The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw, Volume II (of 2), by Richard Crashaw

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.

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 phœnix 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.

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 phœnix 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.

O vita, tantum lubricus quidam furor
Spoliumque vitae! scilicet longi brevis
Erroris hospes! Error ô mortalium!
O certus error! qui sub incerto vagum
Suspendit aevum, mille per dolos viae5
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, ibi10
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 Deae15
Aevi severa texta producunt manu,
Haec ipsa nobis implicant vestigia,
Retrahunt trahuntque, donec everso gradu
Ruina lassos alta deducat pedes.
Felix, fugaces quisquis excipiens dies20
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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Squammea vivae
Lubrica terga ratis
Jam conscendet Arion.
Merces tam nova solvitur
Navis quam nova scanditur. Illa
Aërea 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 aëra:
Cursibus, piscis; digitis, Arion:
Et sternit undas, sternit et aëra:
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.

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 thinnèd 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.

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.

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-drapèd 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.

Moenia Trojae, hostis et ignis,
Hostes inter et ignes, Aeneas spolium pium
Atque humeris venerabile pondus
Excipit, et 'Saevae nunc ô 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.

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.

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 ô
Faecunda; sancta ô lucra pretiosae necis!
Vive, monstrum dulce, vive,
Tu tibique suffice.

Phœnix, 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-containèd bird;
Most pleasing wonder.
The old legend is absurd;
But truth lies under. G.

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.

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 damnèd 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 archèd 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.

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, ô 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.

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.

HUMANAE VITAE DESCRIPTIO.

IN PYGMALIONA.

ARION.

IN

AENEAS PATRIS SUI BAJULUS.

PHOENICIS GENETHLIACON ET EPICEDION.

EPITAPHIUM.

ELEGIA.[100]

THESAURUS MALORUM FOEMINA.