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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Χαῖρε suum neque Caesareus jam nuntiet ales;
Χαῖρε tuum penna candidiore venit.
Sed taceat, qui χαῖρε tuum quoque nuntiat, ales;
Χαῖρε meum penna candidiore venit.
Quis dicat mihi χαῖρε 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.
Χαῖρε tuum, Virgo, donet tibi candidus ille;
Donas candidior tu mihi χαῖρε meum.
Χαῖρε meum de χαῖρε tuo quid differat, audi:
Ille tuum dicit, tu paris, ecce, meum.
Χαῖρε tuum penna candidiore venit.
Sed taceat, qui χαῖρε tuum quoque nuntiat, ales;
Χαῖρε meum penna candidiore venit.
Quis dicat mihi χαῖρε 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.
Χαῖρε tuum, Virgo, donet tibi candidus ille;
Donas candidior tu mihi χαῖρε meum.
Χαῖρε meum de χαῖρε tuo quid differat, audi:
Ille tuum dicit, tu paris, ecce, meum.
To the blessed Virgin: concerning the angelic salutation.
Its 'hail' Cæsarean 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.
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.
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.
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 washèd thee. Cr.
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 washèd 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 ô 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 ô 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.
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 ô 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 ô 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.
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.
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 Phœnix' 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.
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.
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.
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, ô 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 blessèd Way to heaven. R. Wi.
Vile foot, is this to tread the heavenly Way?
Let that fierce Jewish foot to death be given,
Which thus wears out the blessèd 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.
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 Phœbus' 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.
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 Phœbus' 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.
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.
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.
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.
Νῦν ἔτι ἡμέτερόν σε, Χριστὲ, ἔχομεν τὸν ἔρωτα;
Οὐρανοῦ οὖν ὅσσον τὸν φθόνον ὡς ἔχομεν·
Ἀλλὰ ἔχωμεν. ἔχει ἑὰ μὲν τὰ δ' ἀγάλματα αἰθήρ,
Ἄστρα τε καὶ Φοῖβον καὶ καλὰ τῶν νεφελῶν.
Ὅσσον ἔην, ἡμῖν ὄφρ' εἴη ἕν τόδε ἄστρον;
Ἄστρον ἓν ἡμῖν ᾖ· εἰσί τοι ἄστρ' ἑκατόν.
Πάντα μάτην. ὅτι, Χριστὲ, σὺ οὐκ ἀνέβαινες ἐς αὐτόν,
Αὐτὸς μὲν κατέβη οὐρανὸς εἰς σὲ τεός.
Οὐρανοῦ οὖν ὅσσον τὸν φθόνον ὡς ἔχομεν·
Ἀλλὰ ἔχωμεν. ἔχει ἑὰ μὲν τὰ δ' ἀγάλματα αἰθήρ,
Ἄστρα τε καὶ Φοῖβον καὶ καλὰ τῶν νεφελῶν.
Ὅσσον ἔην, ἡμῖν ὄφρ' εἴη ἕν τόδε ἄστρον;
Ἄστρον ἓν ἡμῖν ᾖ· εἰσί τοι ἄστρ' ἑκατόν.
Πάντα μάτην. ὅτι, Χριστὲ, σὺ οὐκ ἀνέβαινες ἐς αὐτόν,
Αὐτὸς μὲν κατέβη οὐρανὸς εἰς σὲ τεός.
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.
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.
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.
Νύκτ' ἐλέησον ἐμὴν, ἐλέησον. ναί τοι ἐκεῖνο,
Χριστὲ, ἐμοῦ ἦμαρ, νὺξ ὅδ' ἐμεῖο ἔχει.
Ὀφθαλμῶν μὲν ἐκεῖνο, Θεὸς, δέεται τόδε γνώμης·
Μή μοι τοῦτ' αἴρῃς, δός μοι ἐκεῖνο φάος.[86]
Χριστὲ, ἐμοῦ ἦμαρ, νὺξ ὅδ' ἐμεῖο ἔχει.
Ὀφθαλμῶν μὲν ἐκεῖνο, Θεὸς, δέεται τόδε γνώμης·
Μή μοι τοῦτ' αἴρῃς, δός μοι ἐκεῖνο φάος.[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.
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.