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

Hither, Muse, and bring again
Thy august surrounding train;
With measur'd tread of practis'd feet
Come, for thou hast learn'd to greet
With the voice of loyal cheer
A princely cradle year by year.
Lo, our noble Queen on thee
Calls in fruitful rivalry
By another birth; and he,
Illustrious infant, needs must have
The Muses' offspring for his slave.
Never has she yet been known
A mother for herself alone,
But by a reflected might
Even in absence doth delight
In twins ever, and while she
Thus augments her progeny,
And gives vigour to the lyre,
She doth at once with life inspire
Young princes, and the Muses' quire.
These, though not untouch'd they be
With the sacred flame, may she
Tire in her fruitful deity,
And with joys that theirs outrun,
Dry at last all Helicon!
Sweet is the strife wherein, to prove
Her powers, she deigns by rule to move;
Nor an unbecoming stain
Is the dust that they must gain,
Who in such contest can but fight in vain.
Nature, o'er day and night alternate dreaming,
Brings forth a swart child now, and now a fair:
On thee attends, O Queen in beauty beaming,
A better Nature, with a rule how rare!
Bright as thyself, thine own tend all the selfsame way;
A daughter now, and now a son; but each a child of
Day. Cl.

SERENISSIMAE REGINAE LIBRUM SUUM

Hunc quoque materna, nimium nisi magna rogamus,
Aut aviae saltem sume, Maria, manu.
Est Musa de matre recens rubicundulus infans,
Cui pater est partus—quis putet?—ille tuus.
Usque adeo impatiens amor est in virgine Musa:
Jam nunc ex illo non negat esse parens.
De nato quot habes olim sperare nepotes,
Qui simul et pater est, et facit esse patrem!

Deign, Queen, to this, unless we ask too much,
A mother's, or at least grandmother's, touch.
It is the Muse's rosy infant fine;
Its father—who would think?—this Child of thine.
So unrestrain'd the love of virgin Muse,
To be a mother thus she can't refuse.
From him what grandsons round thee soon will gather,
Who at once father is, and makes a father! R. Wi.

PRINCIPI RECENS NATAE

Cresce, ô dulcibus imputanda divis;
O cresce, et propera, puella princeps,
In matris propera venire partes.
Et cum par breve fulminum minorum,
Illinc Carolus, et Jacobus inde,
In patris faciles subire famam,
Ducent fata furoribus decoris;
Cum terror sacer Anglicique magnum
Murmur nominis increpabit omnem
Late Bosporon Ottomanicasque
Non picto quatiet tremore Lunas;
Te tunc altera nec timenda paci
Poscent praelia; tu potens pudici
Vibratrix oculi, pios in hostes
Late dulcia fata dissipabis.
O eum flos tener ille, qui recenti
Pressus sidere jam sub ora ludit,
Olim fortior omne cuspidatos
Evolvet latus aureum per ignes;
Quique imbellis adhuc, adultus olim,
Puris expatiabitur genarum
Campis imperiosior Cupido;
O quam certa superbiore penna
Ibunt spicula melleaeque mortes,
Exultantibus hinc et inde turmis,
Quoquo jusseris, impigre volabunt!
O quot corda calentium deorum
De te vulnera delicata discent!
O quot pectora principum magistris
Fient molle negotium sagittis!
Nam quae non poteris per arma ferri,
Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidus
Magnorum patet officina amorum?
Hinc sumas licet, ô puella princeps,
Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra.
Centum sume Cupidines ab uno
Matris lumine Gratiasque centum
Et centum Veneres: adhuc manebunt
Centum mille Cupidines; manebunt
Tercentum Veneresque Gratiaeque
Puro fonte superstites per aevum.

Grow, maiden Princess, and increase,
Thou who with the sweet goddesses
Thy place shalt have; O haste to be
Thy mother's own epitome;
And when that pair of minor flames,
Thy princely brothers Charles and James,
Apt in the footsteps of their sire,
Lead on the Fates in glorious ire;
When o'er the Bosphorus shall creep
A thrill of dread, as rolls full deep
The murmur of the British name,
And with no feign'd alarm shall shame
The Turkish Crescent—other wars,
And such as bring sweet Peace no tears
Shall call thee forth; and from on high
The flashing of thy modest eye
Shall scatter o'er adoring foes
Thick volleys of delicious woes.
O, when that tender bloom which now
Plays, lately born, beneath thy brow,
In time to come with mightier blaze
Shall dart around its pointed rays;
When he, the Cupid now so mild,
No longer but a harmless child,
Shall range in youth's imperious pride
Thy cheeks' fair pastures far and wide,—
O then with what unerring skill,
Borne on proud wings, thy shafts shall kill,
While, where thou bid'st, the honey'd blow
Falls ceaseless midst the exulting foe!
How many god-like breasts shall learn
From thee with Love's rich wounds to burn!
How often shall thy mastering darts
Work their sweet will on princely hearts!
For what may she not do in war,
Whose mother's breast—with each bright star
That rul'd her birth—to her but proves
A storehouse of all-conquering loves?
Hence for thy quiver, Princess Maid,
Take what thou wilt, nor be afraid.
A hundred Cupids be thy prize,
From one of thy bright mother's eyes;
A hundred graces add to these,
And then a hundred Venuses:
A hundred-thousand Cupids still
Are hers; three hundred Graces will,
With Venuses in equal store,
Haunt that pure fount for evermore. Cl.

IN NATALES MARIAE PRINCIPIS.[126]

Parce tuo jam, bruma ferox, ô parce furori,
Pone animos; ô pacatae da spiritus aurae,
Afflatu leniore gravem demulceat annum.
Res certe et tempus meruit. Licet improbus Auster
Saeviat, et rabido multum se murmure volvat;
Imbriferis licet impatiens Notus ardeat alis;
Hic tamen, hic certe, modo tu non, saeva, negares,
Nec Notus impatiens jam, nec foret improbus Auster.
Scilicet hoc decuit? dum nos tam lucida rerum
Attollit series, adeo commune serenum
Laetitiae vernisque animis micat alta voluptas;
Jam torvas acies, jam squallida bella per auras
Volvere, et hibernis annum corrumpere nimbis?
Ah melius, quin luce novae reparata juventae
Ipsa hodie vernaret hiems, pulchroque tumultu
Purpureas properaret opes, effunderet omnes
Laeta sinus, nitidumque diem fragrantibus horis
Aeternum migrare velit, florumque beata
Luxurie, tanta ô circum cunabula surgat,
Excipiatque novos et molliter ambiat artus.
Quippe venit, sacris iterum vagitibus ingens
Aula sonat, venit en roseo decus addita fratri
Blanda soror. Tibi se brevibus, tibi porrigit ulnis,
Magne puer, facili tibi torquet hiantia risu
Ora; tibi molles lacrymas et nobile murmur
Temperat, inque tuo ponit se pendula collo.
Tale decus juncto veluti sub stemmate cum quis
Dat sociis lucere rosis sua lilia. Talis
Fulget honos medio cum se duo sidera mundo
Dulcibus intexunt radiis: nec dignior olim
Flagrabat nitidae felix consortio formae,
Tunc cum sidereos inter pulcherrima fratres
Erubuit primum, et Laedaeo cortice rupto
Tyndarida explicuit tenerae nova gaudia frontis.
Sic socium ô miscete jubar, tu candide frater,
Tuque serena soror. Sic ô date gaudia patri,
Sic matri cumque ille olim subeuntibus annis,
Ire inter proprios magna cervice triumphos.
Egregius volet, atque sua se discere dextra;
Te quoque tum pleno mulcebit sidere, et alto
Flore tui dulcesque oculos maturior ignis
Indole divina, et radiis intinget honoris.
Tunc ô te quoties, nisi quod tu pulchrior illa,
Esse suam Phoeben fulsus jurabit Apollo;
Tunc ô te quoties, nisi quod tu castior illa,
Esse suam Venerem Mavors jurabit inanis.
Felix, ah, et cui se non Mars, non aureus ipse
Credet Apollo parem; tanta cui conjuge celsus
In pulchros properare sinus, et carpere sacras
Delicias oculosque tuos, tua basia solus
Tum poterit dixisse sua; et se nectare tanto
Dum probat esse Deum, superas contemnere mensas.

Forbear thy fury, Winter fierce, forbear;
Lay down thy wrath, and let the tranquil air
With inspiration mild soothe the stern year:
This time deserves it, and occasion dear.
The wild North-wind may rage and wildly bluster;
The gusty South its rainy clouds may muster;
Yet here at least, if thou but will it so,
Neither wild North nor gusty South will blow.
For were it seemly, when events so bright
Exalt us, and the universal light
Of joy and vernal pleasure thrills the soul,
Grim lines of battling tempest-clouds should roll
Through all the air, and drown the year with rain?
Better old Winter should bright youth regain,
And turn at once to Spring; with tumult sweet
Hasten his purple stores, and joyful greet
With all his outpour'd heart this shining Day,
And bid its fragrant hours for ever stay;
Making a radiant wealth of flowers abound
Where in her cradle that sweet Child is found,
Her tender limbs caress and softly compass round.
She comes! Once more are heard those blessèd cries
Within the palace. See a glory rise—
A star-like glory added to the other,
A charming sister to a rosy brother!
To this she stretches out her tiny arms,
Fair Boy—for thee displays the winsome charms
Of her sweet smiles, and checks her gentle tears,
And coos and prattles to delight thine ears,
Or fondly hangs upon thy neck. Such grace
Pleases the eye, when, their stalks joined, you place
Lilies with roses to combine their splendour.
And then appears such lustrous glory tender,
When in the midst of heaven, at dewy eve,
Two stars their gentle radiance interweave.
Nor loftier grace that beauteous union show'd
When from her egg the fairest Helen glow'd
Betwixt her starry brothers, and display'd
Her tender brow with new delights array'd.
So mix your common beam, thou brother fair
And sister mild. Such joys your father share
And mother dear! And when, as seasons roll,
He moves with head erect and princely soul
Amid his proper triumphs, and shall learn
Himself by his own deeds, thou shalt discern
A riper flame within thee, heavenly dower,
And star full-orb'd shalt shine, and full-grown flower;
While a soft beauty bathes thy lustrous eyes,
And rays of majesty the world surprise.
Then O how oft, but that thou art more fair,
Will some imaginary Phœbus swear
That thou art his own Phœbe! or again
But that thou art more chaste, some Mars in vain
Will swear thou art his Venus, love's soft strain!
Ah, happy he, to whom nor Mars will dream
Nor golden Phœbus he can equal seem,
Who with a wife so sweet, so fair is blest,
And all the fond affection of thy breast,
And tender, pure endearments; who alone
Can call thy eyes and kisses all his own;
And while he quaffs such nectar'd wine of love,
Feels like a god, and scorns the feasts above. R. Wi.

AD REGINAM.[127]

Et vero jam tempus erat tibi, maxima mater,
Dulcibus his oculis accelerare diem:
Tempus erat, ne qua tibi basia blanda vacarent;
Sarcina ne collo sit minus apta tuo.
Scilicet ille tuus, timor et spes ille suorum,5
Quo primum es felix pignore facta parens,
Ille ferox iras jam nunc meditatur et enses,
Jam patris magis est, jam magis ille suus.
Indolis ô stimulos; vix dum illi transiit infans,
Jamque sibi impatiens arripit ille virum.10
Improbus ille suis adeo negat ire sub annis:
Jam nondum puer est, major et est puero.
Si quis in aulaeis pictas animatus in iras
Stat leo, quem docta cuspide lusit acus,
Hostis, io, est; neque enim ille alium dignabitur hostem;15
Nempe decet tantas non minor ira manus.
Tunc hasta gravis adversum furit; hasta bacillum est;
Mox falsum vero vulnere pectus hiat.
Stat leo, ceu stupeat tali bene fixus ab hoste,
Ceu quid in his oculis vel timeat vel amet,20
Tam torvum, tam dulce micant: nescire fatetur
Mars ne sub his oculis esset, an esset amor.
Quippe illic Mars est, sed qui bene possit amari;
Est et amor certe, sed metuendus amor:
Talis amor, talis Mars est ibi cernere; qualis25
Seu puer hic esset, sive vir ille Deus.
Hic tibi jam scitus succedit in oscula fratris;
Res, ecce, in lusus non operosa tuos.
Basia jam veniant tua quantacunque caterva;
Jam quocunque tuus murmure ludat amor.30
En, tibi materies tenera et tractabilis hic est;
Hic ad blanditias est tibi cera satis.
Salve infans, tot basiolis, molle argumentum,
Maternis labiis dulce negotiolum;
O salve; nam te nato, puer auree, natus35
Et Carolo et Mariae tertius est oculus.

'Twas now the time for thee, Mother most great,
With these sweet eyes the day to accelerate;
Time thy soft kisses should not idle be,
Or from fit burden thy fair neck be free.
For he, his parents' fear and hope confest,
With whom thou first wast made a mother blest,
He wraths and swords designs, courageous grown;
Now more his father's is, and more his own.
O spurs of nature! yet an infant, see
He catches at the man impatiently,
The rogue declines to keep in his own years;
Not yet a child, he more than child appears.
If on the tapestry, with feign'd anger fraught,
A lion stands, by skilful needle wrought,
A foe behold; such foe to fight he deigns;
A lesser wrath his mighty hand disdains.
Fierce spear he brandishes; a wand his spear:
Soon in false breast behold true wound appear.
The lion stands, maz'd by such enemy,
Fearing or loving something in his eye,
So sternly, sweetly bright; nor can he tell
Whether beneath that eye Mars or Love dwell.
In sooth, a Mars who may be lov'd is here;
And Love indeed, but Love deserving fear.
Such Love, such Mars, 'tis easy here to scan;
This god or that, as he is boy or man.
Thy babe now comes to take the endearing place,
A creature not beyond thy fond embrace.
Now let thy troops of kisses have their way,
Now let thy love with brooding murmur play;
Here is material tractable and tender,
Which waxen surface to soft touch shall render.
Hail, infant! gentle subject for caresses,
Employment sweet a mother's lips which blesses;
O hail; for with thy birth, thou golden boy,
Lo, to thy parents a third eye brings joy! R. Wi.

VOTIVA DOMUS PETRENSIS

Ut magis in mundi votis aviumque querelis
Jam veniens solet esse dies, ubi cuspide prima
Palpitat, et roseo lux praevia ludit ab ortu;
Cum nec abest Phoebus, nec Eois laetus habenis
Totus adest, volucrumque procul vaga murmura mulcet:5
Nos ita; quos nuper radiis afflavit honestis
Relligiosa dies; nostrique per atria coeli—
Sacra domus nostrum est coelum—jam luce tenella
Libat adhuc trepidae fax nondum firma diei:
Nos ita jam exercet nimii impatientia voti,10
Speque sui propiore premit.
Quis pectora tanti
Tendit amor coepti, desiderio quam longo
Lentae spes inhiant, domus o dulcissima rerum,
Plena Deo domus! Ah, quis erit, quis, dicimus, ille—15
O bonus, ô ingens meritis, ô proximus ipsi,
Quem vocat in sua dona, Deo—quo vindice totas
Excutiant tenebras haec sancta crepuscula?
Quando,
Quando erit, ut tremulae flos heu tener ille diei,20
Qui velut ex oriente suo jam altaria circum
Lambit, et ambiguo nobis procul anuit astro,
Plenis se pandat foliis, et lampade tota
Laetus, ut e medio cum sol micat aureus axe,
Attonitam penetrare domum bene possit adulto25
Sidere, nec dubio pia moenia mulceat ore?
Quando erit, ut convexa suo quoque pulchra sereno
Florescant, roseoque tremant laquearia risu?
Quae nimium informis tanquam sibi conscia frontis
Perpetuis jam se lustrant lacrymantia guttis?30
Quando erit, ut claris meliori luce fenestris
Plurima per vitreos vivat pia pagina vultus?
Quando erit, ut sacrum nobis celebrantibus hymnum
Organicos facili et nunquam fallente susurro
Nobile murmur agat nervos; pulmonis iniqui35
Fistula nec monitus faciat malefida sinistros?
Denique, quicquid id est quod res hic sacra requirit,
Fausta illa et felix—sitque ô tua—dextra, suam cui
Debeat haec Aurora diem. Tibi supplicat ipsa,
Ipsa tibi facit ara preces. Tu jam illius audi,40
Audiet illa tuas. Dubium est, modo porrige dextram,
Des magis, an capias: audi tantum esse beatus,
Et damnum hoc lucrare tibi.
Scis ipse volucres
Quae rota volvat opes; has ergo, hic fige perennis45
Fundamenta Domus Petrensi in rupe, suamque
Fortunae sic deme rotam. Scis ipse procaces
Divitias quam prona vagos vehat ala per Euros;
Divitiis illas, age, deme volucribus alas,
Facque suus nostras illis sit nidus ad aras:50
Remigii ut tandem pennas melioris adeptae,
Se rapiant, dominumque suum super aethera secum.
Felix ô qui sic potuit bene providus uti
Fortunae pennis et opum levitate suarum,
Divitiisque suis aquilae sic addidit alas.55

As bids the Day a keener longing stir
The waking world, and warblings cheerier
To birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills,
As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrills
Through lattic'd sky from roseate East the light
Presaging his approach; nor absent quite,
Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the Sun
Is present all; and birds, to music won
By gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,—
So we, on whom with radiance severe
A solemn day begins to dawn; whose eye
Now sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie,
With portals wide—God's house is heaven, we say—
The flame unsteady of still wavering Day
Slenderly stealing in; the prospect nigher,
Our hearts too labour with extreme desire,
And throb with hopes impatient of their end.
How love of such a work our heart doth rend!
How long desire makes hopes in leash restrain'd
To pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'd
The torrent of God's fulness. Ah, who is he,
Ah, who—O good, O huge in charity,
O nigh to God Himself,—Whom to descend
On His own gracious gifts he prays—shall lend
This sacred twilight power to drive away
All gloom, and shake her raiment into day?
Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloom
Of glimmering Day, that as from bridal room
In the Orient cam'st to kiss our altar-stone,
And beckonest to us from a star alone,
In yonder distance shining doubtfully,—
Ah, when wilt thou expand to Day, and, free
In conscious joy of thy full splendour, pour
A flood of light, as when the Sun doth soar
In golden mid-day, and, to full age grown,
Shine through and through the pile, and make it own
With awe thy sway, nor let the sacred walls
Doubt thy embrace?
Blest he to whom befalls
To see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky,
And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lie
Trembling with rosy laughter; which do now,
As wearing of their shame a conscious brow,
Bedew their formless face with dropping tear.
When shall it be? the window growing clear
With better light, that many a page devout
May live, and life from glassy face breathe out.
Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate,
Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrate
The organ's nerves with graceful ceaseless hum;
Nor pipe of lung unjust intruding come,
Each harsh, uncertain note for ever dumb?
Whatever else, in fine, this Sanctuary
May need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be,
And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall owe
Its day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thou
List to her prayer, and she will thine allow;
Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful live
Whether thou dost not more receive than give;
That thou art happy do thou only hear,
And turn thy loss to gain in yonder sphere.
Thou know'st what wheel makes riches fly away;
These riches therefore here securely lay,
Fountains of a House perennial,
On the Petrensian rock; from Fortune shall
Her own wheel thus be wrench'd. Thou knowest how prone
A wing bears up unconstant riches, blown
On vagrant, veering winds. Come, take away
These wings from fleeting riches, make them stay
At these our altars, and build here their nest;
Till arm'd with wings to better flight redress'd,
They may transport themselves to the home of rest,
Bearing their master with them.
Blest that man
Who knowing prudently the times to scan,
The airiness of wealth to profit brings,
And him on Fortune's pinions deftly flings,
And to his riches adds an eagle's wings. S.S.

IN CAETERORUM OPERUM

O felix nimis illa, et nostrae nobile nomen
Invidiae volucris, facili quae funere surgens
Mater odora sui, nitidae nova fila juventae,
Et festinatos peragit sibi fata per ignes.
Illa, haud natales tot tardis mensibus horas5
Tam miseris tenuata moris, saltu velut uno
In nova secla rapit sese, et caput omne decoras
Explicat in frondes, roseoque repullulat ortu.
Cinnameos simul illa rogos conscenderit, omnem
Laeta bibit Phoebum, et jam jam victricibus alis10
Plaudit humum cineresque suos.
Heu, dispare fato
Nos ferimur; seniorque suo sub Apolline phoenix
Petrensis mater, dubias librata per auras
Pendet adhuc, quaeritque sinum in quo ponat inertes15
Exuvias, spoliisque suae reparata senectae
Ore pari surgat, similique per omnia vultu.
At nunc heu nixu secli melioris in ipso
Deliquium patitur!
At nunc heu lentae longo in molimine vitae20
Interea moritur! Dubio stant moenia vultu
Parte sui pulchra, et fratres in foedera muros
Invitant frustra, nec respondentia saxis
Saxa suis; moerent opera intermissa, manusque
Implorant.25
Succurre piae, succurre parenti,
O quisquis pius es. Illi succurre parenti,
Quam sibi tot sanctae matres habuere parentem.
Quisquis es, ô tibi, crede, tibi tot hiantia ruptis
Moenibus ora loqui. Matrem tibi, crede verendam30
Muros tam longo laceros senioque situque
Ceu canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti.
Per tibi plena olim, per jam sibi sicca precatur
Ubera, ne desis senio. Sic longa juventus
Te foveat, querulae nunquam cessura senectae.35

O bird too fortunate, whose glorious name
Fills us with envy of her happy fame,
Which by an easy death on soaring wing,
Sweet mother of herself, doth upwards spring,
Assumes afresh her shining youth's attire,
And wins new lease of life through hasten'd fire!
She—not through slow-revolving natal days
To a thin shadow worn by sad delays—
Transports herself into another round
Of centuries, as by a single bound;
With beauteous leaves her head she covers o'er,
And with a rosy birth shoots forth once more.
Soon as she climbs the spicy funeral pyre
Joyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher,
Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike,
And her own ashes.
But, alas, we follow
No such example. 'Neath her own Apollo,
Our Mother Peterhouse, now ancient grown,
Our agèd Phœnix, hither, thither blown,
And balancing herself on doubtful air,
Hovers with wing uncertain, seeking where
Her relics she may lay, worn out with toils,
As in a nest, and from the very spoils
Of her own age renew'd, she may arise
In perfect comeliness of face and eyes,
As in the days of old, to mount the skies.
But now, alas, e'en in the very throes
Of her reviving age our Phœnix knows
And keenly feels a sad deficiency.
Alas, in life's long lingering effort she
Now in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face,
Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace;
But elsewhere, heedless of inviting calls
To union, stand the unfinish'd brother walls.
On unresponsive ears the summons falls;
As stones to fellow-stones appealing turn,
The interrupted works together mourn,
And beg a helping hand. O, succour bring,
Whoe'er is pious, to the parent wing
Which shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade,
And gave so many mother churches [130] aid
Parental; O, be now thy help display'd.
Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to thee
With gaping mouths are speaking audibly.
Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engage
To view thy walls, dismantled long with age
And base neglect, and ponder her gray hair.
By the full breasts which once she offer'd thee,
By the dry breasts which she is doom'd to see
Now for herself, she cries imploringly:
'My age to help, O fail not to appear;
So may long-lasting youth thy bosom cheer,
Youth which complaining age shall never fear.' R. Wi.

O Phœnix, all-too-happy bird,
Who enviless thy fame has heard?
Thou, thine own mother, from the pyre—
Spices mix'd with flickering fire—
Sweetly didst thy breath suspire;
Then rose again, and thy age gone
In a swift resurrection—
Gone! by wondrous mystic skill
Wearing a richer plumage still,
Youth renew'd from feet to bill,—
Thou didst not linger in thine age,
Nor a slow weary struggle wage,
With changing cures and long delay
Searching for life in every way.
No; but a quick fate self-choosing,
All hindering self-ruth refusing,
Thou didst raise thy funeral pyre,
Thou didst hovering i' the fire,
From amidst the perfum'd flame
Spring up, immortal as thy fame.
Thou didst lift thy comely head,
Ev'ry moulting feather shed;
Thou didst raise thy radiant breast
Blazing to the blazing West.
O Phœnix, thou'rt an awful bird;
Who enviless thy fame has heard?
Climbing to thy funeral pyre,
Climbing self-martyr'd to the fire,
Sweetly there to bear thine ire;
Fetching down from the great sun
To pilèd nest of cinnamon
Rays intense; then upward winging,
Sudden from thine ashes springing;
Victorious by this quaint mewing,
Life strangely out of death renewing;
Now i' the red fire consuming,
Next at the sun thine eyes reluming.
Alas, how different is the fate
In this our later age, ingrate,
Of her, my mother-college, lying
All desolate and slowly dying;
Lifting but a feeble wing,
Though once, as Phœnix of the fire,
Springing immortal from its pyre;
When Apollo and the Graces
Reign'd where Ruin now defaces,
Gave her, when she shone in splendour,
Orator, sage, and poet tender;
Gave her sons, noble and good,
Better than the bluest blood:
O how chang'd, since those days olden
Such as in the ages golden,
I behold her, smitten, lorn,
And by every Fury torn,
Hanging in uncertain strife
As it were 'twixt death and life;
Doubting whether e'en she shall
Have so much as funeral;
Her corpse laid in some quiet bay,
Where the sea-waves softly play;
Willing they should take her bones—
Her time-stain'd, rent, and shatter'd stones;
If only thus but once again
Rebuilded, she might yet attain
To something of her old renown
By such resurrection,
And, phœnix-like, herself out-do
In her best days when she was new.
O ye sons, your mother own
In her desolation;
Own her, though in aging years
She shows few and thin gray hairs,
Where once,—ah—in brave times of old—
Flash'd her proud locks with sheen of gold.
Ah, Peter nam'd, thou art denied,
Thus is thy name verified.
'Tis a spectacle for tears;
'Tis a spectacle for fears;
'Tis a spectacle for wonder;
'Tis a crime deserves the thunder,
That from base to gold-touch'd ceiling
Day by day her halls are reeling;
Mullion'd window torn and rent,
And destruction imminent;
Everywhere such gaping wounds
As a stranger e'en astounds;
And what was in faith begun
Left in desolation;
Stone to stone in mute appealing,
Cold neglect and scorn revealing,
And the font of tears unsealing.
Sons of my Mother-College lying
All in ruins and slow dying,
If ye have aught of piety
Or least touch of charity,
Look on these broken walls, and see
Your mother in her misery;
Holding up, in vain appealing,
Wither'd hands, her woes revealing;
And in the rank growths tangled there
See her dishonourèd gray hair.
Woe is me, her genial breast,
Which so many sons has blest,
Each all welcoming that came,
Drawn by her renownèd name,
Wither'd, shrunk, can quench no thirst,
Ah, my heart with grief will burst.
To my dim eye there rises clear
The full tide that once roll'd here;
Now shingle, sand, and fest'ring mud
Tell of the far-refluent flood.
O, pity her, ye sons, and vow
Once more to crown your mother's brow;
Once more to rear her crumbling walls;
Once more to gather in her halls
The young, the brave, the true, the good,
The wise, the noble; and the Rood
Over all shall bless and keep;
So in old age ye shall not weep,
Nor ever shall your fair fame sleep. G.

SERENISSIMAE REGINAE LIBRUM SUUM

PRINCIPI RECENS NATAE

IN NATALES MARIAE PRINCIPIS.[126]

AD REGINAM.[127]

VOTIVA DOMUS PETRENSIS

IN CAETERORUM OPERUM

VENERABILI VIRO MAGISTRO TOURNAY,