Hither, Muse, and bring againThy august surrounding train;With measur'd tread of practis'd feetCome, for thou hast learn'd to greetWith the voice of loyal cheerA princely cradle year by year.Lo, our noble Queen on theeCalls in fruitful rivalryBy another birth; and he,Illustrious infant, needs must haveThe Muses' offspring for his slave.Never has she yet been knownA mother for herself alone,But by a reflected mightEven in absence doth delightIn twins ever, and while sheThus augments her progeny,And gives vigour to the lyre,She doth at once with life inspireYoung princes, and the Muses' quire.These, though not untouch'd they beWith the sacred flame, may sheTire in her fruitful deity,And with joys that theirs outrun,Dry at last all Helicon!Sweet is the strife wherein, to proveHer powers, she deigns by rule to move;Nor an unbecoming stainIs 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 ofDay.Cl.
Hither, Muse, and bring againThy august surrounding train;With measur'd tread of practis'd feetCome, for thou hast learn'd to greetWith the voice of loyal cheerA princely cradle year by year.Lo, our noble Queen on theeCalls in fruitful rivalryBy another birth; and he,Illustrious infant, needs must haveThe Muses' offspring for his slave.Never has she yet been knownA mother for herself alone,But by a reflected mightEven in absence doth delightIn twins ever, and while sheThus augments her progeny,And gives vigour to the lyre,She doth at once with life inspireYoung princes, and the Muses' quire.These, though not untouch'd they beWith the sacred flame, may sheTire in her fruitful deity,And with joys that theirs outrun,Dry at last all Helicon!Sweet is the strife wherein, to proveHer powers, she deigns by rule to move;Nor an unbecoming stainIs 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 ofDay.Cl.
COMMENDAT ACADEMIA.
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!
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!
TRANSLATION.
TO HER MOST SERENE MAJESTY
THE UNIVERSITY COMMENDS ITS BOOK.
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.Fromhimwhat grandsons round thee soon will gather,Who at once father is, and makes a father!R. Wi.
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.Fromhimwhat grandsons round thee soon will gather,Who at once father is, and makes a father!R. Wi.
OMEN MATERNAE INDOLIS.[125]
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 magnumMurmur nominis increpabit omnemLate Bosporon OttomanicasqueNon picto quatiet tremore Lunas;Te tunc altera nec timenda paciPoscent praelia; tu potens pudiciVibratrix oculi, pios in hostesLate dulcia fata dissipabis.O eum flos tener ille, qui recentiPressus sidere jam sub ora ludit,Olim fortior omne cuspidatosEvolvet latus aureum per ignes;Quique imbellis adhuc, adultus olim,Puris expatiabitur genarumCampis imperiosior Cupido;O quam certa superbiore pennaIbunt spicula melleaeque mortes,Exultantibus hinc et inde turmis,Quoquo jusseris, impigre volabunt!O quot corda calentium deorumDe te vulnera delicata discent!O quot pectora principum magistrisFient molle negotium sagittis!Nam quae non poteris per arma ferri,Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidusMagnorum patet officina amorum?Hinc sumas licet, ô puella princeps,Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra.Centum sume Cupidines ab unoMatris lumine Gratiasque centumEt centum Veneres: adhuc manebuntCentum mille Cupidines; manebuntTercentum Veneresque GratiaequePuro fonte superstites per aevum.
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 magnumMurmur nominis increpabit omnemLate Bosporon OttomanicasqueNon picto quatiet tremore Lunas;Te tunc altera nec timenda paciPoscent praelia; tu potens pudiciVibratrix oculi, pios in hostesLate dulcia fata dissipabis.O eum flos tener ille, qui recentiPressus sidere jam sub ora ludit,Olim fortior omne cuspidatosEvolvet latus aureum per ignes;Quique imbellis adhuc, adultus olim,Puris expatiabitur genarumCampis imperiosior Cupido;O quam certa superbiore pennaIbunt spicula melleaeque mortes,Exultantibus hinc et inde turmis,Quoquo jusseris, impigre volabunt!O quot corda calentium deorumDe te vulnera delicata discent!O quot pectora principum magistrisFient molle negotium sagittis!Nam quae non poteris per arma ferri,Cui matris sinus atque utrumque sidusMagnorum patet officina amorum?Hinc sumas licet, ô puella princeps,Quantacunque opus est tibi pharetra.Centum sume Cupidines ab unoMatris lumine Gratiasque centumEt centum Veneres: adhuc manebuntCentum mille Cupidines; manebuntTercentum Veneresque GratiaequePuro fonte superstites per aevum.
TRANSLATION.
OF THE PRINCESS MARY.
Grow, maiden Princess, and increase,Thou who with the sweet goddessesThy place shalt have; O haste to beThy 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 creepA thrill of dread, as rolls full deepThe murmur of the British name,And with no feign'd alarm shall shameThe Turkish Crescent—other wars,And such as bring sweet Peace no tearsShall call thee forth; and from on highThe flashing of thy modest eyeShall scatter o'er adoring foesThick volleys of delicious woes.O, when that tender bloom which nowPlays, lately born, beneath thy brow,In time to come with mightier blazeShall dart around its pointed rays;When he, the Cupid now so mild,No longer but a harmless child,Shall range in youth's imperious prideThy 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 blowFalls ceaseless midst the exulting foe!How many god-like breasts shall learnFrom thee with Love's rich wounds to burn!How often shall thy mastering dartsWork their sweet will on princely hearts!For what may she not do in war,Whose mother's breast—with each bright starThat rul'd her birth—to her but provesA 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 stillAre hers; three hundred Graces will,With Venuses in equal store,Haunt that pure fount for evermore.Cl.
Grow, maiden Princess, and increase,Thou who with the sweet goddessesThy place shalt have; O haste to beThy 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 creepA thrill of dread, as rolls full deepThe murmur of the British name,And with no feign'd alarm shall shameThe Turkish Crescent—other wars,And such as bring sweet Peace no tearsShall call thee forth; and from on highThe flashing of thy modest eyeShall scatter o'er adoring foesThick volleys of delicious woes.O, when that tender bloom which nowPlays, lately born, beneath thy brow,In time to come with mightier blazeShall dart around its pointed rays;When he, the Cupid now so mild,No longer but a harmless child,Shall range in youth's imperious prideThy 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 blowFalls ceaseless midst the exulting foe!How many god-like breasts shall learnFrom thee with Love's rich wounds to burn!How often shall thy mastering dartsWork their sweet will on princely hearts!For what may she not do in war,Whose mother's breast—with each bright starThat rul'd her birth—to her but provesA 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 stillAre hers; three hundred Graces will,With Venuses in equal store,Haunt that pure fount for evermore.Cl.
Decoration I
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 AusterSaeviat, 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 rerumAttollit series, adeo commune serenumLaetitiae vernisque animis micat alta voluptas;Jam torvas acies, jam squallida bella per aurasVolvere, et hibernis annum corrumpere nimbis?Ah melius, quin luce novae reparata juventaeIpsa hodie vernaret hiems, pulchroque tumultuPurpureas properaret opes, effunderet omnesLaeta sinus, nitidumque diem fragrantibus horisAeternum migrare velit, florumque beataLuxurie, tanta ô circum cunabula surgat,Excipiatque novos et molliter ambiat artus.Quippe venit, sacris iterum vagitibus ingensAula sonat, venit en roseo decus addita fratriBlanda soror. Tibi se brevibus, tibi porrigit ulnis,Magne puer, facili tibi torquet hiantia risuOra; tibi molles lacrymas et nobile murmurTemperat, inque tuo ponit se pendula collo.Tale decus juncto veluti sub stemmate cum quisDat sociis lucere rosis sua lilia. TalisFulget honos medio cum se duo sidera mundoDulcibus intexunt radiis: nec dignior olimFlagrabat nitidae felix consortio formae,Tunc cum sidereos inter pulcherrima fratresErubuit primum, et Laedaeo cortice ruptoTyndarida 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 altoFlore tui dulcesque oculos maturior ignisIndole 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 ipseCredet Apollo parem; tanta cui conjuge celsusIn pulchros properare sinus, et carpere sacrasDelicias oculosque tuos, tua basia solusTum poterit dixisse sua; et se nectare tantoDum probat esse Deum, superas contemnere mensas.
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 AusterSaeviat, 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 rerumAttollit series, adeo commune serenumLaetitiae vernisque animis micat alta voluptas;Jam torvas acies, jam squallida bella per aurasVolvere, et hibernis annum corrumpere nimbis?Ah melius, quin luce novae reparata juventaeIpsa hodie vernaret hiems, pulchroque tumultuPurpureas properaret opes, effunderet omnesLaeta sinus, nitidumque diem fragrantibus horisAeternum migrare velit, florumque beataLuxurie, tanta ô circum cunabula surgat,Excipiatque novos et molliter ambiat artus.Quippe venit, sacris iterum vagitibus ingensAula sonat, venit en roseo decus addita fratriBlanda soror. Tibi se brevibus, tibi porrigit ulnis,Magne puer, facili tibi torquet hiantia risuOra; tibi molles lacrymas et nobile murmurTemperat, inque tuo ponit se pendula collo.Tale decus juncto veluti sub stemmate cum quisDat sociis lucere rosis sua lilia. TalisFulget honos medio cum se duo sidera mundoDulcibus intexunt radiis: nec dignior olimFlagrabat nitidae felix consortio formae,Tunc cum sidereos inter pulcherrima fratresErubuit primum, et Laedaeo cortice ruptoTyndarida 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 altoFlore tui dulcesque oculos maturior ignisIndole 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 ipseCredet Apollo parem; tanta cui conjuge celsusIn pulchros properare sinus, et carpere sacrasDelicias oculosque tuos, tua basia solusTum poterit dixisse sua; et se nectare tantoDum probat esse Deum, superas contemnere mensas.
TRANSLATION.
ON THE BIRTHDAY OF THE PRINCESS MARY.
Forbear thy fury, Winter fierce, forbear;Lay down thy wrath, and let the tranquil airWith 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 brightExalt us, and the universal lightOf joy and vernal pleasure thrills the soul,Grim lines of battling tempest-clouds should rollThrough all the air, and drown the year with rain?Better old Winter should bright youth regain,And turn at once to Spring; with tumult sweetHasten his purple stores, and joyful greetWith all his outpour'd heart this shining Day,And bid its fragrant hours for ever stay;Making a radiant wealth of flowers aboundWhere in her cradle that sweet Child is found,Her tender limbs caress and softly compass round.She comes! Once more are heard those blessèd criesWithin 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 charmsOf her sweet smiles, and checks her gentle tears,And coos and prattles to delight thine ears,Or fondly hangs upon thy neck. Such gracePleases the eye, when, their stalks joined, you placeLilies 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'dWhen from her egg the fairest Helen glow'dBetwixt her starry brothers, and display'dHer tender brow with new delights array'd.So mix your common beam, thou brother fairAnd sister mild. Such joys your father shareAnd mother dear! And when, as seasons roll,He moves with head erect and princely soulAmid his proper triumphs, and shall learnHimself by his own deeds, thou shalt discernA 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 swearThat thou art his own Phœbe! or againBut that thou art more chaste, some Mars in vainWill swear thou art his Venus, love's soft strain!Ah, happy he, to whom nor Mars will dreamNor 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 aloneCan 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.
Forbear thy fury, Winter fierce, forbear;Lay down thy wrath, and let the tranquil airWith 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 brightExalt us, and the universal lightOf joy and vernal pleasure thrills the soul,Grim lines of battling tempest-clouds should rollThrough all the air, and drown the year with rain?Better old Winter should bright youth regain,And turn at once to Spring; with tumult sweetHasten his purple stores, and joyful greetWith all his outpour'd heart this shining Day,And bid its fragrant hours for ever stay;Making a radiant wealth of flowers aboundWhere in her cradle that sweet Child is found,Her tender limbs caress and softly compass round.She comes! Once more are heard those blessèd criesWithin 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 charmsOf her sweet smiles, and checks her gentle tears,And coos and prattles to delight thine ears,Or fondly hangs upon thy neck. Such gracePleases the eye, when, their stalks joined, you placeLilies 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'dWhen from her egg the fairest Helen glow'dBetwixt her starry brothers, and display'dHer tender brow with new delights array'd.So mix your common beam, thou brother fairAnd sister mild. Such joys your father shareAnd mother dear! And when, as seasons roll,He moves with head erect and princely soulAmid his proper triumphs, and shall learnHimself by his own deeds, thou shalt discernA 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 swearThat thou art his own Phœbe! or againBut that thou art more chaste, some Mars in vainWill swear thou art his Venus, love's soft strain!Ah, happy he, to whom nor Mars will dreamNor 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 aloneCan 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.
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,5Quo 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.10Improbus ille suis adeo negat ire sub annis:Jam nondum puer est, major et est puero.Si quis in aulaeis pictas animatus in irasStat leo, quem docta cuspide lusit acus,Hostis, io, est; neque enim ille alium dignabitur hostem;15Nempe 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,20Tam torvum, tam dulce micant: nescire fateturMars 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; qualis25Seu 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.30En, 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, natus35Et Carolo et Mariae tertius est oculus.
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,5Quo 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.10Improbus ille suis adeo negat ire sub annis:Jam nondum puer est, major et est puero.Si quis in aulaeis pictas animatus in irasStat leo, quem docta cuspide lusit acus,Hostis, io, est; neque enim ille alium dignabitur hostem;15Nempe 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,20Tam torvum, tam dulce micant: nescire fateturMars 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; qualis25Seu 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.30En, 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, natus35Et Carolo et Mariae tertius est oculus.
TRANSLATION.
TO THE QUEEN.
'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, seeHe 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 tellWhether 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.
'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, seeHe 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 tellWhether 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.
PRO DOMO DEI.[128]
Ut magis in mundi votis aviumque querelisJam veniens solet esse dies, ubi cuspide primaPalpitat, et roseo lux praevia ludit ab ortu;Cum nec abest Phoebus, nec Eois laetus habenisTotus adest, volucrumque procul vaga murmura mulcet:5Nos ita; quos nuper radiis afflavit honestisRelligiosa dies; nostrique per atria coeli—Sacra domus nostrum est coelum—jam luce tenellaLibat adhuc trepidae fax nondum firma diei:Nos ita jam exercet nimii impatientia voti,10Speque sui propiore premit.Quis pectora tantiTendit amor coepti, desiderio quam longoLentae spes inhiant, domus o dulcissima rerum,Plena Deo domus! Ah, quis erit, quis, dicimus, ille—15O bonus, ô ingens meritis, ô proximus ipsi,Quem vocat in sua dona, Deo—quo vindice totasExcutiant tenebras haec sancta crepuscula?Quando,Quando erit, ut tremulae flos heu tener ille diei,20Qui velut ex oriente suo jam altaria circumLambit, et ambiguo nobis procul anuit astro,Plenis se pandat foliis, et lampade totaLaetus, ut e medio cum sol micat aureus axe,Attonitam penetrare domum bene possit adulto25Sidere, nec dubio pia moenia mulceat ore?Quando erit, ut convexa suo quoque pulchra serenoFlorescant, roseoque tremant laquearia risu?Quae nimium informis tanquam sibi conscia frontisPerpetuis jam se lustrant lacrymantia guttis?30Quando erit, ut claris meliori luce fenestrisPlurima per vitreos vivat pia pagina vultus?Quando erit, ut sacrum nobis celebrantibus hymnumOrganicos facili et nunquam fallente susurroNobile murmur agat nervos; pulmonis iniqui35Fistula nec monitus faciat malefida sinistros?Denique, quicquid id est quod res hic sacra requirit,Fausta illa et felix—sitque ô tua—dextra, suam cuiDebeat haec Aurora diem. Tibi supplicat ipsa,Ipsa tibi facit ara preces. Tu jam illius audi,40Audiet illa tuas. Dubium est, modo porrige dextram,Des magis, an capias: audi tantum esse beatus,Et damnum hoc lucrare tibi.Scis ipse volucresQuae rota volvat opes; has ergo, hic fige perennis45Fundamenta Domus Petrensi in rupe, suamqueFortunae sic deme rotam. Scis ipse procacesDivitias quam prona vagos vehat ala per Euros;Divitiis illas, age, deme volucribus alas,Facque suus nostras illis sit nidus ad aras:50Remigii ut tandem pennas melioris adeptae,Se rapiant, dominumque suum super aethera secum.Felix ô qui sic potuit bene providus utiFortunae pennis et opum levitate suarum,Divitiisque suis aquilae sic addidit alas.55
Ut magis in mundi votis aviumque querelisJam veniens solet esse dies, ubi cuspide primaPalpitat, et roseo lux praevia ludit ab ortu;Cum nec abest Phoebus, nec Eois laetus habenisTotus adest, volucrumque procul vaga murmura mulcet:5Nos ita; quos nuper radiis afflavit honestisRelligiosa dies; nostrique per atria coeli—Sacra domus nostrum est coelum—jam luce tenellaLibat adhuc trepidae fax nondum firma diei:Nos ita jam exercet nimii impatientia voti,10Speque sui propiore premit.Quis pectora tantiTendit amor coepti, desiderio quam longoLentae spes inhiant, domus o dulcissima rerum,Plena Deo domus! Ah, quis erit, quis, dicimus, ille—15O bonus, ô ingens meritis, ô proximus ipsi,Quem vocat in sua dona, Deo—quo vindice totasExcutiant tenebras haec sancta crepuscula?Quando,Quando erit, ut tremulae flos heu tener ille diei,20Qui velut ex oriente suo jam altaria circumLambit, et ambiguo nobis procul anuit astro,Plenis se pandat foliis, et lampade totaLaetus, ut e medio cum sol micat aureus axe,Attonitam penetrare domum bene possit adulto25Sidere, nec dubio pia moenia mulceat ore?Quando erit, ut convexa suo quoque pulchra serenoFlorescant, roseoque tremant laquearia risu?Quae nimium informis tanquam sibi conscia frontisPerpetuis jam se lustrant lacrymantia guttis?30Quando erit, ut claris meliori luce fenestrisPlurima per vitreos vivat pia pagina vultus?Quando erit, ut sacrum nobis celebrantibus hymnumOrganicos facili et nunquam fallente susurroNobile murmur agat nervos; pulmonis iniqui35Fistula nec monitus faciat malefida sinistros?Denique, quicquid id est quod res hic sacra requirit,Fausta illa et felix—sitque ô tua—dextra, suam cuiDebeat haec Aurora diem. Tibi supplicat ipsa,Ipsa tibi facit ara preces. Tu jam illius audi,40Audiet illa tuas. Dubium est, modo porrige dextram,Des magis, an capias: audi tantum esse beatus,Et damnum hoc lucrare tibi.Scis ipse volucresQuae rota volvat opes; has ergo, hic fige perennis45Fundamenta Domus Petrensi in rupe, suamqueFortunae sic deme rotam. Scis ipse procacesDivitias quam prona vagos vehat ala per Euros;Divitiis illas, age, deme volucribus alas,Facque suus nostras illis sit nidus ad aras:50Remigii ut tandem pennas melioris adeptae,Se rapiant, dominumque suum super aethera secum.Felix ô qui sic potuit bene providus utiFortunae pennis et opum levitate suarum,Divitiisque suis aquilae sic addidit alas.55
TRANSLATION.
THE PRAYER OF PETERHOUSE FOR THE HOUSE OF GOD [=ITS CHAPEL].
As bids the Day a keener longing stirThe waking world, and warblings cheerierTo birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills,As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrillsThrough lattic'd sky from roseate East the lightPresaging his approach; nor absent quite,Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the SunIs present all; and birds, to music wonBy gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,—So we, on whom with radiance severeA solemn day begins to dawn; whose eyeNow sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie,With portals wide—God's house is heaven, we say—The flame unsteady of still wavering DaySlenderly 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'dTo pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'dThe torrent of God's fulness. Ah, who is he,Ah, who—O good, O huge in charity,O nigh to God Himself,—Whom to descendOn His own gracious gifts he prays—shall lendThis sacred twilight power to drive awayAll gloom, and shake her raiment into day?Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloomOf glimmering Day, that as from bridal roomIn 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, freeIn conscious joy of thy full splendour, pourA flood of light, as when the Sun doth soarIn golden mid-day, and, to full age grown,Shine through and through the pile, and make it ownWith awe thy sway, nor let the sacred wallsDoubt thy embrace?Blest he to whom befallsTo see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky,And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lieTrembling 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 clearWith better light, that many a page devoutMay live, and life from glassy face breathe out.Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate,Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrateThe 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 SanctuaryMay need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be,And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall oweIts day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thouList to her prayer, and she will thine allow;Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful liveWhether 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 shallHer own wheel thus be wrench'd. Thou knowest how proneA wing bears up unconstant riches, blownOn vagrant, veering winds. Come, take awayThese wings from fleeting riches, make them stayAt 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 manWho 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.
As bids the Day a keener longing stirThe waking world, and warblings cheerierTo birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills,As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrillsThrough lattic'd sky from roseate East the lightPresaging his approach; nor absent quite,Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the SunIs present all; and birds, to music wonBy gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,—So we, on whom with radiance severeA solemn day begins to dawn; whose eyeNow sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie,With portals wide—God's house is heaven, we say—The flame unsteady of still wavering DaySlenderly 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'dTo pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'dThe torrent of God's fulness. Ah, who is he,Ah, who—O good, O huge in charity,O nigh to God Himself,—Whom to descendOn His own gracious gifts he prays—shall lendThis sacred twilight power to drive awayAll gloom, and shake her raiment into day?Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloomOf glimmering Day, that as from bridal roomIn 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, freeIn conscious joy of thy full splendour, pourA flood of light, as when the Sun doth soarIn golden mid-day, and, to full age grown,Shine through and through the pile, and make it ownWith awe thy sway, nor let the sacred wallsDoubt thy embrace?Blest he to whom befallsTo see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky,And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lieTrembling 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 clearWith better light, that many a page devoutMay live, and life from glassy face breathe out.Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate,Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrateThe 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 SanctuaryMay need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be,And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall oweIts day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thouList to her prayer, and she will thine allow;Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful liveWhether 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 shallHer own wheel thus be wrench'd. Thou knowest how proneA wing bears up unconstant riches, blownOn vagrant, veering winds. Come, take awayThese wings from fleeting riches, make them stayAt 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 manWho 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.
Decoration B
Decoration C
DIFFICILI PARTURITIONE GEMITUS.[129]
O felix nimis illa, et nostrae nobile nomenInvidiae volucris, facili quae funere surgensMater odora sui, nitidae nova fila juventae,Et festinatos peragit sibi fata per ignes.Illa, haud natales tot tardis mensibus horas5Tam miseris tenuata moris, saltu velut unoIn nova secla rapit sese, et caput omne decorasExplicat in frondes, roseoque repullulat ortu.Cinnameos simul illa rogos conscenderit, omnemLaeta bibit Phoebum, et jam jam victricibus alis10Plaudit humum cineresque suos.Heu, dispare fatoNos ferimur; seniorque suo sub Apolline phoenixPetrensis mater, dubias librata per aurasPendet adhuc, quaeritque sinum in quo ponat inertes15Exuvias, spoliisque suae reparata senectaeOre pari surgat, similique per omnia vultu.At nunc heu nixu secli melioris in ipsoDeliquium patitur!At nunc heu lentae longo in molimine vitae20Interea moritur! Dubio stant moenia vultuParte sui pulchra, et fratres in foedera murosInvitant frustra, nec respondentia saxisSaxa suis; moerent opera intermissa, manusqueImplorant.25Succurre 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 ruptisMoenibus ora loqui. Matrem tibi, crede verendam30Muros tam longo laceros senioque situqueCeu canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti.Per tibi plena olim, per jam sibi sicca precaturUbera, ne desis senio. Sic longa juventusTe foveat, querulae nunquam cessura senectae.35
O felix nimis illa, et nostrae nobile nomenInvidiae volucris, facili quae funere surgensMater odora sui, nitidae nova fila juventae,Et festinatos peragit sibi fata per ignes.Illa, haud natales tot tardis mensibus horas5Tam miseris tenuata moris, saltu velut unoIn nova secla rapit sese, et caput omne decorasExplicat in frondes, roseoque repullulat ortu.Cinnameos simul illa rogos conscenderit, omnemLaeta bibit Phoebum, et jam jam victricibus alis10Plaudit humum cineresque suos.Heu, dispare fatoNos ferimur; seniorque suo sub Apolline phoenixPetrensis mater, dubias librata per aurasPendet adhuc, quaeritque sinum in quo ponat inertes15Exuvias, spoliisque suae reparata senectaeOre pari surgat, similique per omnia vultu.At nunc heu nixu secli melioris in ipsoDeliquium patitur!At nunc heu lentae longo in molimine vitae20Interea moritur! Dubio stant moenia vultuParte sui pulchra, et fratres in foedera murosInvitant frustra, nec respondentia saxisSaxa suis; moerent opera intermissa, manusqueImplorant.25Succurre 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 ruptisMoenibus ora loqui. Matrem tibi, crede verendam30Muros tam longo laceros senioque situqueCeu canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti.Per tibi plena olim, per jam sibi sicca precaturUbera, ne desis senio. Sic longa juventusTe foveat, querulae nunquam cessura senectae.35
TRANSLATION.
A GROAN
ON OCCASION OF THE DIFFICULT PARTURITION OF THE REMAINING WORKS OF PETERHOUSE.
O bird too fortunate, whose glorious nameFills 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 daysTo a thin shadow worn by sad delays—Transports herself into another roundOf 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 pyreJoyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher,Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike,And her own ashes.But, alas, we followNo 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 whereHer relics she may lay, worn out with toils,As in a nest, and from the very spoilsOf her own age renew'd, she may ariseIn perfect comeliness of face and eyes,As in the days of old, to mount the skies.But now, alas, e'en in the very throesOf her reviving age our Phœnix knowsAnd keenly feels a sad deficiency.Alas, in life's long lingering effort sheNow in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face,Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace;But elsewhere, heedless of inviting callsTo 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 wingWhich shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade,And gave so many mother churches[130]aidParental; O, be now thy help display'd.Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to theeWith gaping mouths are speaking audibly.Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engageTo view thy walls, dismantled long with ageAnd 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 seeNow 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 bird too fortunate, whose glorious nameFills 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 daysTo a thin shadow worn by sad delays—Transports herself into another roundOf 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 pyreJoyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher,Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike,And her own ashes.But, alas, we followNo 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 whereHer relics she may lay, worn out with toils,As in a nest, and from the very spoilsOf her own age renew'd, she may ariseIn perfect comeliness of face and eyes,As in the days of old, to mount the skies.But now, alas, e'en in the very throesOf her reviving age our Phœnix knowsAnd keenly feels a sad deficiency.Alas, in life's long lingering effort sheNow in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face,Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace;But elsewhere, heedless of inviting callsTo 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 wingWhich shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade,And gave so many mother churches[130]aidParental; O, be now thy help display'd.Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to theeWith gaping mouths are speaking audibly.Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engageTo view thy walls, dismantled long with ageAnd 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 seeNow 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.
TRANSLATION (more freely).
A LAMENT
OVER THE SLOW RESTORATION OF PETERHOUSE-COLLEGE BUILDINGS.
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 goneIn a swift resurrection—Gone! by wondrous mystic skillWearing 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 delaySearching 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 flameSpring up, immortal as thy fame.Thou didst lift thy comely head,Ev'ry moulting feather shed;Thou didst raise thy radiant breastBlazing 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 sunTo pilèd nest of cinnamonRays 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 fateIn this our later age, ingrate,Of her, my mother-college, lyingAll 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 GracesReign'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 oldenSuch as in the ages golden,I behold her, smitten, lorn,And by every Fury torn,Hanging in uncertain strifeAs it were 'twixt death and life;Doubting whether e'en she shallHave 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 againRebuilded, she might yet attainTo something of her old renownBy such resurrection,And, phœnix-like, herself out-doIn her best days when she was new.O ye sons, your mother ownIn her desolation;Own her, though in aging yearsShe 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 ceilingDay by day her halls are reeling;Mullion'd window torn and rent,And destruction imminent;Everywhere such gaping woundsAs a stranger e'en astounds;And what was in faith begunLeft in desolation;Stone to stone in mute appealing,Cold neglect and scorn revealing,And the font of tears unsealing.Sons of my Mother-College lyingAll in ruins and slow dying,If ye have aught of pietyOr least touch of charity,Look on these broken walls, and seeYour mother in her misery;Holding up, in vain appealing,Wither'd hands, her woes revealing;And in the rank growths tangled thereSee 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 clearThe full tide that once roll'd here;Now shingle, sand, and fest'ring mudTell of the far-refluent flood.O, pity her, ye sons, and vowOnce more to crown your mother's brow;Once more to rear her crumbling walls;Once more to gather in her hallsThe young, the brave, the true, the good,The wise, the noble; and the RoodOver all shall bless and keep;So in old age ye shall not weep,Nor ever shall your fair fame sleep.G.
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 goneIn a swift resurrection—Gone! by wondrous mystic skillWearing 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 delaySearching 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 flameSpring up, immortal as thy fame.Thou didst lift thy comely head,Ev'ry moulting feather shed;Thou didst raise thy radiant breastBlazing 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 sunTo pilèd nest of cinnamonRays 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 fateIn this our later age, ingrate,Of her, my mother-college, lyingAll 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 GracesReign'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 oldenSuch as in the ages golden,I behold her, smitten, lorn,And by every Fury torn,Hanging in uncertain strifeAs it were 'twixt death and life;Doubting whether e'en she shallHave 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 againRebuilded, she might yet attainTo something of her old renownBy such resurrection,And, phœnix-like, herself out-doIn her best days when she was new.O ye sons, your mother ownIn her desolation;Own her, though in aging yearsShe 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 ceilingDay by day her halls are reeling;Mullion'd window torn and rent,And destruction imminent;Everywhere such gaping woundsAs a stranger e'en astounds;And what was in faith begunLeft in desolation;Stone to stone in mute appealing,Cold neglect and scorn revealing,And the font of tears unsealing.Sons of my Mother-College lyingAll in ruins and slow dying,If ye have aught of pietyOr least touch of charity,Look on these broken walls, and seeYour mother in her misery;Holding up, in vain appealing,Wither'd hands, her woes revealing;And in the rank growths tangled thereSee 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 clearThe full tide that once roll'd here;Now shingle, sand, and fest'ring mudTell of the far-refluent flood.O, pity her, ye sons, and vowOnce more to crown your mother's brow;Once more to rear her crumbling walls;Once more to gather in her hallsThe young, the brave, the true, the good,The wise, the noble; and the RoodOver all shall bless and keep;So in old age ye shall not weep,Nor ever shall your fair fame sleep.G.
TUTORI SUO SUMME OBSERVANDO.