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.
Decoration F 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, Ô 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 perplexÈd paths no more can trace;
Though sympathising earth astonied reel,
And nature jarrÈd 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;
MistimÈd 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 boltÈd 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, Ô foventes
Pande sinus, sitiens laboro.
TRANSLATION. HOPE. 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 crownÈd 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.
Decoration H
Latin Poems.
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