Which love is greater, at a loss I am.
James wins; with him no man is on a par,
For not in miles the Infanta is so far
From Charles, as we from James in genius are. R. WI.
IX. Vero verius ergo quid sit audi
What, then, is truer than the truth, give ear:
Frenchman, the truth unwilling thou dost hear.
X. In Obitum serenissimae Reginae Annae.
On the Death of her most serene Majesty Queen Anne (of Denmark.)
(
From Lacrymae Cantabrigienses.)
How shall I duly mourn blest Anna’s name,
Whose power was great, but greater was her fame?
To neither can my mind full justice render,
Whose fame is small, and genius still more slender.
Fitly to weep or write of thee demands
The eyes of Argus and Briareus’ hands.
Vain toil! This joy alone to me remains,
That Sea and Sky excuse my pen’s poor pains:
For Anna’s praises in the Heavens we trace,
Our grief is written in the Ocean’s face. R. WI.
XI. In Obitum Henrici Principis Walliae.
(
Ex Epicedivm Cantabrigiense, In Obitum immaturum, semperq.
deflendum Henrici, &c. 1612.)
On the Death of Henry Prince of Wales.
Begone, O trifling Muses! yes, begone,
Ye deities that fork’d Parnassus own!
Not ye, with ivy-fillet round my brow,
Call I in dreams to hear my nightly vow;
Nor let Crissean nor Libethrian mountains 5
Invade my verse, or pour for me their fountains:
My mind’s not so with vanity elate
As that I wish with gods myself to mate;
To summon mountain-chain or wandering stream,
E’en such as for the sister Muses gleam: 10
If needs I must turn o’er my mighty grief,
While all my heart is dumb, without relief;
If from my spirit fitting tears do swell,
As labouring I fain my woes would tell, —
Be these my mountains, these my rivers be! 15
Adieu, O Muses, and thou, Phoebus, see
From grief shall flow my songs — not thee, not thee.
Henceforth be ye my Muses, swimming eyes,
Up-gathering such strength as in ye lies,
While I my Prince’s mournful death show forth; 20
So rolling years shall ne’er consume your worth,
Nor dark Oblivion ever drink your fame,
Or stain or raze out his illustrious name.
Come, therefore, come, my Mind; speak out, I pray,
What god thus wrathful is; and whence, come, say, 25
Flow woes like ours? O, ye wool-bearing flocks
Know no such sufferings, no such cruel shocks;
For, lo, our shepherd-prince, by angry Heaven,
Sudden and swift, alas, from us is riven.
Methinks a wasteful plague had been less curse, 30
Nor had a famine long-drawn-out been worse,
Than mortal sickness of our Prince belov’d,
Toward whom in sweet fealty all hearts mov’d.
Now Philomel, compar’d with us, glad is,
And Dido ‘reavèd of her erewhile bliss. 35
Happy are they crush’d by War’s frequent sword, —
They have no more to fear of Pates abhorr’d;
Our dread misfortune, as in gloom we grope,
Is, that woes present quench all future hope.
How lawful ’twas to hope with him for King! 40
Nay, what might we not hope his reign would bring?
But if the Powers begrudg’d him to us long,
Nor for the Kingdom would his life prolong,
Surely as babe, not in fresh bloom of youth,
We should have borne his loss with smaller ruth; 45
Or early death, or long-protracted years,
Ought for the good to draw the mourner’s tears;
Thus to delight hearts with a touch of gladness —
Thus just to show a jewel, and then sadness,
Stirs keener longings, fans desire to madness. 50
Why from the damned Plot, ye Powers divine,
Sav’d ye his life, by sharp disease to untwine?
Why cruelly and basely him destroy,
And hide in the dark grave a nation’s joy?
Phoebus, asham’d wast thou, as in clouds dun 55
Thou didst return, a sun without thy sun!
For we did see thee robe thyself in gloom,
That we might wail and plain beside his tomb.
Time, that devours all things, ne’er alters Fate,
And Death has powers which know nor stint nor date.
What changes not? Rivers their courses change; 61
E’en stars by age forsake their wonted range:
But Fate and Death remain changeless for ever;
To alter them we hope never, no, never.
But why with bootless words pour I my grief, 65
As if such medicine e’er could bring relief?
My burning sorrow wastes my inmost strength, —
Sorrow which knows no bounds of depth or length.
Hush, hush, my soul; as in a river’s course
The shallow places roar with murmurs hoarse, 70
But the deep current flows with silent force. G.
XII. Innupta Pallas, nata Diespatre
On the Death of Prince Henry.
O virgin Pallas, goddess bright,
The glory of Heaven’s Courts of light,
To whom in hours of blissful leisure
The Roman Muse and Greek give pleasure;
Why do Death’s darts tow’rds thee or thine
With threat’ning motion e’er incline?
Why is the balance of stern Fate
Pull’d down for thee with such dead weight?
Has Death, with blood of thousands stain’d,
A Hydra’s monstrous form attain’d,
That e’en Minerva’s sword is broken,
And crush’d her mighty Ægis-token?
Rivers thou turnest; Ocean blue
Was flush’d by thee with fiery hue,
When lightning, with a direr blow,
‘Whelmed Ajax’ shatter’d ships below.
The Gorgon’s knots thou didst divide,
With twisted snakes for locks supplied;
Didst slay grim giants fam’d of old,
Enceladus and Rhæcus bold.
The feather’d hand of blind Love brings,
Vanquish’d, to thee green offerings;
Thy foster-children feel no fear,
Though fierce Bellona thunder near.
With quick stern answer Pallas cries,
‘Let no vain fear, I pray thee, rise;
Fates with just princes ne’er contend,
But always bless them in the end.
What though my trees were all cut down,
This pleasant grove stript of its crown,
And the dead boughs should bear no more
The fruits they render’d me before;
A sweet-ton’d lute they’ll yield to me,
Fram’d beauteous from the fallen tree,
Whose dulcet strains shall float on high,
And win a garland in the sky.’ R. WI.
NOTE TO In Natales et Pascha concurrentes, p. 166.
This reminds us of Dr. Donne’s very striking poem ‘Vppon the Annunciacon and Passiown fallinge vpon one day, 1608’ (our edition of his complete Poems, vol ii pp. 296-8). By the way, for Winchester, read in the Note, Westminster. Probably both were written on the same occasion. Sir John Beaumont has an equally noticeable poem ‘Vpon the two Great Feasts of the Annunciation and Resurrection falling on the same day, March 25th, 1627’ (our edition of his Poems, pp. 67-8). Crashaw and William Cartwright also turn the stab
le of Bethlehem into quaint symbolisms; e g the latter, as less known:
‘Blest Babe, Thy birth makes Heaven in the stall,
And we the manger may Thy altar call:
Thine and Thy mother’s eyes as stars appear;
The bull no beast, but constellation here.
Thus both were born — the Gospel and the Law:
Moses in flags did lye, Thou in the straw.’
(On the Nativity, pp. 317-18.)
VIII. PASSIO DISCERPTA. LUCUS.
Printed and translated for the first time.
G.=: THE EDITOR.
R. WI. — REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A. (as before.)
NOTE.
The whole of ‘Passio Discerpta’ and ‘Lucus’ are derived from the Williams MS., as before. For details on these and others, see Preface in Vol. I., and Essay in present volume. G.
PASSIO DISCERPTA.
I. Ad Dominum morientem.
To the dying Lord.
Since my two eyes and utmost tears
Thy many wounds exceed;
Weeping will never match their worth, —
I must dissolve indeed:
O let my ink together run,
Moisture of fitting hue;
And thus black tears for my black sins
These guilty cheeks imbue.
II. In Sudorem sanguineum.
On the bloody Sweat.
Whither wilt thou, O bloody sweat, now flee?
Though other parts of Christ unbounded be,
A vein is surely the fit home for thee.
And if His marvellous body please thee not,
I know no other more alluring spot
Amid the crowd of men stain’d with sin’s blot.
Unless thou seekest me, unworthy me!
For succouring me most worthy thou shalt be. G.
III. In eundem.
On the same.
Impatient for man’s sin to be pour’d out, Thy blood
E’en for a little while may not restrain its flood, G.
More freely.
So does Thy blood for sin exult to pour,
It can’t itself restrain for one short hour,
But rains its awful shower.
G.
IV. In Latus perfossum.
On the pierced Side.
O Christ, where now a path I see
Made by the cruel spear,
For my poor heart a way to Thee
I trust will be kept clear.
V. In Sputum et Convicia.
On the Spittle and Revilings.
O barbarous! e’en thus do ye requite
That holy mouth, which unto one gives sight,
And life to all, by spittle or His word?
Thus foully is the sacred fountain stirr’d?
Dare ye the living waters thus defile,
And wantonly celestial stream-beds soil,
By your base spitting and wild blasphemy,
Commingl’d with that fierce rejecting cry?
Ah, lest such wickedness repeated be,
The Nation shall become a curs’d Fig-tree,
Withering away in wrath, on every side
Punish’d by Him Who as their Victim died.
Gentiles, bring vessels, bring great flagons; lo,
For you, and through you, shall the Water flow. G.
VI. In Coronam spineam.
On the thorny Crown.
Grief is the source of suffering, Lord, to Thee;
Soft pleasure is its source to guilty me.
Thou, Lord, art pierced grievously with thorn;
I with a rose: Lord, look on me forlorn!
Exchange the points that pierce; take Thou, the Head,
All roses; and Thy members thorns instead. G.
VII. In Arund., Spin., Genufl., Purpur.
On the Reed, Crown of Thoms, Bending the Knee, and
Purple Robe.
Vainly ye mock; your scoffs fly wide, vile race;
A Reed in Shepherd’s hand finds fitting place:
Vainly ye mock; your pointed thorns may sting,
So much the more they prove Me a true King:
Vainly ye mock, bending; for unto ME
All times to come shall bend both heart and knee:
Vainly ye mock; if not with purple vest,
Yet purple blood, I claim My kingdom blest.
But if He lives Whom once in sport ye slew —
His life your death— ‘twill be no play to you! R. WI.
VII. In Alapas.
On the Buffetings.
They smite Thee, Lord, on all sides with their palms;
Thus men are wont to bruise Earth’s precious balms:
Thus all the world Thou healest with Thy woes,
And from Thy stripes the Balm of Gilead flows. R.WI.
IX. In Flagellum.
On the Scourge.
O Christ, sole Hope of a world scourg’d with woe,
When swelling crimes invite the imminent blow,
Softly apply the scourge once felt by Thee,
Let Thy rod’s shadow oft suffice for me:
Deal gently; tender minds their strokes redouble,
And gracious hearts are their own sharpest trouble.
R. WI.
X. In Vestes divisas.
On the parted Garments.
If, Lord, while Thou art fasten’d on the Tree,
Thy garments, the accustom’d legacy
Of friends, e’en to Thy foes assign’d we see;
What to Thy faithful followers wilt Thou give?
Thyself, Thy dying self, that they may live. R. WI.
XI. In pium Latronem.
On the Penitent Thief.
And does he now, this robber overbold,
Who largely on his fellows prey’d of old,
Dare craftily assail the very Christ,
To gain possession of the Pearl unprie’d? R. WI.
XII. In Christum Crucem ascensurum.
On Christ about to ascend the Cross.
Zaccheus, to behold Thee, climb’d a tree;
Now Thou Thyself dost climb that I may see:
The labour chang’d, the toil and sweat are Thine
While easiness of vision now is mine.
Thus to Sight’s measure Thou art seen by all;
Faith only makes or dwarf or giant tall. R. WI.
XIII. Christus in Cruce.
Christ on the Cross.
Here, where the heal’d World’s balm distilleth free,
With yearning joy I cling to the drench’d tree:
E’en as drops fall, sins vanish; nor are they
Half dead, — by Blood’s strong gushing borne away.
O Christ, flow always; lest if cease Thy streams,
Returning guilt no living God Thee deems. R. WI.
XIV. In Clavos.
On the Nails.
Whate’er Thou wert, Who, lest Thy higher birth
Should take away Thy lower from the earth,
Wast fasten’d on the Cross, while men made mirth,
How Thou art mine; I grasp Thee now, — this wood,
These nails, hold fast the Shepherd for my good,
As by His pruning-hook bedew’d with blood. R. WI.
XV. Inclinato capite. John xix. 30.
On the bowed Head.
Foxes have holes, each bird of air its nest,
All creatures know where they may roost or rest:
Christ has no host to welcome Him; hut now
The Cross permits Him His tir’d head to bow. R. WI.
XVI. Ad Solem deficientem.
To the failing Sun. Matt, xxvii. 45.
O thou huge giant of the sky,
Wherefore this dimness in thine eye?
Say, what is this? Dost thou fail now,
Darkness enfolding thy great brow? fountain of all-nurturing light,
Whence around thee this mid-day night?
Erewhile at morn the earth revealing,
At shut of eve the earth concealing
,
Faithful key-bearer of the world,
Art thou from thy grand office hurl’d,
Since thou droopest ominous,
Nor sheddest light on Him or us?
The Master of the House on high
Thy beams methinks spent lavishly;
And what He to Himself denies,
Shines not in our unworthy eyes:
Nor let the servant dare complain,
If from Day’s light his Lord abstain:
If the Head Himself deny,
Shall not the Family comply? —
But lose not heart, nor droop amain,
Thy sinking Lord will rise again;
New rays in infinite supply
Shall then relume thy fading eye;
More than sufficient there will he
For all the world, and thee, and me. G.
XVII. Monumenta aperta.
The open Graves.
Thy death, my Life, the buried saints awoke,
And for One bound, a crowd to freedom broke.
Thou diest not, but in these drawest breath;
Thy life is prov’d by animated Death.
Seek Him amid the tombs, — He is not dead;
One Cross by many graves is answerèd:
For it becomes not the Lord’s majesty
To waste the life He gave, but multiply. R. WI.
XVIII. Terrae-motus.
The Earthquake.
Though Thou art fasten’d to the fatal Tree,
Lo, the huge earth is moving;
For Thou dost bear it all about with Thee,
The Cross and all; so proving
That as, of old, the gates strong Samson bore,
His utmost strength, Thy weakness bows before.
Fools! first the flying earth fix in its place,
Then, with your nails fast-fix the Lord of grace!
XIX. Velum scissum.
The rent Vail.
Thou circumcised! vain thy swelling,
Parasite of the sacred dwelling!
Huckster of vestments, for gold selling.
For, lo, the vail is rent in twain,
Nor mayst thou seek God to retain:
Surcease thee now thy venal gain.
Ah, the old vail is now up-furl’d,
George Herbert- Collected Poetical Works Page 28
