thy love embrace, Thy mind Esteem, Thy nature most illustrious find. These are the things wherewith we God reward. Our love He more doth prize, Our gratitude is in His eyes Far richer than the skies. And those affections which we do return, Are like the love which in Himself doth burn.

V

We plough the very skies, as well As earth; the spacious seas Are ours; the stars all gems excel. The air was made to please The souls of men: devouring fire Doth feed and quicken man's desire. The orb of light in its wide circuit moves, Corn for our food springs out of very mire, Our fuel grows in woods and groves; Choice herbs and flowers aspire To kiss our feet: beasts court our loves.[J] How glorious is man's fate! The laws of God, the works He did create, His ancient ways, are His and my Estate.

THE ENQUIRY

I

Men may delighted be with springs, While trees and herbs their senses please, And taste even living nectar in the seas: May think their members things Of earthly worth at least, if not divine, And sing because the earth for them doth shine:

II

But can the Angels take delight, To see such faces here beneath? Or can perfumes indeed from dung-hills breathe? Or is the world a sight Worthy of them? Then may we mortals be Surrounded with eternal Clarity.

III

Even holy angels may come down To walk on Earth, and see delights, That feed and please, even here, their appetites. Our joys may make a crown For them. And in His Tabernacle men may be Like palms we mingled with the Cherubs see.

IV

Men's senses are indeed the gems, Their praises the most sweet perfumes, Their eyes the thrones, their hearts the Heavenly rooms, Their souls the diadems, Their tongues the organs which they love to hear, Their cheeks and faces like to theirs appear.

V

The wonders which our God hath done, The glories of His attributes, Like dangling apples or like golden fruits, Angelic joys become. His wisdom shines on Earth; His love doth flow, Like myrrh or incense, even here below.

VI

And shall not we such joys possess, Which God for man did chiefly make? The Angels have them only for our sake! And yet they all confess His glory here on Earth to be divine, And that His Godhead in His works doth shine.

THE CIRCULATION

I

As fair ideas from the sky, Or images of things, Unto a spotless mirror fly, On unperceived wings, And lodging there affect the sense, As if at first they came from thence; While being there, they richly beautify The place they fill, and yet communicate Themselves, reflecting to the seer's eye; Just such is our estate. No praise can we return again, No glory in ourselves possess, But what derived from without we gain, From all the mysteries of blessedness.

II

No man breathes out more vital air Than he before sucked in: Those joys and praises must repair To us, which 'tis a sin To bury in a senseless tomb. An earthly wight must be the heir Of all those joys the holy Angels prize, He must a king before a priest become, And gifts receive or ever sacrifice. 'Tis blindness makes us dumb: Had we but those celestial eyes, Whereby we could behold the sum Of all His bounties, we should overflow With praises did we but their causes know.

PART SECOND. SECULAR. III. (part 4)

III

All things to Circulations owe Themselves; by which alone They do exist; they cannot shew A sigh, a word, a groan, A colour or a glimpse of light, The sparkle of a precious stone, A virtue, or a smell, a lovely sight, A fruit, a beam, an influence, a tear, But they another's livery must wear, And borrow matter first, Before they can communicate. Whatever's empty is accurst: And this doth shew that we must some estate Possess, or never can communicate.

IV

A sponge drinks in the water, which Is afterwards exprest. A liberal hand must first be rich: Who blesseth must be blest. The thirsty earth drinks in the rain, The trees suck moisture at their roots, Before the one can lavish herbs again, Before the other can afford us fruits. No tenant can raise corn or pay his rent, Nor can even have a lord, That has no land. No spring can vent, No vessel any wine afford Wherein no liquor's put. No empty purse, Can pounds or talents of itself disburse.

V

Flame that ejects its golden beams Sups up the grosser air; To seas that pour out their streams In springs, those streams repair; Receiv'd ideas make even dreams. No fancy painteth foul or fair But by the ministry of inward light, That in the spirits cherisheth its sight. The moon returneth light, and some men say The very sun no ray Nor influence could have, did it No foreign aids, no food admit. The earth no exhalations would afford, Were not its spirits by the sun restored.

VI

All things do first receive, that give: Only 'tis God above, That from and in Himself doth live; Whose all-sufficient love Without original can flow And all the joys and glories shew Which mortal man can take delight to know. He is the primitive eternal spring The endless ocean of each glorious thing. The soul a vessel is, A spacious bosom, to contain All the fair treasures of His bliss, Which run like rivers from, into the main, And all it doth receive returns again.

AMENDMENT

I

That all things should be mine, This makes His bounty most divine: But that they all more rich should be, And far more brightly shine, As used by me; It ravisheth my soul to see the end, To which this work so wonderful doth tend.

II

That we should make the skies More glorious far before Thine eyes Than Thou didst make them, and even Thee Far more Thy works to prize, As used they be Than as they're made, is a stupendous work, Wherein Thy wisdom mightily doth lurk.

III

Thy greatness, and Thy love, Thy power, in this, my joy doth move; Thy goodness, and felicity In this exprest above All praise I see: While Thy great Godhead over all doth reign, And such an end in such a sort attain.

IV

What bound may we assign, O God, to any work of thine! Their endlessness discovers thee In all to be Divine; A Deity That will for evermore exceed the end Of all that creature's wit can comprehend.

V

Am I a glorious spring Of joys and riches to my King? Are men made Gods? And may they see So wonderful a thing As God in me? And is my soul a mirror that must shine Even like the sun and be far more divine?

VI

Thy Soul, O God, doth prize The seas, the earth, our souls, the skies; As we return the same to Thee They more delight Thine eyes, And sweeter be As unto thee we offer up the same, Than as to us from Thee at first they came.

VII

O how doth Sacred Love His gifts refine, exalt, improve! Our love to creatures makes them be In Thine esteem above Themselves to Thee! O here His goodness evermore admire! He made our souls to make His creatures higher.

THE DEMONSTRATION

I

The highest things are easiest to be shewn, And only capable of being known. A mist involves the eye While in the middle it doth live; And till the ends of things are seen The way's uncertain that doth stand between. As in the air we see the clouds Like winding sheets or shrouds, Which, though they nearer are, obscure The sun, which, higher far, is far more pure.

II

Its very brightness makes it near the eye, Tho' many thousand leagues beyond the sky. Its beams by violence Invade, and ravish distant sense. Only extremes and heights are known, No certainty, where no perfection's, shewn. Extremities of blessedness Compel us to confess A God indeed, Whose excellence In all His works must needs exceed all sense.

III

And for this cause incredibles alone May be by demonstration to us shewn. Those things that are most bright Sun-like appear in their own light, And nothing's truly seen that's mean: Be it a sand, an acorn, or a bean, It must be cloth'd with endless glory, Before its perfect story (Be the spirit ne'er so clear) Can in its causes and its ends appear.

IV

What can be more incredible than this, Where may we find a more profound abyss? What Heavenly height can be Transcendent to this Summity! What more desirable object can Be offered to the soul of hungering man! His gifts as they to us come down Are infinite and crown The soul with strange fruitions; yet Returning from us they more value get.

V

And what than this can be more plain and clear? What truth than this more evident appear? The Godhead cannot prize The sun at all, nor yet the skies, Or air, or earth, or trees, or seas, Or stars, unless the soul of man they please. He neither sees with human eyes, Nor needs Himself seas, skies, Or earth, or any thing: He draws No breath, nor eats or drinks by Nature's laws.

VI

The joy and pleasure which His soul doth take In all His works is for His creatures' sake. So great a certainty We in this holy doctrine see That there could be no worth at all In any thing material, great, or small, Were not some creature more alive, Whence it might worth derive. God is the spring whence things come forth, Souls are the fountains of their real worth.

VII

The joy and pleasure which His soul doth take In all His works is for His creatures' sake. Yet doth He take delight That's altogether infinite In them even as they from Him come, For such His love and goodness is, the sum Of all His happiness doth seem, At least in His esteem, In that delight and joy to lie Which is His blessed creatures' melody.

VIII

In them He sees, and feels, and smells, and lives, In them affected is to whom He gives: In them ten thousand ways, He all His work again enjoys All things from Him to Him proceed By them: are His in them: as if indeed His Godhead did itself exceed. To them He all conveys; Nay, even Himself! He is the End To whom in them Himself, and all things tend.

THE ANTICIPATION

I

My contemplation dazzles in the End Of all I comprehend, And soars above all heights, Diving into the depths of all delights. Can He become the End, To whom all creatures tend, Who is the Father of all Infinites? Then may He benefit receive from things, And be not Parent only of all springs.

II

The End doth want the means, and is the cause, Whose sake, by Nature's laws, Is that for which they are. Such sands, such dangerous rocks we must beware: From all Eternity A perfect Deity Most great and blessed he doth still appear; His essence perfect was in all its features, He ever blessed in His joys and creatures.

III

From everlasting He those joys did need, And all those joys proceed From Him eternally. From everlasting His felicity Complete and perfect was, Whose bosom is the glass, Wherein we all things everlasting see. His name is Now, His Nature is Forever: None can His creatures from their Maker sever.

IV

The End in Him from everlasting is The fountain of all bliss: From everlasting it Efficient was, and influence did emit, That caused all. Before The world, we do adore This glorious End. Because all benefit From it proceeds: both are the very same, The End and Fountain differ but in Name.

V

That so the End should be the very Spring Of every glorious thing; And that which seemeth last, The fountain and the cause; attained so fast That it was first; and mov'd The Efficient, who so lov'd All worlds and made them for the sake of this; It shews the End complete before, and is A perfect token of His perfect bliss.

VI

The End complete, the means must needs be so, By which we plainly know, From all Eternity, The means whereby God is, must perfect be. God is Himself the means Whereby He doth exist: And as the Sun by shining's cloth'd with beams, So from Himself to all His glory streams, Who is a Sun, yet what Himself doth list.

VII

His endless wants and His enjoyments be From all Eternity Immutable in Him: They are His joys before the Cherubim. His wants appreciate all, And being infinite, Permit no being to be mean or small That He enjoys, or is before His sight: His satisfactions do His wants delight.

VIII

Wants are the fountains of Felicity; No joy could ever be Were there no want. No bliss, No sweetness perfect were it not for this. Want is the greatest pleasure Because it makes all treasure. O what a wonderful profound abyss Is God! In whom eternal wants and treasures Are more delightful, since they both are pleasures.

IX

He infinitely wanteth all His joys; (No want the soul e'er cloys.) And all those wanted pleasures He infinitely hath. What endless measures, What heights and depths may we In His felicity Conceive! Whose very wants are endless pleasures. His life in wants and joys is infinite, And both are felt as His Supreme Delight.

X

He's not like us; possession doth not cloy, Nor sense of want destroy; Both always are together; No force can either from the other sever. Yet there's a space between That's endless. Both are seen Distinctly still, and both are seen for ever. As soon as e'er He wanteth all His bliss, His bliss, tho' everlasting, in Him is.

XI

His Essence is all Act: He did that He All Act might always be. His nature burns like fire; His goodness infinitely does desire To be by all possesst; His love makes others blest. It is the glory of His high estate, And that which I for evermore admire, He is an Act that doth communicate.

XII

From all to all Eternity He is That Act: an Act of bliss: Wherein all bliss to all That will receive the same, or on him call, Is freely given: from whence 'Tis easy even to sense To apprehend that all receivers are In Him, all gifts, all joys, all eyes, even all At once that ever will or shall appear.

XIII

He is the means of them, they not of Him. The Holy Cherubim, Souls, Angels from Him came Who is a glorious bright and living Flame, That on all things doth shine, And makes their face divine. And Holy, Holy, Holy is His Name: He is the means both of Himself and all, Whom we the Fountain, Means, and End do call.

THE RECOVERY

I

To see us but receive, is such a sight As makes His treasures infinite! Because His goodness doth possess In us, His own, and our own Blessedness. Yea more, His love doth take delight To make our glory infinite; Our blessedness to see Is even to the Deity A Beatific vision! He attains His Ends while we enjoy. In us He reigns.

II

For God enjoy'd is all His End. Himself He then doth comprehend When He is blessed, magnified, Extoll'd, exalted, prais'd, and glorified, Honor'd, esteem'd, belov'd, enjoy'd, Admired, sanctified, obeyed, That is received. For He Doth place His whole felicity In that: who is despised and defied, Undeified almost if once denied.

III

In all His works, in all His ways, We must His glory see and praise; And since our pleasure is the end, We must His goodness, and His love attend. If we despise His glorious works, Such sin and mischief in it lurks That they are all made vain; And this is even endless pain To Him that sees it: Whose diviner grief Is hereupon (ah me!) without relief.

IV

We please His goodness that receive: Refusers Him of all bereave. As bridegrooms know full well that build A palace for their bride. It will not yield Any delight to him at all If she for whom he made the hall Refuse to dwell in it, Or plainly scorn the benefit. Her act that's woo'd yields more delight and pleasure If she receives, than all the pile of treasure.

V

But we have hands, and lips, and eyes, And hearts and souls can sacrifice; And souls themselves are made in vain If we our evil stubbornness retain. Affections, praises, are the things For which He gave us all those springs; They are the very fruits Of all those trees and roots, The fruits and ends of all His great endeavours, Which He abolisheth whoever severs.

VI

'Tis not alone a lively sense, A clear and quick intelligence, A free, profound, and full esteem; Tho' these elixirs all and ends do seem: But gratitude, thanksgiving, praise, A heart returned for all those joys, These are the things admired, These are the things by Him desired: These are the nectar and the quintessence, The cream and flower that most affect His sense.

VII

The voluntary act whereby These are repaid is in His eye More precious than the very sky. All gold and silver is but empty dross, Rubies and sapphires are but loss, The very sun, and stars and seas Far less His spirit please: One voluntary act of love Far more delightful to His soul doth prove, And is above all these as far as love.

ANOTHER

I

He seeks for ours as we do seek for His; Nay, O my Soul, ours is far more His bliss Than His is ours; at least it so doth seem Both in His own and our esteem:

II

His earnest love, His infinite desires, His living, endless, and devouring fires, Do rage in thirst and fervently require A love 'tis strange it should desire.

III

We cold and careless are, and scarcely think Upon the glorious spring whereat we drink. Did He not love us we could be content: We wretches are indifferent!

IV

He courts our love with infinite esteem, And seeks it so that it doth almost seem Even all His blessedness. His love doth prize It as the only Sacrifice.

V

'Tis death, my soul, to be indifferent, Set forth thyself unto thy whole extent, And all the glory of His passion prize, Who for thee lives, who for thee dies.

VI

His goodness made thy love so great a pleasure, His goodness made thy soul so great a treasure To thee and Him: that thou mightst both inherit, Prize it according to its merit.

VII

There is no goodness nor desert in thee, For which thy love so coveted should be; His goodness is the fountain of thy worth; O live to love and set it forth.

VIII

Thou nothing giv'st to Him, He gave all things To thee, and made thee like the King of Kings: His love the fountain is of Heaven and Earth, The cause of all thy joy and mirth.

IX

Thy love is nothing but itself, and yet So infinite is His that He doth set A value infinite upon it. Oh! This, canst thou careless be, and know!

X

Let that same goodness, which being infinite, Esteems thy love with infinite delight, Tho' less than His, tho' nothing, always be An object infinite to thee.

XI

And as it is the cause of all esteem, Of all the worth which in thy love doth seem, So let it be the cause of all thy pleasure, Causing its being and its treasure.

LOVE

I

O nectar! O delicious stream! O ravishing and only pleasure! Where Shall such another theme Inspire my tongue with joys or please mine ear! Abridgment of delights! And queen of sights! O mine of rarities! O Kingdom wide! O more! O cause of all! O glorious Bride! O God! O Bride of God! O King! O soul and crown of everything!

II

Did not I covet to behold Some endless monarch, that did always live In palaces of gold, Willing all kingdoms, realms, and crowns to give Unto my soul! Whose love A spring might prove Of endless glories, honors, friendships, pleasures, Joys, praises, beauties and celestial treasures! Lo, now I see there's such a King, The fountain-head of everything!

III

Did my ambition ever dream Of such a Lord, of such a love! Did I Expect so sweet a stream As this at any time! Could any eye Believe it? Why all power Is used here; Joys down from Heaven on my head do shower, And Jove beyond the fiction doth appear Once more in golden rain to come To Danæ's pleasing fruitful womb.

IV

His Ganimede! His life! His Joy! Or He comes down to me, or takes me up That I might be His boy, And fill, and taste, and give, and drink the cup. But those (tho' great) are all Too short and small, Too weak and feeble pictures to express The true mysterious depths of Blessedness. I am His image, and His friend, His son, bride, glory, temple, end.

THOUGHTS.--I

I

Ye brisk, divine and living things, Ye great exemplars, and ye heavenly springs, Which I within me see; Ye machines great, Which in my spirit God did seat, Ye engines of felicity; Ye wondrous fabrics of His hands, Who all possesseth that He understands; That ye are pent within my breast, Yet rove at large from East to West, And are invisible, yet infinite, Is my transcendent and my best delight.

II

By you I do the joys possess Of yesterday's-yet-present blessedness; As in a mirror clear, Old objects I Far distant do even now descry, Which by your help are present here. Ye are yourselves the very pleasures, The sweetest, last, and most substantial treasures: The offsprings and effects of bliss By whose return my glory is Renew'd and represented to my view: O ye delights, most pure, divine, and true!

III

Ye thoughts and apprehensions are The Heavenly streams which fill the soul with rare Transcendent perfect pleasures. At any time As if ye still were in your prime, Ye open all His heavenly treasures. His joys accessible are found To you, and those things enter which surround The soul. Ye living things within! Where had all joy and glory been Had ye not made the soul those things to know, Which seated in it make the fairest shew?

IV

I know not by what secret power Ye flourish so: but ye within your bower More beautiful do seem, And better meat Ye daily yield my soul to eat, Than even the objects I esteem Without my soul. What were the sky, What were the sun, or stars, did ye not lie In me, and represent them there Where else they never could appear! Yea, what were bliss without such thoughts to me, What were my life, what were the Deity?

V

O ye Conceptions of delight! Ye that inform my soul with life and light! Ye representatives, and springs Of inward pleasure! Ye joys, ye ends of outward treasure! Ye inward and ye living things! The thought or joy conceived is The inward fabric of my standing bliss: It is the very substance of my mind Transform'd and with its objects lined, The quintessence, elixir, spirit, cream: 'Tis strange that things unseen should be supreme.

VI

The eye's confined, the body's pent In narrow room: limbs are of small extent, But thoughts are always free; And as they're best So can they even in the breast Rove o'er the world with liberty: Can enter ages, present be In any kingdom, into bosoms see. Thoughts, thoughts can come to things and view What bodies can't approach unto: They know no bar, denial, limit, wall, But have a liberty to look on all.

VII

Like bees they fly from flower to flower, Appear in every closet, temple, bower, And suck the sweet from thence No eye can see: As tasters to the Deity, Incredible their excellence, For evermore they will be seen, Nor ever moulder into less esteem. They ever shew an equal face, And are immortal in their place: Ten thousand Ages hence they are as strong, Ten thousand Ages hence they are as young.

THOUGHTS.--II

I

A delicate and tender thought The quintessence is found of all He wrought; It is the fruit of all his works, Which we conceive, Bring forth, and give, Yea and in which the greater value lurks. It is the fine and curious flower Which we return and offer every hour; So tender is our Paradise That in a trice It withers strait and fades away If we but cease its beauty to display.

II

Why things so precious should be made So prone, so easy, and so apt to fade It is not easy to declare; But God would have His creatures brave, And that too by their own continual care. He gave them power every hour Both to erect and to maintain a tower, Which he far more in us doth prize Than all the skies, That we might offer it to Him, And in our souls be like the Seraphim.

III

That temple David did intend Was but a thought, and yet it did transcend King Solomon's. A thought we know Is that for which God doth enrich With joys even Heaven above and Earth below. For that all objects might be seen He made the orient azure and the green: That we might in his works delight And that the sight Of those His treasures might enflame The soul with love to Him, He made the same.

IV

This sight which is the glorious End Of all His works and which doth comprehend Eternity and time and space, Is far more dear, And far more near To Him, than all His glorious dwelling-place. It is a spiritual world within, A living world and nearer far of kin To God than that which first he made. While that doth fade This therefore ever shall endure Within the soul as more divine and pure.

[THE INFLUX]

I

Ye hidden nectars, which my God doth drink, Ye heavenly streams, ye beams divine, On which the angels think, How quick, how strongly do ye shine! Ye images of joy that in me dwell, Ye sweet mysterious shades That do all substances excel, Whose glory never fades; Ye skies, ye seas, ye stars, or things more fair, O ever, ever unto me repair!

II

Ye pleasant thoughts! O how that sun divine Appears to-day which I did see So sweetly then to shine Even in my very infancy! Ye rich ideas which within me live Ye living pictures here, Ye spirits that do bring and give All joys; when ye appear Even Heaven itself and God, and all in you Come down on earth and please my blessed view.

III

I never glorious great and rich am found, Am never ravished with joy, Till ye my soul surround: Till ye my blessedness display No soul but stone, no man but clay am I, No flesh, but dust, till ye Delight, invade and move my eye, And do replenish me; My sweet informers and my living treasures, My great companions and my only pleasures!

IV

O what incredible delights, what fires, What appetites, what joys do ye Occasion, what desires, What heavenly praises! While we see What every Seraphim above admires! Your Jubilee and trade, Ye are so strangely and divinely made Shall never, never fade: Ye ravish all my soul: Of you I twice Will speak, for in the dark y'are Paradise.

THOUGHTS.--III

Thoughts are the Angels which we send abroad, To visit all the parts of God's abode. Thoughts are the things wherein we all confess The quintessence of sin and holiness Is laid. All wisdom in a thought doth shine, By thoughts alone the soul is made divine. Thoughts are the springs of all our actions here On earth, tho' they themselves do not appear. They are the springs of beauty, order, peace, The city's gallantries, the fields' increase. Rule, government, and kingdoms flow from them, And so doth all the New Jerusalem, At least the glory, splendour, and delight, For 'tis by thoughts that even she is bright. Thoughts are the things wherewith even God is crown'd, And as the soul without them's useless found, So are all other creatures too. A thought Is even the very cream of all He wrought. All holy fear, and love, and reverence, With honour, joy, and praise, as well as sense, Are hidden in our thoughts. Thoughts are the things That us affect: The honey and the stings Of all that is are seated in a thought, Even while it seemeth weak, and next to nought. The matter of all pleasure, virtue, worth, Grief, anger, hate, revenge, which words set forth, Are thoughts alone. Thoughts are the highest things, The very offspring of the King of Kings. Thoughts are a kind of strange celestial creature That when they're good, they're such in every feature. They bear the image of their Father's face, And beautify even all His dwelling-place: So nimble, volatile, and unconfined, Illimited, to which no form's assigned, So changeable, capacious, easy, free, That what itself doth please a thought may be. From nothing to infinity it turns, Even in a moment: Now like fire it burns, Now's frozen ice: Now shapes the glorious sun, Now darkness in a moment doth become. Now all at once: Now crowded in a sand, Now fills the hemisphere, and sees a land: Now on a sudden's wider than the sky, And now runs parile with the Deity. 'Tis such that it may all or nothing be, And's made so active, voluble, and free Because 'tis capable of all that's good, And is the end of all when understood. A thought can clothe itself with all the treasures Of God, and be the greatest of His pleasures. It all His laws, and glorious works, and ways, And attributes and counsels, all His praise It can conceive and imitate, and give: It is the only being that doth live. 'Tis capable of all perfection here, Of all His love and joy and glory there. It is the only beauty that doth shine, Most great, transcendent, heavenly, and divine. The very best or worst of things it is, The basis of all misery or bliss. Its measures and capacities are such, Their utmost measure we can never touch. Here ornament on ornament may still Be laid; beauty on beauty, skill on skill, Strength still on strength, and life itself on life, 'Tis Queen of all things, and its Maker's wife. The best of thoughts is yet a thing unknown, But when 'tis perfect it is like His own: Intelligible, endless, yet a sphere Substantial too: In which all things appear, All worlds, all excellencies, senses, graces, Joys, pleasures, creatures, and the angels' faces. It shall be married ever unto all, And all embrace, tho' now it seemeth small. A thought my soul may omnipresent be, For all it toucheth which a thought can see. O that mysterious Being! Thoughts are things Which rightly used make His creatures Kings.

DESIRE

I

For giving me desire, An eager thirst, a burning ardent fire, A virgin infant flame, A Love with which into the world I came, An inward hidden heavenly love, Which in my soul did work and move, And ever me inflame With restless longing, heavenly avarice, That never could be satisfied, That did incessantly a Paradise Unknown suggest, and something undescried Discern, and bear me to it; be Thy Name for ever praised by me.

II

My parched and withered bones Burnt up did seem: my soul was full of groans: My thoughts extensions were: Like paces, reaches, steps they did appear: They somewhat hotly did pursue, Knew that they had not all their due, Nor ever quiet were: But made my flesh like hungry, thirsty ground, My heart a deep profound abyss, And every joy and pleasure but a wound, So long as I my Blessedness did miss. O Happiness! A famine burns, And all my life to anguish turns!

III

Where are the silent streams, The living waters and the glorious beams, The sweet reviving bowers, The shady groves, the sweet and curious flowers, The springs and trees, the heavenly days, The flow'ry meads, and glorious rays, The gold and silver towers? Alas! all these are poor and empty things! Trees, waters, days, and shining beams, Fruits, flowers, bowers, shady groves and springs, No joy will yield, no more than silent streams; Those are but dead material toys, And cannot make my heavenly joys.

IV

O Love! Ye amities, And friendships that appear above the skies! Ye feasts and living pleasures! Ye senses, honours, and imperial treasures! Ye bridal joys! ye high delights That satisfy all appetites! Ye sweet affections, and Ye high respects! Whatever joys there be In triumphs, whatsoever stand In amicable sweet society, Whatever pleasures are at His right hand, Ye must before I am divine, In full propriety be mine.

V

This soaring, sacred thirst, Ambassador of bliss, approached first, Making a place in me That made me apt to prize, and taste, and see. For not the objects but the sense Of things doth bliss to souls dispense, And make it, Lord, like thee, Sense, feeling, taste, complacency, and sight, These are the true and real joys, The living, flowing, inward, melting, bright, And heavenly pleasures; all the rest are toys: All which are founded in Desire, As light in flame and heat in fire.

THOUGHTS.--IV

In Thy presence there is fullness of Joy, and at Thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.

Thoughts are the wings on which the soul doth fly, The messengers which soar above the sky, Elijah's fiery chariot, that conveys The soul, even here, to those eternal joys. Thoughts are the privileged posts that soar Unto His throne, and there appear before Ourselves approach. These may at any time Above the clouds, above the stars may climb. The soul is present by a thought; and sees The New Jerusalem, the palaces, The thrones, and feasts, the regions of the sky, The joys and treasures of the Deity. His wisdom makes all things so bright and pure, That they are worthy ever to endure. His glorious works, His laws and counsels are, When seen, all like Himself, beyond compare. All ages with His love and glory shine, As they are His all Kingdoms are Divine. Whole hosts of Angels at His throne attend, And joyful praises from His saints ascend. Thousands of thousands kneel before His face And all His benefits with joy embrace. His goodness makes all creatures for His pleasure, And makes itself His creatures' chiefest treasure. Almighty power doth itself employ In all its works to make itself the joy Of all His hosts, and to complete the bliss Which omnipresent and eternal is. His omnipresence is an Endless Sphere, Wherein all worlds as his delights appear: His bounty is the spring of all delight; Our blessedness, like His, is infinite. His glory endless is and doth surround And fill all worlds without or end or bound. What hinders then but we in Heaven may be Even here on Earth did we but rightly see? As mountains, chariots, horsemen all on fire, To guard Elisha did of old conspire, Which yet his servant could not see, being blind, Ourselves environ'd with His joys we find. Eternity itself is that true light That doth enclose us being infinite. The very seas do overflow and swim With precious nectars as they flow from Him. The stable Earth which we beneath behold, Is far more precious than if made of gold. Fowls, fishes, beasts, trees, herbs, and precious flowers, Seeds, spices, gums, and aromatic bowers, Wherewith we are enclos'd and serv'd each day By His appointment do their tributes pay, And offer up themselves as gifts of love, Bestowed on Saints, proceeding from above. Could we but justly, wisely, truly prize These blessings, we should be above the skies, And praises sing with pleasant heart and voice, Adoring with the Angels should rejoice. The fertile clouds give rain, the purer air, Is warm and wholesome, soft and bright and fair. The stars are wonders which His wisdom names, The glorious sun the knowing soul enflames. The very Heavens in their sacred worth, At once serve us and set His glory forth. Their influences touch the grateful sense, They please the eye with their magnificence; While in His temple all His saints do sing, And for His bounty praise their Heavenly King. All these are in His omnipresence, still As living waters from His throne they trill; As tokens of His love they all flow down Their beauty, use, and worth the soul do crown. Men are like Cherubims on either hand Whose flaming love by His divine command Is made a sacrifice to ours; which streams Throughout all worlds, and fills them all with beams. We drink our fill, and take their beauty in, While Jesus' blood refines the soul from sin. His grievous Cross is a supreme delight, And of all Heavenly ones the greatest sight. His Throne is near, 'tis just before our face, And all Eternity His dwelling-place, His dwelling-place is full of joys and pleasures, His throne a fountain of Eternal treasures. His omnipresence is all sight and love, Which whoso sees he ever dwells above. With soft embraces it doth clasp the soul, And watchfully all enemies control. It enters in and doth a temple find, Or make a living one within the mind, That, while God's omnipresence in us lies, His treasures might be all before our eyes: For minds and souls intent upon them here, Do with the Seraphim's above appear: And are like spheres of bliss, by love and sight, By joy, thanksgiving, praise, made infinite. O give me grace to see Thy face, and be A constant Mirror of Eternity. Let my pure soul, transformed to a thought Attend upon Thy Throne, and, as it ought, Spend all its time in feeding on Thy love, And never from Thy sacred presence move. So shall my conversation ever be In Heaven, and I, O Lord my God, with Thee!

GOODNESS

I

The bliss of other men is my delight, (When once my principles are right:) And every soul which mine doth see A treasury. The face of God is goodness unto all, And while He thousands to His throne doth call, While millions bathe in pleasures, And do behold His treasures, The joys of all On mine do fall, And even my infinity doth seem A drop without them of a mean esteem.

II

The light which on ten thousand faces shines, The beams which crown ten thousand vines With glory, and delight, appear As if they were Reflected only from them all for me, That I a greater beauty there might see. Thus stars do beautify The azure canopy: Gilded with rays, Ten thousand ways They serve me, while the sun that on them shines Adorns those stars and crowns those bleeding vines.

III

Where goodness is within, the soul doth reign. Goodness the only Sovereign! Goodness delights alone to see Felicity. And while the Image of His goodness lives In me, whatever He to any gives Is my delight and ends In me, in all my friends: For goodness is The spring of bliss, And 'tis the end of all it gives away And all it gives it ever doth enjoy.

IV

His goodness! Lord, it is His highest glory! The very grace of all His story! What other thing can me delight But the blest sight Of His eternal goodness? While His love, His burning love the bliss of all doth prove, While it beyond the ends Of Heaven and Earth extends, And multiplies Above the skies, His glory, love, and goodness in my sight Is for my pleasure made more infinite.

V

The soft and swelling grapes that on their vines Receive the lively warmth that shines Upon them, ripen there for me: Or drink they be, Or meat. The stars salute my pleased sense With a derived and borrowed influence: But better vines do grow, Far better wines do flow Above, and while The Sun doth smile Upon the lilies there, and all things warm, Their pleasant odours do my spirit charm.

VI

Their rich affections me like precious seas Of nectar and ambrosia please. Their eyes are stars, or more divine And brighter shine: Their lips are soft and swelling grapes, their tongues A quire of blessed and harmonious songs. Their bosoms fraught with love Are Heavens all Heavens above; And being Images of God they are The highest joys His goodness did prepare.

[THE SOUL'S GLORY]

In making bodies Love could not express Itself, or art; unless it made them less. O what a monster had in man been seen, Had every thumb or toe a mountain been! What worlds must he devour when he did eat? What oceans drink? Yet could not all his meat, Or stature, make him like an Angel shine; Or make his soul in glory more divine. A soul it is that makes us truly great, Whose little bodies make us more complete. An Understanding that is Infinite, An endless, wide, and everlasting sight, That can enjoy all things and nought exclude, Is the most sacred greatness may be viewed. 'Twas inconvenient that his bulk should be An endless hill; he nothing then could see: No figure have, no motion, beauty, place, No colour, feature, member, light, or grace: A body like a mountain is but cumber, An endless body is but idle lumber, It spoils converse, and Time itself devours, While meat in vain in feeding idle powers, Excessive bulk being most injurious found, To those conveniences which men have crown'd. His wisdom did His power here repress, God made man greater while He made him less.

[FINITE YET INFINITE]

His power bounded, greater is in might, Than if let loose 'twere wholly infinite. He could have made an endless Sea by this, But then it had not been a Sea of Bliss. Did water from the centre to the skies Ascend, 'twould drown whatever else we prize. The Ocean bounded in a finite shore, Is better far because it is no more, No use nor glory would in that be seen, His power made it endless in esteem. Had not the sun been bounded in its sphere, Did all the world in one fair flame appear, And were that flame a real infinite, 'Twould yield no profit, splendour, nor delight. Its corps confined and beams extended be Effects of wisdom in the Deity. One star made infinite would all exclude, An earth made infinite could ne'er be viewed. But one being fashioned for the other's sake, He bounding all, did all most useful make: And which is best, in profit and delight, Tho' not in bulk, they all are infinite.

ON NEWS

I

News from a foreign country came, As if my treasure and my wealth lay there: So much it did my heart enflame 'Twas wont to call my soul into mine ear, Which thither went to meet The approaching sweet, And on the threshold stood, To entertain the unknown Good. It hovered there As if 'twould leave mine ear, And was so eager to embrace The joyful tidings as they came, 'Twould almost leave its dwelling-place, To entertain that same.

II

As if the tidings were the things, My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure, Or else did bear them on their wings; With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure. My Soul stood at that gate To recreate Itself with bliss: And to Be pleased with speed. A fuller view It fain would take, Yet journeys back would make Unto my heart: as if 'twould fain Go out to meet, yet stay within To fit a place, to entertain, And bring the tidings in.

III

What sacred instinct did inspire My Soul in childhood with a hope so strong? What secret force mov'd my desire To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young? Felicity I knew Was out of view: And being here alone, I saw that happiness was gone From me! For this, I thirsted absent bliss, And thought that sure beyond the seas, Or else in something near at hand I knew not yet, (since nought did please I knew) my Bliss did stand.

IV

But little did the infant dream That all the treasures of the world were by: And that himself was so the cream And crown of all which round about did lie. Yet thus it was: The gem, The diadem, The ring enclosing all That stood upon this earthly ball; The Heavenly Eye, Much wider than the sky, Wherein they all included were, The glorious Soul that was the King Made to possess them, did appear A small and little thing!

[THE TRIUMPH]

I

A life of Sabbaths here beneath! Continual Jubilees and Joys! The days of Heaven, while we breathe On Earth! where sin all bliss destroys: This is a triumph of delights That doth exceed all appetites! No joy can be compared to this, It is a life of perfect bliss.

II

Or perfect bliss! How can it be? To conquer Satan and to reign In such a vale of misery, Where vipers, stings and tears remain, Is to be crowned with victory. To be content, divine, and free Even here beneath is great delight, And next the beatific sight.

III

But inward lusts do oft assail, Temptations work us much annoy; We'll therefore weep, and to prevail Shall be a more celestial joy. To have no other enemy But one; and to that one to die: To fight with that and conquer it, Is better than in peace to sit.

IV

'Tis better for a little time: For he that all his lusts doth quell, Shall find this life to be his prime, And vanquish sin and conquer hell. The next shall be his double joy, And that which here seemed to destroy Shall in the other life appear A root of Bliss; a pearl each tear.

[THE ONLY ILL]

I

Sin! O only fatal woe, That makes me sad and mourning go! That all my joys dost spoil, His Kingdom and my Soul defile! I never can agree With Thee.

II

Thou! Only Thou! O Thou alone, And my obdurate Heart of Stone, The poison and the foes Or my enjoyments and repose, The only bitter ill: Dost kill!

III

Oh! I cannot meet with thee, Nor once approach thy memory, But all my joys are dead, And all my sacred treasures fled, As if I now did dwell In Hell.

IV

Lord! O hear how short I breathe! See how I tremble here beneath A sin! its ugly face More terror than its dwelling-place Contains, (O dreadful sin) Within!

THE RECOVERY

Sin! wilt thou vanquish me! And shall I yield the victory? Shall all my joys be spoiled, And pleasures soiled By thee! Shall I remain As one that's slain And never more lift up the head? Is not my Saviour dead! His blood, thy bane, my balsam, bliss, joy, wine, Shall thee destroy; heal, feed, make me divine.

[THE GLORY OF ISRAEL]

I

In Salem dwelt a glorious King, Rais'd from a shepherd's lowly state, That did His praises like an angel sing Who did the world create. By many great and bloody wars He was advanced unto thrones: But more delighted in the stars Than in the splendour of his precious stones. Nor gold nor silver did his eye regard: The works of God were his sublime reward.

II

A warlike champion he had been, And many feats of chivalry Had done: in kingly courts his eye had seen A vast variety Of earthly joys: yet he despised Those fading honours and false pleasures Which are by mortals so much prized; And placed his happiness in other treasures: No state of life which in this world we find Could yield contentment to his greater mind.

III

His fingers touched his trembling lyre, And every quivering string did yield A sound that filled all the Jewish quire, And echoed in the field. No pleasure was so great to him As in a silent night to see The moon and stars: a Cherubim Above them even here he seemed to be. Enflamed with love it was his great desire, To sing, contemplate, ponder, and admire.

IV

He was a prophet and foresaw Things extant in the world to come: He was a judge and ruled by a law That than the honeycomb Was sweeter far: he was a sage, And all his people could advise; An oracle whose every page Contained in verse the greatest mysteries: But most he then enjoy'd himself when he Did as a poet praise the Deity.

V

A shepherd, soldier, and divine, A judge, a courtier, and a king, Priest, angel, prophet, oracle did shine At once when he did sing. Philosopher and poet too Did in his melody appear; All these in him did please the view Of those that did his Heavenly music hear, And every drop that from his flowing quill Came down did all the world with nectar fill.

VI

He had a deep and perfect sense Of all the glories and the pleasures That in God's works are hid; the excellence Of such transcendent treasures Made him on earth an Heavenly King, And fill'd his solitudes with joy; He never did more sweetly sing Than when alone, tho' that doth mirth destroy: Sense did his soul with Heavenly life inspire And made him seem in God's celestial quire.

VII

Rich, sacred, deep and precious things Did here on earth the man surround: With all the glory of the King of Kings He was most strangely crown'd. His clear soul and open sight Among the Sons of God did see Things filling angels with delight; His ear did hear their Heavenly melodie And when he was alone he all became, That Bliss implied, or did increase his fame.

VIII

All arts he then did exercise; And as his God he did adore, By secret ravishments above the skies He carried was before He died. His soul did see and feel What others know not; and became, While he before his God did kneel, A constant Heavenly pure seraphic flame. O that I might unto his throne aspire, And all his joys above the stars admire.

ASPIRATION

I

Unto the spring of purest life Aspires my withered heart, My soul confined in this flesh Employs both strength and art Working, struggling, suing still From exile home to part.

II

Who can utter the full joy Which that high place doth hold, Where all the buildings founded are On orient pearls untold, And all the work of those high rooms Doth shine with beams of gold!

III

The season is not changed, but still Both sun and moon are Bright, The Lamb of this fair city is That clear immortal Light Whose presence makes eternal day Which never ends in night.

IV

Nay all the Saints themselves shall shine As bright as brightest sun, In fullest Triumph crowned they To mutual joys shall run, And safely count their fights and foes When once the war is done.

V

For being freed from all defect They feel no fleshly war, Or rather both the flesh and mind At length united are, For joying in so rich a peace They can admit no jar.

VI

For ever cheerful and content They from mishaps are free; No sickness there can threaten health, Nor young men old can be: There they enjoy such happy state That in't no change they see.

VII

Who know the Knower of all things What can they choose but know? They all behold each other's hearts And all their secrets shew: One act of will and of not will From all their minds do flow.

VIII

Though all their merits diverse be According to their pains, Yet Love doth make that every one's Which any other gains, And all which doth belong to one To all of them pertains.

IX

O Happy Soul which shall behold Thy King still present there, And mayst from thence behold the world Run round, secure from fear, With stars and planets, moon and sun, Still moving in their sphere!

X

O King of Kings give me such strength In this great War depending, That I may here prevail at length, And ever be ascending, Till I at last arrive to Thee, The Source of all Felicity!

[This poem is not Traherne's, though I have copied it from his manuscript volume of "Meditations and Devotions." It is a translation of S. Peter Damiani's hymn, "Ad Perennis Vitæ Fontem," which has been many times rendered into English. The above translation is from "The Meditations, Manuall, and Soliloquia of the Glorious Doctour, St. Augustine," 1631. But it is much abridged and altered in Traherne's version, and for that reason I have printed it here. Those who wish to refer to the original version will find it among the "Inedited Sacred Poems," at the end of Mr. W. T. Brooke's edition of Giles Fletcher's "Christ's Victory and Triumph."]

[SUPPLICATION][K]

I

Come, Holy Ghost, Eternal God, Our hearts with Life inspire, Enkindle zeal in all our Souls, And fill us with Thy Heavenly fire.

II

Send forth Thy Beams and let Thy Grace Upon my spirit shine, That I may all Thy works enjoy, Revive, sing praises, be Divine.

AN HYMN UPON ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY

I

What powerful Spirit lives within! What active Angel doth inhabit here! What heavenly light inspires my skin, Which doth so like a Deity appear! A Living Temple of all ages, I Within me see A Temple of Eternity! All Kingdoms I descry In me.

II

An inward Omnipresence here Mysteriously like His within me stands Whose knowledge is a Sacred Sphere That in itself at once includes all lands. There is some Angel that within me can Both talk and move, And walk and fly and see and love, A man on earth, a man Above.

III

Dull walls of clay my Spirit leaves, And in a foreign Kingdom doth appear, This great Apostle it receives Admires His works and sees them, standing here. Within myself from East to West I move As if I were At once a Cherubim and Sphere, Or was at once above And here.

IV

The Soul's a messenger whereby Within our inward Temple we may be Even like the very Deity In all the parts of His Eternity. O live within and leave unwieldy dross! Flesh is but clay! O fly my Soul and haste away To Jesus' Throne or Cross-- Obey!

POEMS EXTRACTED FROM TRAHERNE'S "CHRISTIAN ETHICKS"

[All the following poems (excepting those in the "Appendix") are taken from Traherne's "Christian Ethicks." That they are all from his own pen cannot, I think, be doubted. They are entirely in his manner, and have little or no resemblance to that of any other poet. As the reader will see, I have, where necessary, quoted a few sentences from Traherne's prose in order to render the design of the verses more intelligible.]

[From pp. 344-5]

How glorious the Counsel and Design of God is for the Atchieving of this Great End, for the making of all Vertues more compleat and Excellent, and for the Heightening of their Beauty and Perfection we will exemplifie here in the Perfection of Courage. For the Height and depth and Splendor of every Vertue is of great Concernment to the Perfection of the Soul since the Glory of its Life is seated in the Accomplishment of its essence, in the fruit it yieldeth in its Operations. Take it in Verse made long ago upon this occasion--

For Man to Act as if his Soul did see The very Brightness of Eternity; For Man to Act as if his Love did burn Above the Spheres, even while it's in its Urne; For Man to Act even in the Wilderness, As if he did those Sovereign Joys possess, Which do at once confirm, stir up, enflame, And perfect Angels; having not the same! It doth increase the value of his Deeds, In this a Man a Seraphim exceeds. To Act on Obligations yet unknown, To Act upon Rewards as yet unshewn, To keep Commands whose Beauty's yet unseen, To Cherish and retain a Zeal between Sleeping and waking; shews a constant care, And that a deeper Love, a Love so rare, That no Eye Service may with it compare. The Angels, who are faithful while they view His Glory, know not what themselves would do, Were they in our Estate! A Dimmer Light Perhaps would make them erre as well as We And in the Coldness of a darker Night Forgetful and Lukewarm Themselves might be. Our very Rust shall cover us with Gold, Our Dust shall sprinkle[L] while their Eyes behold The Glory Springing from a feeble State, Where meer Belief doth, if not conquer Fate Surmount and pass what it doth Antedate.

[From p. 326]

In Matters of Art the force of Temperance is undeniable. It relateth not only to our Meats and Drinks, but to all our Behaviours, Passions, and Desires.

All Musick, Sawces, Feasts, Delights and Pleasures, Games, Dancing, Arts consist in govern'd Measures; Much more do Words and Passions of the Mind In Temperance their sacred Beauty find.

[From pp. 347-9]

If you say it would be Beneficial to God or to that Spectator or that intelligible Power, that Spirit for whom it was made: It is apparent that no Corporeal Being can be serviceable to a Spirit but only by the Beauty of those Services it performeth to other Corporeals that are capable of receiving them, and that therefore all Corporeals must be limited and bounded for each other's sake. And for this Cause it is that a Philosophical Poet said:

As in a Clock, 'tis hinder'd Force doth bring The Wheels to order'd Motion by a Spring; Which order'd Motion guides a steddy Hand In useful sort at Figures just to stand; Which, were it not by Counter-ballance staid, The Fabrick quickly would aside be laid As wholly useless: So a Might too Great But well proportion'd makes the World compleat. Power well-bounded is more Great in Might Than if let loose 'twere wholly Infinite. He could have made an endless Sea by this, But then it had not been a Sea of Bliss; A Sea that's bounded in a finite shore Is better far because it is no more. Should Waters endlessly exceed the Skies They'd drown the World, and all whate'er we prize. Had the bright Sun been Infinite its Flame Had burnt the World, and quite consumed the same. That Flame would yield no splendour to the Sight, 'Twould be but Darkness though 'twere Infinite. One Star made Infinite would all exclude, An Earth made Infinite could ne'er be view'd. But all being bounded for each other's sake, He, bounding all, did all most useful make; And which is best, in Profit and Delight Though not in Bulk, he made all Infinite! He, in his Wisdom, did their use extend By all, to all the World from End to End. In all Things all Things service do to all; And thus a Sand is Endless, though most small, And every Thing is truly Infinite In its Relation deep and exquisite.

[From p. 383 in Chapter XXV On Meekness]

Were all the World a Paradise of Ease 'Twere easie then to live in Peace. Were all men Wise, Divine, and Innocent, Just, Holy, Peaceful and Content, Kind, Loving, True and alwaies Good As in the Golden-Age they stood; 'Twere easie then to live In all Delight and Glory, full of Love, Blest as the Angels are above.

But we such Principles must now attain (If we true blessedness would gain) As those are which will help to make us reign Over Disorders, Injuries, Ingratitudes, Calamities, Affronts, Oppressions, Slanders, Wrongs, Lies, Angers, bitter Tongues; The reach of Malice must surmount, and quell The very Rage and Power of Hell.

[From pp. 394-9]

OF MEEKNESS

I

Mankind is sick, the World distemper'd lies Opprest with Sins and Miseries. Their Sins are Woes; a long corrupted Train Of Poyson, drawn from Adam's vein, Stains all his seed, and all his Kin Are one Disease of Life within; They all torment themselves! The World's one Bedlam, or a greater Cave Of Mad-men that do alwaies rave.

II

The Wise and Good like kind Physicians are, That strive to heal them by their Care; They Physick and their Learning calmly use Although the Patient them abuse, For since the Sickness is (they find) A sad Distemper of the Mind, All railings they impute, All Injuries, unto the sore Disease They are expresly come to ease.

III

If we would to the World's distempered Mind Impute the Rage which there we find, We might, even in the midst of all our Foes Enjoy and feel a sweet Repose, Might pity all the Griefs we see, Anointing every Malady With precious Oil and Balm; And while ourselves are calm, our Art improve To rescue them and show our Love.

IV

But let's not fondly our own selves beguile; If we Revile 'cause they Revile, Ourselves infected with their sore Disease Need other's Helps to give us ease; For we more Mad than they remain, Need to be cut, and need a Chain Far more than they. Our Brain Is craz'd, and if we put our Wit to theirs, We may be justly made their Heirs.

V

But while with open eyes we clearly see The brightness of His Majesty; While all the World by Sin to Satan sold, In daily Wickedness grows old, Men in chains of Darkness lye, In Bondage and Iniquity, And pierce and grieve themselves! The dismal Woes wherein they crawl, enhance The peace of our Inheritance.

VI

We wonder to behold our selves so nigh To so much Sin and Misery, And yet to see our selves so safe from harm! What Amulet, what hidden Charm Could fortifie and raise the Soul So far above them and controul Such fierce Malignity? The brightness and the glory which we see Is made a greater Mystery.

VII

And while we feel how much our God doth love The Peace of Sinners, how much move And sue, and thirst, intreat, lament, and grieve For all the Crimes in which they live, And seek and wait and call again, And long to save them from the pain Of Sin, from all their Woe! With greater thirst as well as grief we try, How to relieve their Misery.

VIII

The life and splendour of Felicity, Whose floods so overflowing be, The streams of Joy which round about his Throne Enrich and fill each Holy One, Are so abundant, that we can Spare all, even all to any Man! And have it all ourselves! Nay, have the more! We long to make them see The sweetness of Felicity.

IX

While we contemplate their Distresses, how Blind Wretches, they in bondage bow, And tear and wound themselves, and vex and groan, And chafe and fret so near His Throne know not what they ail, but lye Tormented in their Misery, (Like Mad-men that are blind) In works of darkness nigh such full Delight: That they might find and see the sight,

X

What would we give! that these might likewise see The Glory of His Majesty The joy and fulness of that high delight Whose Blessedness is infinite! We would even cease to live, to gain Them from their misery and pain, And make them with us reign, For they themselves would be our greatest Treasures, When sav'd our own most Heavenly Pleasures.

XI

O holy Jesus who didst for us die, And on the Altar bleeding lie, Bearing all torment, pain, reproach, and shame, That we, by vertue of the same, Though enemies to God, might be Redeem'd and set at liberty: As thou didst us forgive, So meekly let us love to others shew, And live in Heaven on Earth below.

XII

Let's prize their Souls, and let them be our Gems, Our Temples and our Diadems, Our Brides, our Friends, our fellow-Members, Eyes, Hands, Hearts and Souls, our Victories, And Spoils and Trophies, our own Joys! Compar'd to Souls all else are Toys; O Jesus, let them be Such unto us as they are unto Thee, Vessels of Glory and Felicity!

XIII

How will they love us, when they find our Care Brought them all thither where they are! When they conceive what terror 'tis to dwell In all the punishments of Hell; And in a lively manner see, O Christ, eternal Joys in thee! How will they all delight In praising Thee for us with all their might! How sweet a Grace, how infinite!

[From p. 425]

OF CONTENTMENT

Contentment is a sleepy thing If it in Death alone must die; A quiet Mind is worse than Poverty, Unless it from Enjoyment spring! That's Blessedness alone that makes a King! Wherein the Joys and Treasures are so great, They all the powers of the Soul employ, And fill it with a Work compleat, While it doth all enjoy. True Joys alone Contentment do inspire, Enrich Content and make our Courage higher. Content alone's a dead and silent Stone; The real life of Bliss Is Glory reigning in a Throne, Where all Enjoyment is. The Soul of Man is so inclin'd to see, Without his Treasures no man's Soul can be, Nor rest content Uncrown'd! Desire and Love Must in the height of all their Rapture move, Where there is true Felicity. Employment is the very life and ground Of Life itself; whose pleasant Motion is The form of Bliss: All Blessedness a life with Glory Crown'd: Life! Life is all; in its most full extent Stretcht out to all things, and with all Content!

[From p. 456, Of Magnanimity]

And if the Glory and Esteem I have, Be nothing else than what my Silver gave, If, for no other ground, I am with Love or Praises crown'd, 'Tis such a shame, such vile, such base Repute, 'Tis better starve than eat such empty Fruit.

APPENDIX

The poems in the foregoing pages are derived (as I have already explained) from three separate MS. volumes, and from the author's prose volume, entitled "Christian Ethicks." The bulk of them (ending with "Goodness") are from the folio volume. The remainder--with the exception of the three which are from the volume of "Meditations and Devotions"--are from the prose volume entitled "Centuries of Meditations." I have printed all the poems which I have found in these various sources, with one exception. This is a poem which appears in the folio volume, but which is there crossed through as though marked for suppression.[M] Whether this mark of suppression was made by the author or by another person there are no means of judging; but as the poem in question is, as I think, somewhat below the level of its companions, I have thought it better to reserve it for the appendix than to print it between the poems "Thoughts" I. and II., where it occurs in the MS.

BLISS

I

All Bliss Consists in this, To do as Adam did, And not to know those superficial Toys Which in the Garden once were hid. Those little new-invented things, Cups, saddles, crowns are childish joys, So ribbands are and rings, Which all our happiness destroys.

II

Nor God In His abode, Nor Saints, nor little boys, Nor Angels made them; only foolish men, Grown mad with custom, on those toys, Which more increase their wants, do dote, And when they older are do then Those baubles chiefly note With greedier eyes, more boys tho' men.

To enable the reader to judge whether my hypothesis that the author of "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation of the Mercies of God" is also the author of the other poems contained in the present volume, is well or ill-founded, I will now print the three poems which appear in the above-mentioned work. They are as follows:

[LIFE'S BLESSEDNESS]

While I, O Lord, exalted by Thy hand Above the skies, in glory seem to stand, The skies being made to serve me, as they do, While I thy Glories in thy Goodness view. To be in Glory higher than the skies Is greater bliss than 'tis in place to rise Above the Stars: More blessed and divine To live and see than like the Sun to shine. O what Profoundness in my Body lies For whom the Earth was made, the Sea, the Skies! So greatly high our human Bodies are That Angels scarcely may with these compare: In all the heights of Glory seated, they Above the Sun in Thine eternal day Are seen to shine; with greater gifts adorned Than Gold with Light or Flesh with Life suborned; Suns are but Servants, Skies beneath their feet; The Stars but Stones; Moons but to serve them meet. Beyond all heights above the World they reign In thy great Throne ordained to remain. All Tropes are Clouds; Truth doth itself excel, Whatever Heights Hyperboles can tell.

[THE RESURRECTION]

Then shall each Limb a spring of Joy be found, And every member with its Glory crown'd: While all the Senses, fill'd with all the Good That ever Ages in them understood Transported are: Containing Worlds of Treasure At one delight with all their Joy and Pleasure, From whence, like Rivers, Joy shall ever flow, Affect the Soul, though in the Body grow, Return again and make the Body shine Like Jesus Christ, while both in one combine. Mysterious Contracts are between the Soul, Which touch the Spirits and by those its Bowl; The Marrow, Bowels, Spirits, melt and move, Dissolving ravish, teach them how to love. He that could bring the Heavens thro' the eye, And make the World within the Fancy lie, By beams of Light that closing meet in one, From all the parts of His celestial Throne, Far more than this in framing Bliss can do, Inflame the Body and the Spirit too: Can make the Soul by Sense to feel and see, And with her Joy the Senses wrap'd to be: Yea, while the Flesh or Body subject lies To those Affections which in Souls arise; All holy Glories from the Soul redound, And in the Body by the Soul abound, Are felt within and ravish ev'ry Sense With all the Godhead's glorious Excellence, Who found the way Himself to dwell within, As if even Flesh were nigh to Him of kin: His Goodness, Wisdom, Power, Love Divine, Make by the Soul convey'd the Body shine, Not like the Sun (that earthly Darkness is) But in the strengths and heights of all this bliss, For God designed thy Body for His sake, A Temple of the Deity to make.

THE WAYS OF WISDOM

"Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace."

These sweeter far than lilies are, No roses may with these compare! How these excel No tongue can tell, Which he that well and truly knows With praise and joy he goes! How great and happy's he that knows his ways To be divine and heavenly Joys: To whom each city is more brave Than walls of pearl and streets which gold doth pave: Whose open eyes Behold the skies; Who loves their wealth and beauty more Than kings love golden ore! Who sees the heavenly ancient ways Of God the Lord with joy and praise, More than the skies With open eyes Doth prize them all; yea, more than gems, And regal diadems; That more esteemeth mountains, as they are, Than if they gold and silver were: To whom the sun more pleasure brings Than crowns and thrones and palaces to kings: That knows his ways To be the joys And way of God--those things who knows With joy and praise he goes!

I do not think it is necessary to spend much time or ink in endeavouring to prove that the author of these three poems must have been also the writer of the other poems contained in this volume. Unless it be contended that no conclusion as to authorship can be drawn from similarity of style, sentiment, and peculiarities of expression, I do not see how it is possible for any one who carefully considers the matter to entertain a reasonable doubt about it. Not even the hypothesis of imitation by one author of the style of another can here be entertained--for no man can imitate what is not known to him.

Every poet has his special topics, his favourite terms of expression, his peculiar vocabulary, and even his pet rhymes, which are bound to appear often in his verse. I think it may be truly said that there is nothing in the three poems taken from "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation of the Mercies of God" which cannot be paralleled in the other poems contained in this volume. All are characterised by the same fervent piety, the same command of expression and musical diction, the same dwelling upon the ideas that though God is necessary to man, yet man also is necessary to God, and that the body (instead of being, according to the ordinary theological belief, a corpus vile of corruption) is "a spring of Joy" crowned with glory; and the same continual allusions to the great natural phenomena. When to these resemblances we add the many small coincidences of words and phrases which are always recurring in the poems, the evidence of common authorship becomes too strong to be resisted.

Perhaps it may be worth while to quote a few instances of these resemblances out of the many which might be given. In the second stanza of "The Person" we have

Men's hands than angels' wings Are truer wealth even here below.

In "Life's Blessedness" we have

So greatly high our human bodies are That Angels scarcely may with them compare.

In the fifth stanza of "The Estate" we have

The laws of God, the Works he did create, His ancient ways, are His and my Estate.

In "The Ways of Wisdom" we have

Who sees the heavenly ancient ways.

In "Thoughts IV." we have

The very heavens in their sacred worth At once serve us and set his Glory forth.

In "Life's Blessedness" we have

The skies being made to serve me, as they do, While I Thy Glories in Thy Goodness view.

In "The Influx" we have

No soul but stone, no man but clay am I.

In "Life's Blessedness" we have

The stars but stones.

The reader will doubtless have observed that our poet was very fond of using "treasure" and a "pleasure" as rhymes. He seldom omits to bring them in in a poem of any length, and it will be observed that they are introduced in "The Resurrection." Certain defective rhymes (or no rhymes) also occur pretty frequently, as "lay," "joy," "away," "enjoy." In "The Ways of Wisdom" we have "ways" and "joys."

I think I have produced evidence enough to convince the reader of the soundness of my contention: if not, I will undertake to produce a good deal more. It is fortunate, indeed, that "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation" should have stolen into print (for neither at the time of its publication nor subsequently does it appear to have attracted any attention), since without it we should have had no clue to the authorship of these poems.

* * * * *

Mr. W. T. Brooke has discovered in the British Museum a broadside with the following title, "A Congratulatory Poem on the Right Honourable S^r Orlando Bridgman, Lord Keeper of the Great Seal of England," which, he suggests, may possibly have been written by the author of the poems here printed. But though it is a poem of considerable merit, it has, in my opinion, no correspondence in style with Traherne's poems. A few lines from it, however, will not be altogether out of place here:

Were all your own Rolls searcht scarce should we find That noble seat filled with so fit a mind: So brave a mind as baseness ne'er allays, So great a mind as greatness cannot raise, So just a mind as interest can't seduce, So wise a mind as colours can't abuse, So large a mind as largest Trusts do crave, So calm a mind as Equity should have. High Courtships construed in the present tense, Law's Oracle without perplexed sense, A sober piety in a virtuoso, And an Orlando without Furioso.

TRAHERNE'S "SERIOUS AND PATHETICALL CONTEMPLATION OF THE MERCIES OF GOD"

This book would hardly be complete without some account of the above work. It is a small 12mo volume of 146 pages, with an engraved frontispiece. It is written--excepting the three pieces of verse which I have already printed--in a kind of unrhymed verse, which is curiously suggestive of the style of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," particularly in the frequent passages in which the author enumerates or catalogues, as the American poet does, every object he can think of which bears any relation to his theme. There were, of course, more points of unlikeness than of likeness between the two poets, but they at least resembled each other in their invincible optimism, as well as in the points mentioned above. Whitman could not have known of the existence of the "Serious and Patheticall Contemplation"; but had it been accessible to him, it might well have been suspected that he was under some obligations to it.

The booklet consists of a series of "Thanksgivings" for the Body, the Soul, the Glory of God's Works, the Blessedness of God's Ways, the Wisdom of His Word, &c. There is much poetry and beauty of expression in these "Thanksgivings," and they are valuable also for the light which they occasionally throw upon passages in the poems which might else seem obscure. Thus the following passages from the "Thanksgiving for the Body" may be profitably compared with "The Salutation" and "Wonder":

I will praise Thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made, marvellous are Thy works; and that my Soul knoweth right well.

My substance was not hid from Thee when I was made in secret and curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.

Thine eyes did see my substance yet being unperfect; and in thy book all my members were written; which in continuance were fashioned when as yet there was none of them.

* * * * *

O Lord! Thou hast given me a body, Wherein the glory of Thy Power shineth, Wonderfully composed above the beasts, Within distinguished into useful parts, Beautified without with many ornaments. Limbs rarely pois'd, And made for Heaven: Arteries fill'd With celestial spirits: Veins wherein blood floweth, Refreshing all my flesh. Like rivers: Sinews fraught with the mystery Of wonderful strength, Stability, Feeling. O blessed be Thy glorious Name! That Thou hast made it A Treasury of Wonders, Fit for its several Ages; For Dissections, For Sculptures in Brass, For Draughts in Anatomy, For the contemplation of the Sages.

I quote the following passage from "A Thanksgiving and Prayer for the Nation" not merely because it is fine in itself, but also because it affords us yet another interesting glimpse of the author's personality:

O Lord, the children of my people are Thy peculiar treasures, Make them mine, O God, even while I have them, My lovely companions, like Eve in Eden! So much my treasure that all other wealth is without them But dross and poverty. Do they not adorn and beautifie the World, And gratify my Soul which hateth Solitude! Thou, Lord, hast made thy servant a sociable creature, for which I praise thy name, A lover of company, a delighter in equals; Replenish the inclination which Thyself hath implanted, And give me eyes To see the beauty of that life and comfort Wherewith those by their actions Inspire the nations. Their Markets, Tillage, Courts of Judicature, Marriages, Feasts and Assemblies, Navys, Armies, Priests and Sabbaths, Trades and Business, the voice of the Bridegroom, Musical Instruments, the light of Candles, and the grinding of Mills Are comfortable, O Lord, let them not cease. The riches of the land are all the materials of my felicity in their hands: They are my Factors, Substitutes, and Stewards; Second Selves, who by Trade and Business animate my wealth, Which else would be dead and rust in my hands; But when I consider, O Lord, how they come unto thy Temples, fill thy Courts, and sing Thy praises, O how wonderful they then appear! What Stars, Enflaming Suns, Enlarging Seas Of Divine Affection, Confirming Paterns, Infusing Influence, Do I feel in these! Who are the shining light Of all the land (to my very Soul:) Wings and Streams Carrying me unto thee, The Sea of Goodness from whence they came.

Have we not here a very remarkable anticipation of the leading thought of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass"? Do we not see in both poets the same deep love of and delight in humanity, the same feeling of comradeship and brotherhood with all men, the same hunger for sympathy and reciprocal affection, the same pleasure in the common things of life and nature, and the same frank acceptance of things as they are, and not as they might be? I have said that there is more unlikeness than likeness between the poets--but is it really so? Does not the above passage show that beneath all apparent differences there was a fundamental resemblance in their characters? To say the least, there was this resemblance--that both of them found life supremely well worth living, and never doubted, even when the clouds were blackest, that the sun was shining beyond them.

THE WILL OF THOMAS TRAHERNE, AS REGISTERED IN THE PREROGATIVE COURT OF CANTERBURY

Memorandum that Thomas Traherne late of Teddington in the County of Midd Clerk deceased in the time of the sickness whereof he dyed and vpon or about the Seaven and Twentyth of September 1674 having sent for John Berdo Gent to come to him the said Thomas Traherne then lying sick at the Lady Bridgmans house in Teddington and the said Mr Berdo being come vnto him he the said Thomas Traherne being then of perfect mind and memory vsed these or the like words to the said Mr. Berdo viz^t. I haue sent for you to make my Will for mee or to that effect. Whereupon the said Mr Berdo asked of him the said Mr Thomas Traherne whether he would haue it made in Writing. To which the said Thomas Traherne answeared in these or the like words viz^t. Noe I haue not so much but that I can dispose of it by Word of Mouth or to that effect And the said Thomas Traherne being then of perfect mind and memory by Word of Mouth with an intent to make his Will and to settle and dispose of his Goods and Estate did vtter and speake these or the like words viz^t. I desire my Lady Bridgman and her daughter the Lady Charlott should haue each of them a Ring. And to you (speaking to the said Mr. Berdo) I give Tenn Pounds and to Mrs Cockson Tenn shillings and to Phillipp Landman ffyve shillings and to John Rowland the Gardiner ffyve shillings and to Mary the Laundry maid ffyve shillings and to all the rest of the servants half a crowne apeece. My best Hatt I give it to my brother Phillipp. And sister (speaking to Mrs Susan Traherne the wife of his brother Phillipp which Susan was then present) I desire you would keepe it for him. And all the rest of my Clothes that is worth your acceptance I give to you. And for those that are not worth your accepting I would have you to giue them to Phillipp Landman or to whome you please with my old Hatt. All my Books I give to my brother Phillipp. And (still speaking to the said Mrs Susan then present) I make you and my brother Phillipp my whole Executors which words or the like in effect The said Thomas Traherne being then of perfect mind and memory did then utter Animo testandi and with an intent that the same should stand and be as and for his last Will and Testament in the presence and hearing of John Berdo Alice Cockson and Mary Linum.

John Berdo Alice Cockson The Mark of Mary Linum.

* * * * *

Proved at London 22 Oct 1674 by Susan Traherne, one of the Executors, to whom administration was granted, power being reserved of making the like grant to Philip Traherne, the other executor, should he ask for the same.

Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED Tavistock Street, London

BOOKS WRITTEN OR EDITED BY

BERTRAM DOBELL

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SIDELIGHTS ON CHARLES LAMB

This work contains much new matter relating to Charles Lamb, his works and his friends. It comprises a number of essays, poems, and short articles, some of which are certainly by Lamb, while others are probably his. One of them, which is undoubtedly by Lamb, tells, under the guise of a humorous fiction, the story of a curious and hitherto unknown incident in the author's life. Other pieces contained in the volume, whether written by Lamb, or by imitators of his style, will be found to be of quite remarkable interest and curiosity.

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ROSEMARY AND PANSIES

"There's rosemary for you, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there's pansies, that's for thoughts."

Hamlet, Act iv. sc. 5.

"Mr. Dobell has a good ear, a pretty gift of language and versification, and his matter is always worthy and truthful, and not seldom at once profound and beautiful, though these latter qualities are not always found together."--The Reformer.

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"Mr. Dobell's volume will be liked by all who value wit, humour, and sincerity in verse."--The Observer.

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF JAMES THOMSON ("B.V.")

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THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT AND OTHER POEMS (Selected)

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A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY

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WORKS PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION

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CENTURIES OF MEDITATION

By THOMAS TRAHERNE

Traherne is no less excellent as a prose writer than as a poet; indeed, I think it is not too much to say that his prose will bear comparison with that of any English writer of the seventeenth century. It is remarkable for its ease, spirit, eloquence, and suppleness--qualities which are not often found in combination in the writers of that period.

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THE POEMS OF WILLIAM STRODE

[1602-1645]

Now first collected from Manuscript and Printed Sources, together with his Play entitled

THE FLOATING ISLAND

NOW FIRST REPRINTED

There is no more singular circumstance in the history of English literature than the fact that the writings of so fine a poet as William Strode should have remained for such a length of time neglected and forgotten. He had a great reputation in his lifetime, and his poems were largely circulated in manuscript among the literary circles of the time. His play, entitled "The Floating Island," which had been performed before Charles I. and his Court in 1636, was published in 1655, with a preface in which the editors promised that if it met with a good reception, more of the author's writings should follow. This promise, however, owing perhaps to the political disturbances of the time, was never fulfilled; and Strode has ever since remained a mere shadow so far as any knowledge of his writings and personality is concerned. With the publication of this volume he will take the place to which he is entitled besides such poets as Carew, Cartwright, Randolph and Corbet.

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GLEANINGS FROM MANUSCRIPTS

BEING POEMS AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF THE SIXTEENTH AND SEVENTEENTH CENTURIES

Now first printed from manuscripts, most of which are in my own possession.

This series, which will, I hope, extend to three or four volumes, will consist chiefly of unprinted matter which I have discovered in the course of my researches among manuscripts of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The works of several authors not hitherto known to fame will be included in the contents of these volumes. Among them the names of Nicholas Oldisworth and M. Johnson may be particularly mentioned. Both of them are writers of very considerable merit, and are well worthy of being rescued from the obscurity in which they have so long rested. Another feature of the collection will be copies of the poems of many well-known writers, which will be printed because the manuscript versions which I possess exhibit many variations from the printed texts. Altogether, I venture to say that all scholars and students of our old literature will welcome these volumes and recognise their value.

PART SECOND. SECULAR. III. (part 5)

* * * * *

For further particulars of the above works, and of others which I have in contemplation, see a Prospectus which is now ready, and which will be forwarded on application.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See "Archæologia," vol. xxxvii, p. 204.

[B] "Roman Forgeries" must have had some popularity in its time, for it is, unlike "Christian Ethicks," a tolerably common book. Fifteen years after its publication Dean Comber, a writer of some note in his day, published a work of similar character, and with the same title. As Traherne's book was published anonymously, Dean Comber has usually received credit for that as well as for his own work. The Dean was a man of considerable ability, and he would hardly have been pleased had he been told that he would only be remembered in future times as the writer who helped himself to a striking title at the expense of one who was far superior to himself in character and genius.

[C] See "Nova Solyma": an Anonymous Romance. With Introduction, Translation, &c., by the Rev. Walter Begley. (1903.)

[D] "Nature is the great spendthrift. She will burn up the world some day to attain what will probably seem to us a very inadequate end; and in order to have things stated at their worst, once for all, in English, she took a splendid genius and made him--an army schoolmaster; starved his intellect, starved his heart, starved his body. All the adversity of the world smote him; and that nothing should be wanting to her purpose Nature took care that the very sun should smite him also! Time will avenge him: he is among the immortals."--John Davidson, in the Speaker, June 17, 1899.

[E] This poem is included in the "Oxford Book of English Verse"; and the Rev. Orby Shipley has included two of Traherne's poems in his "Carmina Mariana."

[F] It is not only in "My Spirit" that we find traces of Traherne's Berkeleianism. See the "Hymn on St. Bartholomew's Day," "The Preparative," and various passages in other poems. I do not contend, however, that we have the idea in a clear and unmistakable form anywhere but in "My Spirit."

[G] This title was probably the invention of the publisher--one Samuel Keble--and not of the author.

[H] From certain indications in the folio manuscript, from which the bulk of the poems in the present volume are derived, it seems clear that there must be a considerable quantity of verse by Traherne which has not yet been recovered. Appended to several poems in the folio volume are references to other poems, as, for example, at the end of "Innocence," "An Infant Eye, p. 1," and "Adam, p. 12." Other poems thus mentioned are "News," "The Odor," "The Inheritance," "The Evidence," "The Center," and "Insatiableness." As the manuscript volume containing these pieces consisted of at least 142 pages, it seems likely that the present volume contains not more than one half of Traherne's poetical works. It may be hoped, but hardly expected, that the volume containing the poems mentioned above will some day be recovered. Possibly this mention of it may, if it still exists, lead to its eventual discovery.

[I] In Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations" this poem is preceded by the following note: "Upon those pure and virgin apprehensions which I had in my infancy I made this Poem."

[J] These five lines have an alternative reading:

The Sun itself doth in its glory shine, And gold and silver out of very mire, And pearls and rubies out of earth refine; While herbs and flowers aspire To touch and make our feet divine.

[K] It is doubtful whether this poem is by Traherne.

[L] (?) Sparkle.

[M] Several passages in other poems are thus marked. Usually where these marks appear--but not invariably so--there is a slight falling off in the author's inspiration. As these passages, however, could not be omitted without leaving palpable lacunæ in the poems, I have taken no notice of them (save in one instance where I have suppressed a stanza which is clearly superfluous), preferring to leave the critical reader to discover such inequalities for himself.

Transcriber's Note:

1. Caret letters are shown as ^x.

2. Italics are shown as xxx.

3. All original spelling has been retained.