Latin Poems.

(1634-1670.)

The earliest appearance ofCrashawas a poet was in the University Collections of Latin Verse on the (then) usual conventional occasions of royal births and deaths, and the like. These pieces will be found in their places in the present volume. The place of honour herein we assign to his own published volume of 1634, of which the following is the title-page, within a neat woodcut border:EPIGRAM-MATUMSACRORUMLIBER.University Printer's ornament,with legend, 'Hinc. Lvcem. Et.Pocula. Sacra.' and 'Alma Mater.'Cantabrigiæ,Ex Academiæ celeberrimætypographeo. 1634.This is a small duodecimo. Collation: Title-page—Epistle-dedicatory toLany, with the poems, 'Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis,' &c.—Venerabili viro Magistro Tournay, Tutori suo summe observando—Ornatissimo viro Præceptori suo colendissimo, Magistro Brook—Lectori (verse and prose), seven leaves: Epigrammata Sacra, pp. 79.

University Printer's ornament,with legend, 'Hinc. Lvcem. Et.Pocula. Sacra.' and 'Alma Mater.'

Cantabrigiæ,Ex Academiæ celeberrimætypographeo. 1634.

This is a small duodecimo. Collation: Title-page—Epistle-dedicatory toLany, with the poems, 'Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis,' &c.—Venerabili viro Magistro Tournay, Tutori suo summe observando—Ornatissimo viro Præceptori suo colendissimo, Magistro Brook—Lectori (verse and prose), seven leaves: Epigrammata Sacra, pp. 79.

A second edition of this volume appeared in 1670. Its title-page is as follows:

Quæ scripsit Latina & Græca,DumAulæ Pemb.Alumnus fuit,EtCollegiiPetrensisSocius.

Editio Secunda, Auctior & emendatior.

Εἵνεκεν εὐμαθίης πινυτόφρονος, ἥν ὁ ΜελιχρὸςἬσκησεν, Μουσῶν ἄμμιγα καὶ Χαρίτων. Ἀνθολ.[Printer's ornament, as before.]

Cantabrigiæ,Ex OfficinaJoan. Hayes, Celeberrimæ AcademiæTypographi. 1670.

This is an 8vo. Collation: Title-page—and to Brook, as before; then these additional Latin poems: In Picturam Reverendissimi Episcopi D. Andrews—Votiva Domûs Petrensis pro Domo Dei—In cæterorum Operum difficili Parturitione Gemitus—Epitaphium in Gulielmum Herrisium—In Eundem—Natalis Principis Mariæ—In Serenissimæ Reginæ partum hyemalem—Natalis Ducis Eboracensis—In faciem Augustiss. Regis a morbillis integram—Ad Carolum Primum, Rex Redux—Ad Principem nondum natum, Reginâ gravidâ. Bastard-title,'Epigrammata Sacra, quæ scripsit Græca et Latina'—Lectori (as before), nine leaves: Epigrammata Sacra, pp. 67.

The additions to the second edition—besides the Latin poems enumerated—were in the Epigrams these: No. 1, Pharisaeus et Publicanus, Greek version—No. 11, Obolum Viduæ, ib.—No. 53, Ecce locus ubi jacuit Dominus, ib.—No. 120, In descensum Spiritûs sancti, ib.—No. 124, In S. Columbam ad Christi caput sedentem, ib.—No. 141, Ad D. Lucam medicum, ib.—No. 148, In stabulum ubi natus est Dominus, ib.—No. 161, Hic lapis fiat panis, ib.—No. 177, In die Ascensionis Dominicæ, ib.—No. 178, Cæcus implorat Christum, Latin and Greek—No. 179, Quis ex vobis, &c. ib.—No. 180, Herodi D. Jacobum obtruncati, ib.—No. 181, Cæci receptis, &c. ib.—and No. 182, Zaccheus in sycomoro.

A third edition was issued in 1674. It is identical with that of 1670, save in the date on title-page, printer's ornament, and this line at bottom: 'Prostant venales apudJoann. Creed.' Probably consisted of 'remainders' of 1670 edition.

As the edition of 1634 was published during the author's residence in the University, and so under his own eye, I have made it the basis of our text, though with a vigilant eye on the later corrections; but have given from the edition of 1670 the Greek versions of certain of the Epigrams, and those added (as above). The Epistle-dedicatory to Lany, and related introductory poems of 1634, alone, I prefix to the Epigrammata Sacra, assigning the other poems more fittingly to the Secular Poems (as annotated in the places). The Editor of the second edition, 'auctior et emendatior,' has not been transmitted. For more on the editions of the Epigrammata Sacra, see our Essay and Notes and Illustrations. As explained in our Prefatory Note, the translations of the Latin Poemata et Epigrammata, as of the others, follow the originals successively. A. denotes the translator to beThomas Ashe, M.A., Ipswich; B.,Clement Barksdale(from 'Epigrammata Sacra selecta, cum Anglicâ Versione. Sacred Epigrams Englished. London: Printed for John Barksdale, Bookseller in Cirencester. 1682.' 12mo);Cl., Rev.J.H. Clark, M.A., West Dereham, Norfolk;Cr.,Crashawhimself; G., myself; W., Rev.W. Aris Willmott(from his 'Lives of the Sacred Poets,' s.n. Crashaw); andR. Wi., Rev.Richard Wilton, M.A., Londesborough Rectory, Market Weighton. In the present and succeeding division thoseEpigrams translated by Crashaw himself are given under the related Latin—all from the original text of 1646, as before. They consist of Nos. 1, 2, 8, 9, 11, 14, 15, 20, 21, 26, 29, 36, 40, 42, 43, 47, 49, 51, 54 (two), 56, 57, 63, 64, 68, 85, 91, 93, 101, 104, 106, 108, 115, 117, 140, 157, 160, 164, 169, 184, and 185 in the present, and of Nos. 21, 22, 28, 42, 46, and 55 in next section.

It only remains that I add here, instead of noticing in their places, the following more flagrant errors of Turnbull in the 'Epigrammata' and related 'Poemata Latina et Græca.' Similar lists will be found in the introductory notes to the several divisions of this volume.

In the Epistle to Lany, line 18, avidiforavide; line 29, amoreforamare; in the Ode, st. ii. line 1, ipsiforipse. In the address 'Lectori,' line 7, abiforalis; line 29, putreforputri; line 48, mensformeus; line 53, fingitforfinget; line 70, gravesforgravis; line 97, tota dropped out; line 120, negatforneget; in succeeding prose, line 29, Acygmanosforacygnianos.

The misprints in the Epigrammata are so numerous, that it is deemed expedient to tabulate them according to our numbering. On the errors in the Greek, see our Preface to the present Volume.

No.1,line 4, illeforhic.2,heading, Victoremforvectorem.3,l. 1, orifororis.6,l. 2, meæformea.7,l. 4, tantofortanti.8,l. 1, vulnereforvulnera.10,l. 1, tumidusfortimidus.12,heading, Luc. x. 30forx. 39; and so often.19,l. 4, decasfordecus.30,l. 3, Te neforTene.31,heading, credebuntforcredebant.44,l. 1, tumerefortenuere.45,l. 2, malaformale.48,l. 1, ChristeforChristi.60,l. 4, fecereforfuere.65,l. 7, adnixusforad nixus.67,l. 1, Infantesforinfantis.69,heading, mediturformedetur.78,l. 2, patiforpeti.101,l. 4, aquaforaquas.108,l. 8, oculosforoculus.111,l. 3, natalisfornatales.114,l. 2, utereforuteri.115,l. 4, queasforqueat.120,heading, DominiforDominicam."l. 6, PhœbeforPhœbo.122,heading, traduitfortraderet.123,l. 2, nescisfornescio.125,l. 1, voluerisforvolucris.126,heading, DiviforDivo.132,heading, ChristoforChristi.135,heading left out.140,l. 2, illaforille.149,l. 2, quaeforqua.153,l. 3, colubresforcolubros.155,heading, DominiforDominicæ.158,l. 3, parforper.161,l. 8, fierisforfieres."l. 12, solisforsolio.164,l. 1, DaemoneforDæmona.169,heading, lavanteforlavanti."l. 2, virgineaforvirgineæ.170,l. 5, deciesfordenis.172,l. 1, vidisforvides.176,l. 16, dominumfordominam."l. 73, istaforiste.177,l. 20, metufornutu.182,l. 2, fideforfida.

The whole of these, with others belonging to Crashaw himself and his first editors, are carefully corrected in our edition. G.

Decoration N

Suus est et florum fructus; quibus fruimur, si non utilius, delicatius certe. Neque etiam rarum est quod ad spem Veris, de se per flores suos quasi pollicentis, adultioris anni, ipsiusque adeo Autumni exigamus fidem. Ignoscas igitur, vir colendissime, properanti sub ora Apollinis sui, primaeque adolescentiae lascivia exultanti Musae. Tenerae aetatis flores adfert, non fructus serae: quos quidem exigere ad seram illam et sobriam maturitatem, quam in fructibus expectamus merito, durum fuerit; forsan et ipsa hac praecoci importunitate sua placituros magis: tibi praesertim quem paternus animus, quod fieri solet, intentum tenet omni suae spei diluculo, quo tibi de tuorum indole promittas aliquid. Ex more etiam eorum, qui in praemium laboris sui pretiumquepatientiae festini, ex iis quae severunt ipsi et excoluerunt, quicquid est flosculi prominulum, prima quasi verecundia auras et apertum Jovem experientis arripiunt avide, saporemque illi non tam ex ipsius indole et ingenio quam ex animi sui affectu, foventis in eo curas suas et spes, affingunt. Patere igitur, reverende custos, hanc tibi ex istiusmodi floribus corollam necti; convivalem vero: nec aliter passuram sidus illud oris tui auspicatissimum, nisi, qua est etiam amoenitate, remissiore radio cum se reclinat, et in tantum de se demit. Neque sane hoc scriptionis genere, modo partes suas satis praestiterit, quid esse potuit otio theologico accommodatius, quo nimirum res ipsa theologica poetica amoenitate delinita majestatem suam venustate commendat. Hoc demum quicquid est, amare tamen poteris, et voles, scio: non ut magnum quid, non ut egregium, non ut te dignum denique, sed ut tuum: tuum summo jure, utpote quod e tua gleba, per tuum radium, in manum denique tuam evocatum fuerit. Quod restat hujus libelli fatis, exorandus es igitur, vir spectatissime, ut quem sinu tum facili privatum excepisti, eum jam ore magis publico alloquentem te non asperneris. Stes illi in limine, non auspicium modo suum, sed et argumentum. Enimvero Epigramma sacrum tuus ille vultus vel est, vel quid sit docet; ubi nimirum amabili diluitur severum, et sanctum suavi demulcetur. Pronum me vides in negatam mihi provinciam; laudum tuarum, intelligo: quas mihi cum modestia tua abstulerit, reliquummihi est necessario ut sim brevis; imo vero longus nimium; utpote cui argumentum istud abscissum fuerit, in quo unice poteram, et sine taedio, prolixus esse. Vale, virorum ornatissime, neque dedigneris quod colere audeam Genii tui serenitatem supplex tam tenuis, et, quoniam numen quoque hoc de se non negat, amare etiam. Interim vero da veniam Musae in tantum sibi non temperanti; quin in hanc saltem laudis tuae partem, quae tibi ex rebus sacris apud nos ornatis meritissima est, istiusmodi carmine involare ausa sit, qualicunque:

Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis,Per quem erudito exhalat in otio;Seu frigus udi captet antri,Sive Jovem nitidosque soles.Non ipse custos pulchrior inviasEgit sub umbras Aemonios greges;Non ipse Apollo notus illisLege suae meliore cannae.Tu, si sereno des oculo frui,Sunt rura nobis, sunt juga, sunt aquae,Sunt plectra dulcium sororum(Non alio mihi nota Phoebo).Te dante, castos composuit sinus;Te dante, mores sumpsit; et in suoVidenda vultu, pulveremqueRelligio cineremque nescit.Stat cincta digna fronde decens caput:Suosque per te fassa palam Deos,Comisque, Diva, vestibusqueIngenium dedit ordinemque.Jamque ecce nobis amplior es modoMajorque cerni. Quale jubar tremitSub os! verecundusque quantaMole sui Genius laborat!Jam qui serenas it tibi per genas,Majore coelo sidus habet suum;Majorque circum cuspidataeOra comis tua flos diei.Stat causa. Nempe hanc ipse Deus, Deus,Hanc ara, per te pulchra, diem tibiTuam refundit, obvioqueIt radio tibi se colenti.Ecce, ecce! sacro in limine, dum pioMultumque prono poplite amas humum,Altaria annuunt ab alto;Et refluis tibi plaudit alisPulchro incalescens officio, puerQuicunque crispo sidere crinium,Vultuque non fatente terram,Currit ibi roseus satelles.Et jure. Nam cum fana tot inviisMoerent ruinis, ipsaque, ceu precesManusque non decora supplexTendat, opem rogat, heu negatam!Tibi ipsa voti est ora sui rea.Et solvet. O quam semper apud DeumLitabis illum, cujus araeIpse preces prius audiisti!

Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis,Per quem erudito exhalat in otio;Seu frigus udi captet antri,Sive Jovem nitidosque soles.

Non ipse custos pulchrior inviasEgit sub umbras Aemonios greges;Non ipse Apollo notus illisLege suae meliore cannae.

Tu, si sereno des oculo frui,Sunt rura nobis, sunt juga, sunt aquae,Sunt plectra dulcium sororum(Non alio mihi nota Phoebo).

Te dante, castos composuit sinus;Te dante, mores sumpsit; et in suoVidenda vultu, pulveremqueRelligio cineremque nescit.

Stat cincta digna fronde decens caput:Suosque per te fassa palam Deos,Comisque, Diva, vestibusqueIngenium dedit ordinemque.

Jamque ecce nobis amplior es modoMajorque cerni. Quale jubar tremitSub os! verecundusque quantaMole sui Genius laborat!

Jam qui serenas it tibi per genas,Majore coelo sidus habet suum;Majorque circum cuspidataeOra comis tua flos diei.

Stat causa. Nempe hanc ipse Deus, Deus,Hanc ara, per te pulchra, diem tibiTuam refundit, obvioqueIt radio tibi se colenti.

Ecce, ecce! sacro in limine, dum pioMultumque prono poplite amas humum,Altaria annuunt ab alto;Et refluis tibi plaudit alis

Pulchro incalescens officio, puerQuicunque crispo sidere crinium,Vultuque non fatente terram,Currit ibi roseus satelles.

Et jure. Nam cum fana tot inviisMoerent ruinis, ipsaque, ceu precesManusque non decora supplexTendat, opem rogat, heu negatam!

Tibi ipsa voti est ora sui rea.Et solvet. O quam semper apud DeumLitabis illum, cujus araeIpse preces prius audiisti!

[TRANSLATION. Prose G.; verseCl.]

To the very reverend manBenjamin Lany,Doctor of Divinity, most worthy Master of Pembroke College [Cambridge], the least of the least of those that are his, R[ichard] C[rashaw] implores the divine protection.[41]

Even flowers have their own peculiar fruit, which we enjoy, if not so profitably, yet in a manner more refined. Nor is it unusual that, in accordance with the hope of Spring, making promises for herself as it were by her flowers, we demand credit for the maturer year, and even for Autumn itself. Forgive, then, most Reverend Sir, the Muse hastening into the presence of her Apollo, and exulting in the wantonness of earliest youth. She offers the flowers of a tender age, not the fruits of a late one, which flowers indeed itwere unreasonable to demand in accordance with that late and sober maturity which we rightly look for in fruits—flowers which are more likely to be pleasing from the very fact of their precocious importunity,—to thee above all, whom a fatherly mind, as it is wont to happen, holds watching for every dawning of its hope, by which you may give yourself assurance of anything respecting the genius of your sons; after the manner also of those who, in haste for the reward of their labour and the price of their patience, from what they have themselves sown and tended, snatch greedily whatever part may project a little of a floweret, which, as with early bashfulness, is making trial of the airs and the open sky, and attach an odour to it, not so much from its own nature and character as from the inclination of their own mind, which fosters in it their own anxieties and hopes. Suffer then, Reverend Master, this little garland, made of flowers of such a sort, to be bound on thee; a festal one assuredly, and not able to endure that most auspicious star of thy countenance in any other way than—for it is even of such a graciousness—when it draws back with milder ray, and so far subtracts from itself. Nor assuredly than this kind of writing, provided it have sufficiently discharged its proper functions, could anything be more suitable to theological leisure; for in it without doubt the very substance of theology being overlaid with poetic grace, sets off its grandeur by loveliness. Finally, whateverthis may be, you will nevertheless, I know, be able and willing to be lovingly disposed towards it; not as anything great or uncommon; not, in short, as anything worthy of you, but as your own—your own by highest right as having been called forth from your soil, by your light, and, in fine, into your hand. As for what fortune awaits this little book, deign to be persuaded, most worshipful Sir, not to scorn when addressing you now in a more public style him whom you have welcomed in private with so ready an affection. May you stand on its threshold, not only as its good omen but also as its subject! In very truth that countenance of yours is a Sacred Epigram, or teaches what it should be, where forsooth severity is tempered with love, and sanctity is mellowed by sweetness. You see me inclined towards a sphere denied to me—that of sounding your praises, I mean; which since your modesty has taken from me, it remains of necessity that I should be brief: yes indeed, I am too diffuse, seeing that the very subject is cut off from me in which alone I was, and even without irksomeness, able to be prolix. Farewell, most cultured of men, and do not disdain me, so insignificant a suppliant, for daring to honour your tranquil genius, and, since divinity even does not forbid this respecting itself, also to love it. But in the mean while give pardon to the Muse, to such a degree unrestrained as to have dared for this part at least of your praise, which is most due to you on account ofsacred things that have been honoured amongst us, to fly towards you with a strain of such kind as this, whatever it may be:

Kind Guardian of the Muses' flock,Through whom it breathes in learn'd repose,Whether it choose the dripping rock,Or where the open sunshine glows.Not fairer he through trackless shadeWho led Æmonia's flocks of old;Not even Apollo, when he play'd,With defter touch could charm the fold.If thou the eye serene dost grant,Green fields are ours, and streams and hills,And, since no Phœbus else we want,The Muses with their dulcet quills.Religion too with modest graceThrough thee assumes a gentler mien;Through thee again can show her face,No more in dust and ashes seen.Her brows crown'd meetly, and, through thee,Her God in sight of all confess'd,She gives in her divinityMeaning and law to garb and vest.Lo, while we gaze, an ample stateAdorns thee; what a lustrous sheenPlays on thy lips! with what a weightThy reverent Genius toils within!For him on whom thy calm glance flowsHis star sheds down a fuller ray;The light that o'er thine aspect glowsIs brighter than the shafts of Day.And there is cause. The Lord of heaven,Whose altar thou hast made so fair,Pours back the light that thou hast given,With glory meets His worshipper.Lo, on the threshold of thy GodWhile thou dost stoop on bended knee,The altar from on high doth nod,Its plausive wings are bent to thee.And, glowing with his duty's worth,Each starry-tressèd choristerWith look that savours not of earthTends like a rosy cherub there.And rightly. For, when ruin-wreck'd,With prayers and outstretch'd hands the faneBemoan'd itself in all neglect,And sought elsewhere for help in vain,—To thee by its own vows 'tis bound,And now repays thee. At the shrineWhose cry so well thy ears hath foundLong, long may prayer and praise be thine!

Kind Guardian of the Muses' flock,Through whom it breathes in learn'd repose,Whether it choose the dripping rock,Or where the open sunshine glows.

Not fairer he through trackless shadeWho led Æmonia's flocks of old;Not even Apollo, when he play'd,With defter touch could charm the fold.

If thou the eye serene dost grant,Green fields are ours, and streams and hills,And, since no Phœbus else we want,The Muses with their dulcet quills.

Religion too with modest graceThrough thee assumes a gentler mien;Through thee again can show her face,No more in dust and ashes seen.

Her brows crown'd meetly, and, through thee,Her God in sight of all confess'd,She gives in her divinityMeaning and law to garb and vest.

Lo, while we gaze, an ample stateAdorns thee; what a lustrous sheenPlays on thy lips! with what a weightThy reverent Genius toils within!

For him on whom thy calm glance flowsHis star sheds down a fuller ray;The light that o'er thine aspect glowsIs brighter than the shafts of Day.

And there is cause. The Lord of heaven,Whose altar thou hast made so fair,Pours back the light that thou hast given,With glory meets His worshipper.

Lo, on the threshold of thy GodWhile thou dost stoop on bended knee,The altar from on high doth nod,Its plausive wings are bent to thee.

And, glowing with his duty's worth,Each starry-tressèd choristerWith look that savours not of earthTends like a rosy cherub there.

And rightly. For, when ruin-wreck'd,With prayers and outstretch'd hands the faneBemoan'd itself in all neglect,And sought elsewhere for help in vain,—

To thee by its own vows 'tis bound,And now repays thee. At the shrineWhose cry so well thy ears hath foundLong, long may prayer and praise be thine!

Decoration O

Salve. Jamque vale. Quid enim quis pergeret ultra?Qua jocus et lusus non vocat, ire voles?Scilicet hic, Lector, cur noster habebere, non est;Deliciis folio non faciente tuis.Nam nec Acidalios halat mihi pagina rores;Nostra Cupidineae nec favet aura faci.Frustra hinc ille suis quicquam promiserit alis:Frustra hinc illa novo speret abire sinu.Ille e materna melius sibi talia myrto;Illa jugis melius poscat ab Idaliis.Quaerat ibi suus in quo cespite surgat Adonis,Quae melior teneris patria sit violis.Illinc totius Florae, verisque, suiqueConsilio, ille alas impleat, illa sinus.Me mea, casta tamen, si sit rudis, herba coronet:Me mea, si rudis est, sit rudis, herba juvat.Nulla meo Circaea tument tibi pocula versu:Dulcia, et in furias officiosa tuas.Nulla latet Lethe, quam fraus tibi florea libat,Quam rosa sub falsis dat malefida genis.Nulla verecundum mentitur mella venenum:Captat ab insidiis linea nulla suis.Et spleni, et jecori foliis bene parcitur istis.Ah, male cum rebus staret utrumque meis!Rara est quae ridet, nulla est quae pagina prurit,Nulla salax, si quid norit habere salis.Non nudae Veneres, nec, si jocus, udus habetur:Non nimium Bacchus noster Apollo fuit.Nil cui quis putri sit detorquendus ocello;Est nihil obliquo quod velit ore legi.Haec coram atque oculis legeret Lucretia justis;Iret et illaesis hinc pudor ipse genis.Nam neque candidior voti venit aura pudiciDe matutina virgine thura ferens:Cum vestis nive vincta sinus, nive tempora fulgens,Dans nive flammeolis frigida jura comis,Religiosa pedum sensim vestigia librans,Ante aras tandem constitit, et tremuit.Nec gravis ipsa suo sub numine castior halatQuae pia non puras summovet ara manus.Tam Venus in nostro non est nimis aurea versu:Tam non sunt pueri tela timenda dei.Saepe puer dubias circum me moverat alas,Jecit et incertas nostra sub ora faces;Saepe vel ipse sua calamum mihi blandus ab ala,Vel matris cygno de meliore dedit;Saepe Dionaeae pactus mihi serta coronae;Saepe: Meus vates tu, mihi dixit, eris.I procul, i cum matre tua, puer improbe, dixi:Non tibi cum numeris res erit ulla meis.Tu Veronensi cum passere pulchrior ibis:Bilbilicisve queas comptius esse modis.Ille tuos finget quocunque sub agmine crines:Undique nequitiis par erit ille tuis.Ille nimis, dixi, patet in tua proelia campus:Heu, nimis est vates et nimis ille tuus!Gleba illa, ah, tua quam tamen urit adultera messis!Esset Idumaeo germine quanta parens!Quantus ibi et quantae premeret puer ubera matris!Nec coelos vultu dissimulante suos.Ejus in isto oculi satis essent sidera versu;Sidereo matris quam bene tuta sinu!Matris ut hic similes in collum mitteret ulnas,Inque sinus niveos pergeret, ore pari;Utque genis pueri haec aequis daret oscula labris,Et bene cognatis iret in ora rosis;Quae Mariae tam larga meat, quam disceret illicUvida sub pretio gemma tumere suo!Staret ibi ante suum lacrymatrix Diva Magistrum:Seu levis aura volet, seu gravis unda cadat;Luminis haec soboles, et proles pyxidis illa,Pulchrius unda cadat, suavius aura volet.Quicquid in his sordet demum, luceret in illis.Improbe, nec satis est hunc tamen esse tuum?Improbe, cede, puer: quid enim mea carmina mulces?Carmina de jaculis muta futura tuis.Cede, puer, qua te petulantis fraena puellae;Turpia quae revocant pensa procacis herae;Qua miseri male pulchra nitent mendacia limi;Qua cerussatae, furta decora, genae;Qua mirere rosas, alieni sidera veris;Quas nivis haud propriae bruma redempta domat.Cede, puer, dixi et dico; cede, improba mater:Altera Cypris habet nos; habet alter Amor.Scilicet hic Amor est; hic est quoque mater Amoris.Sed Mater virgo; sed neque caecus Amor.O Puer! ô Domine! ô magnae reverentia Matris,Alme tui stupor et relligio gremii!O Amor, innocuae cui sunt pia jura pharetrae,Nec nisi de casto corde sagitta calens!Me, Puer, ô certa, quem figis, fige sagitta;O tua de me sit facta pharetra levis!Quodque illinc sitit et bibit, et bibit et sitit usque;Usque meum sitiat pectus, et usque bibat.Fige, Puer, corda haec. Seu spinis exiguus quis,Seu clavi aut hastae cuspide magnus ades;Seu major cruce cum tota; seu maximus ipsoTe corda haec figis denique; fige, Puer.O metam hanc tuus aeternum inclamaverit arcus:Stridat in hanc teli densior aura tui.O tibi si jaculum ferat ala ferocior ullum,Hanc habeat triti vulneris ire viam.Quique tuae populus cunque est, quae turba, pharetrae;Hic bene vulnificas nidus habebit aves.O mihi sis bello semper tam saevus in isto!Pectus in hoc nunquam mitior hostis eas.Quippe ego quam jaceam pugna bene sparsus in illa!Quam bene sic lacero pectore sanus ero!Haec mea vota. Mei sunt haec quoque vota libelli.Haec tua sint, Lector, si meus esse voles.Si meus esse voles, meus ut sis, lumina, Lector,Casta, sed ô nimium non tibi sicca, precor.Nam tibi fac madidis meus ille occurrerit alis,Sanguine, seu lacryma diffluat ille sua:Stipite totus hians, clavisque reclusus, et hasta:Fons tuus in fluvios desidiosus erit?Si tibi sanguineo meus hic tener iverit amne,Tune tuas illi, dure, negabis aquas?Ah durus! quicunque meos, nisi siccus, amoresNolit, et hic lacrymae rem neget esse suae.Saepe hic Magdalinas vel aquas vel amaverit undas;Credo nec Assyrias mens tua malit opes.Scilicet ille tuos ignis recalescet ad ignes;Forsan et illa tuis unda natabit aquis.Hic eris ad cunas, et odoros funere manes:Hinc ignes nasci testis, et inde meos.Hic mecum, et cum matre sua, mea gaudia quaeres:Maturus Procerum seu stupor esse velit;Sive per antra sui lateat, tunc templa, sepulchri:Tertia lux reducem, lenta sed illa, dabit.Sint fidae precor, ah, dices, facilesque tenebrae;Lux mea dum noctis, res nova! poscit opem.Denique charta meo quicquid mea dicat amori,Illi quo metuat cunque, fleatve, modo,Laeta parum, dices, haec, sed neque dulcia non sunt:Certe et amor, dices, hujus amandus erat.

Si nimium hic promitti tibi videtur, Lector bone, pro eo cui satisfaciendo libellus iste futurus fuerit; scias me in istis non ad haec modo spectare quae hic habes, sed ea etiam quae olim, haec interim fovendo, habere poteris. Nolui enim, si hactenus deesse amicis meis non potui, flagitantibus a me, etiam cum dispendii sui periculo, paterer eos experiri te in tantum favorem tuum, nolui, inquam, fastidio tuo indulgere. Satis hic habes quod vel releges ad ferulam suam, neque enim maturiores sibi annos ex his aliqua vendicant, vel ut pignus plurium adultiorumque in sinu tuo reponas. Elige tibi ex his utrumvis. Me interim quod attinet, finis meus non fefellit. Maximum meae ambitionis scopum jamdudum attigi: tunc nimirum cum quale-cunque hoc meum pene infantis Musae murmur ad aures istas non ingratum sonuit, quibus neque doctiores mihi de publico timere habeo, nec sperare clementiores; adeo ut de tuo jam plausu, dicam ingenue et breviter, neque securus sim ultra neque solicitus. Prius tui, quisquis es, Lector, apud me reverentia prohibet; de cujus judicio omnia possum magna sperare: posterius illorum reverentia non sinit, de quorum perspicacitate maxima omnia non possum mihi non persuadere. Quanquam ô quam velim tanti me esse in quo patria mea morem istum suum deponere velit, genio suo tam non dignum; istum scilicet quo, suis omnibus fastiditis, ea exosculatur unice, quibus trajecisse Alpes et de transmarino esse, in pretium cessit! Sed relictis hisce, nimis improbaespei votis, convertam me ad magistros acygnianos; quos scio de novissimis meis verbis, quanquam neminem nominarim, iratos me reliquisse: bilem vero componant; et mihi se hoc debere, ambitioso juveni verbum tam magnum ignoscant—debere, inquam, fateantur: quod nimirum in tam nobili argumento, in quo neque ad foetida de suis sanctis figmenta, neque ad putidas de nostris calumnias opus habeant confugere, de tenui hoc meo dederim illorum magnitudini unde emineat. Emineat vero; serius dico, sciantque me semper se habituros esse sub ea, quam mihi eorum lux major affuderit, umbra, placidissime acquiescentem.

[TRANSLATION. Verse and Prose, G.]

To the Reader.

'Greeting,' Reader; and now 'farewell'!Wherefore shouldst thou on my page dwell,Where neither jest nor sport inviteth,That the jocund youth delighteth?Therefore, Reader, pass thee byTo thine own idle jollity:The notes that trill from my poor luteSuch as thee shall never suit;Nor here are Acidalian dewsThat Venus' roses sweet suffuse;Nor breath sets Cupid's torch a-blazeThat lovers on my lines may gaze.Vainly shall mother and shall sonLook here for lewd emotion.Cupid, seek thy mother's kirtle,Or hide thee 'neath her fragrant myrtle.And, Venus, thy Idalian hillsWill better yield thee sport that thrills:Thither, therefore, goddess, turn;O'er thy lost Adonis burn;Or devise, if grief thee frets,Other shrines for thy violets:There, with Flora and the SpringThe green earth enamelling,Thou mayst fill thy bosom's whiteness,He his wings in all their brightness,With all flow'rs that wait on theeWhen thou holdest revelry.Me my own poor flow'r will crown;Poor 'tis true, yet all my own—Poor but pure. So let it be,Those unto others, this to me.No Circe-cup foams in my verse,To make fierce lustings still more fierce;No draft of Lethe here doth flow,Flow'ry above, deathly below;No false cheeks, with falser bloom—A rose up-bursting from a tomb;No barb hid 'neath treach'rous plume;No poison spread as honey'd bait;No line where danger lies in wait:Here's nor spleen nor melancholy,That for me were unmeet wholly;Rarely do I raise a smile,Ne'er merge my wit in wanton wile;Never quicken Passion's pulse,Nor show nude Beauty to convulse,Until beneath the hoof o' th' fleshThe strong man bound is in Lust's mesh.If jest I pass, do not repineTo learn it reeks not of the wine;For my Apollo is celestial,And from Bacchus shrinks as bestial.Nothing that's foul my page contains;Nothing the modest eye arraigns;Nothing to cause averted face—Lucretia every line might traceWith calm, serene, unfearing eye,Nor blush stain cheek of Modesty.For not more pure the maiden's vow[42]Whisper'd in tremulous words and low,As, girt in snowy robe, her breastHeaves like a wave in sweet unrest,And the white veil shows whiter browIn pureness of unfallen snow,With flame-gleam from meek-droppèd hairDishevell'd by the am'rous air:Soft strains with her soft voice blending,The marriage-rites to heaven ascending:Yea, not the altar's self exhalethMore chastely, as its God it haileth,That keeps far off unholy handsWhile there the priest with bow'd head stands.My verse is not the Queen of Love's,Nor knows the cooing of her doves:Her beauty me not overpowers,Though bright as skies when no cloud low'rs;Vainly at me her tricksy boyHis arrows shoots. The sweet annoyI never felt; though oft and oftHe hover'd o'er me, and with soft,Sly, 'luring glances his torch wav'd,And look'd to find me swift enslav'd;Offer'd a quill from his own wing,E'en from his mother's swan—to sing;Ay, often Venus' love-wreaths weaving,On my brow the symbol leaving:He would laugh, and Poet style me,And with flatteries beguile me:'Begone, begone, O wanton boy!Thy mother too, though Queen of Joy.'Thus did I speak. Naught of my songShall thy tyranny prolong:Get thee, with thy torch and arrow,CatullusUnto the Veronian sparrow;MartialOr the Bilbilician winTo embalm thy pleasant sin:Be thy assaults however vile,He on thee will smile, and smile:He, thy love-locks curious twining,Shall ne'er come short of thy inclining:He thine own poet is, and willGive thee full license to instillBy jest and quip and jollityWhate'er it listeth thee to try.Alas, that genius so augustShould pander to adult'rous lust!Alas, that he, poet so true,Should poet be, Cupid, to you!O, what harvest of rich thoughtJudean seed from him had brought,If, up-climbing holy mountains,He had drunk from hallow'd fountains!Mother and son, I see them now,As round her neck his arms he'd throw,Nestling with his azure eyes,Her bosom's splendour for his skies;Kissing, and kiss'd in sweet reply,As soft winds o'er violets die:While she all her love discloses,Murm'ring on his lips' twin roses:His lips like hers, and hers like his,Glued i' the rapture of their bliss.Visions like these would Martial giveWith dainty touch and fugitive.The heav'nly Weeper there would bowBefore her Lord, and pay her vow:Now is uttered gentle sigh,And now great tears gleam in her eye:That, offspring of the stainless Light;This, of the Pyx's mystic rite:In his verse, tears, sighs should fallDelicate and musical:In fine, whate'er in mine were meanShould radiant grow as sunlight's sheen.Go, then, go, insatiate boy,Nor me longer seek t' annoy:I've said it, nor shall e'er unsay:Go to thy mother, and there play.Why wilt thou whisper flattery,And praise my Muse's witchery—Verses that reck not of thy smarts—And smite me with thy fire-tipp'd darts?Go, get thee gone! Thy haunt must beWhere there's wanton revelry,And the young minx with toss o' curlsOpes her lips to show her pearls;Opes her lips, with some gross jestA foolish lover to arrest.Thither go, where falsely-fairBeauty is bought and sold; and where,Flaunting with painted cheek, and eyeA-flame to ev'ry devilry,Base women seek base men, and tingleTheir hot veins as they commingle,Baring their charms, 'neath alien rosesMinistering such sweets as Hell composes.Hence, therefore, Cupid! Venus, hence!I yield not to your violence:I've said it, nor shall you allureMy heart to own your sway impure.Another Cypris holds me now,Another Love receives my vow:For Love is here and Mother kind,But she a Virgin; He not blind.O Child! O Lord! great Mother blest!O wonder of thy holy breast!O Love, whose quiver's sacred pow'rsNe'er send forth arrow that devours,Unless a shaft pierce the pure heart,That Thou mayst heal the blessèd smart.Me whom Thou piercest, holy Child,Pierce, pierce me sure with arrows mild.Let Thy quiver grow more lightAs Thou dost me yearning smite:What my soul pants for, and still drinksAnd drinks, and thirsts, and never thinksTo get enough, O give, still give.Thus would I die; thus would I live.Transfix this heart, Child: howsoe'erThou comest,—crown'd with thorns and bare,Or great with the awful heraldryOf nail and spear for Faith to see;Or greater still, on the holy roodWet with the terror of Thy Blood;Or great'st of all, Thyself aloneIn meek might of Thy Passion,—Still pierce this heart; O pierce it, Child:Thuswould I drink in rapture wild.O that Thy bow might wound me still!O that of wounds I had my fill!Or, if some swifter wing there be,That it would fly to me—to me!Behold, my Saviour, this poor breast,And take it as Thine arrows' nest:I seek not to be spar'd one blow:Thus would I have Thee still my foe;Still yearn that wounded I may be;For wounds like these are ecstasy.These are my wishes: and my Books,May they be his who on them looks!Seek'st, Reader, to be mine? Then, last,I ask thy eyes that they be chaste;Chaste, but not tearless; my dear LoveTo meet and know, as from aboveHe comes, and still the Crucified,Proclaiming how for man He diedBy thorn, and nail, and spear, and cry,And bitterest words of agony:Say, should He meet thee thus in blood,Couldst thou e'en grudge of tears a flood?Ah, hard thy heart as e'er was stone,That all unmov'd can hear Him groan,Nor by a throb of feeling showThou hast a sense of His great woe;While here He treasured human tearsHushing sad Mary in her fears,As to His feet in shame she crept,And with white drops them all bewept:More than Assyrian gold to theeSuch tears, if thou their worth couldst see.His love with thine again will glow,His tears afresh with thine will flow.Here, Reader, glancing through my Book,Thou shalt upon His cradle look:To His sweet obsequies now turn,And mark how still my love shall burn.Here, with His Mother and with me,My ceaseless sacred joys shalt see:Whether Earth's Princes speechless standAs sudden darkness wraps the land;Or He lies hidden in the Cave,A temple now, and not a grave;But the third morning shall restore Him:Ah, much too slow those days pass o'er Him!Be true, ye shadows of the tomb;Enfold Him in a kindly gloom:Thus wilt thou pray; while my dear Light(O strange!) demands the help of Night.In fine, whate'er my Book shall sayTo my dear Love—however pray,However fear, however weep,And with sweet tears its pages steep—My words thy willing words will move.'O, not enough these things I love;But they are sweet all things above;And certainly the love of HimDeserves all other loves to dim.'

If it seem to you, good Reader, that I have promised overmuch on behalf of him to whom this tractate shall be pleasing, know that I do not look merely on those things which you possess here, but also on those which, by cherishing such as you now have, you may hereafter obtain; for I have been unwilling, if hitherto I have not been a-wanting to my friends earnestly entreating me that I should allow them, even at the risk of their own peril, to encroach on your good-will, however great—I have been unwilling, I say, to give myself up to your fastidious criticism. You have enough here either to hand over to the rod which it deserves (for none of these things ask or claim for themselves maturer years), or to lay it up in your bosom as a pledgeof more and of advanced attempts. Choose for yourself an alternative. As for myself, my aim has not deceived me. I have already attained the utmost pinnacle of my ambition, at the time when this somewhat indifferent murmur of my almost-infantine Muse sounded not unmusically in those ears, than which from the world at large I have none more learned to fear, none more indulgent to hope for; so that, as regards your applause, I will speak candidly and at once: I am neither over-confident nor over-solicitous of it. Firstly, my respect for you, Reader, whoever you are, and of whose decision I can hope everything, restrains; and next, my respect for those of whose penetration I am unable not to persuade myself to hope the greatest things. Yet still, how I do wish that I were of service whenever my Country desires to cast aside its own particular custom, so unworthy its own worth—that custom particularly by which, all her own things being despised, she only prizes those things to which having crossed the Alps and lived over the sea has given a value! But these wishes of too rash hope being put aside, let me turn to the acygnian gentlemen, whom I know—although I shall name none personally—to have angrily abandoned me on account of some of my recent sayings. Still, let them compose their temper, and let them confess—may they pardon such a great saying from a forward young man!—I say, let them confess that they owe me this: that, in truth, in so grand an argument,in which they have not recourse to the stale untruths concerning their own services, nor to the nauseous calumnies concerning ours. With regard to this slight statement of mine, I have yielded to the importance of those from whence it springs. And let it spring, forsooth! I speak seriously—and let them know that they will always find me most tranquilly reposing under that shadow which their greater light has cast around me!

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