Ah, fierce, fierce knife, which such sweet lilies first
Into such cruel roses made to burst;
Which first this ivory pure with purple stain'd,
And in the white a deeper dye engrain'd.
Whatever stream hereafter hence shall flow,
Out of this purple fountain-head shall grow.
Now first this tender Child Death's talons knows,
The Fates and Fury now hurl their first blows.
See now His blood begins to pour; and see
Scarce blood enough to pour there seems to be.
Scarce wise to broach the new wine from the wood,
And 'gainst those young limbs call the Furies rude.
Wanton, e'en now He girds on woes too much,
And arms not to be tried by such soft touch:
Wanton, He dares at gentle deaths to play,
And for His age to die, as a child may:
Wanton, beforehand acts His tragic woe,
Restless, refusing in child-step to go.
Buskins is this hand shaping for those feet,
And does this mind plan threats with coaxings sweet?
Such playthings stern does this small hand bespeak,
And is it match'd with giant's iron cheek?
To mingle cross with cradle, mother's breast
With slaughter, wickedness, and rage unblest?
His smiling eye now glances at the spear,
And turns to arms from soothing mother dear.
God, with such face to frown, such eyes to rage!
War wins the looks which Love would fain engage.
O winsome angers! savage smiles—mild brood—
Soft rage, sweet terror, awe which might be woo'd!
Sad wanton forwardness of Child for woes;
Harsh rudiments, stern training which He chose!
Now scantier wound for scanty body show,
And scantier blood for scanty wound let now.
Soon, when His strength and deeper draught of breath
Shall furnish food luxuriously for Death,
'Twill be His pleasure then full showers to try,
Then will He strongly, wholly dare to die.
No blood but what to cruel use will grow
To Him belongs, or what He can bid flow.
Ah, cruel Child, though of all things most mild,
Yet to Thyself Thou canst be cruel, Child;
To Thyself cruel, but most mild to me;
A Lion mild, a pitiless Lamb here see.
Long, long may this stern praise Thine honour lift,
A faculty for woes[94] and innate gift.
Fierce knife, from which experience sharp He borrows,
While the Child hastes to grow the Man of Sorrows;
Fierce knife, 'neath which Thou draw'st Thy golden breath,
Advancing as 'twere 'neath the rod of Death. R. Wi.
VIRGO.
Ne, pia, ne nimium, Virgo, permitte querelis:
Haud volet, haud poterit natus abesse diu.
Nam quid eum teneat? vel quae magis oscula vellet?
Vestri illum indigenam quid vetet esse sinus?
Quippe illis quae labra genis magis apta putentur?
Quaeve per id collum dignior ire manus?
His sibi quid speret puer ambitiosius ulmo,
Quove sub amplexu dulcius esse queat?
O quae tam teneram sibi vitis amicior ulmum
Implicet, alternis nexibus immoriens?
Cui circum subitis eat impatientior ulnis?
Aut quae tam nimiis vultibus ora notet?
Quae tam prompta puer toties super oscula surgat?
Qua signet gemma nobiliore genam?
Illa ubi tam vernis adolescat mitius auris,
Tamve sub apricis pendeat uva jugis?
Illi qua veniat languor tam gratus in umbra?
Commodius sub quo murmure somnus agat?
O ubi tam charo, tam casto in carcere regnet,
Maternoque simul virgineoque sinu,
Ille ut ab his fugiat, nec tam bona gaudia vellet?
Ille ut in hos possit non properare sinus?
Ille sui tam blanda sinus patrimonia spernet?
Haeres tot factus tam bene deliciis?
Ne tantum, ne Diva, tuis permitte querelis:
Quid dubites? Non est hic fugitivus Amor.
TRANSLATION.
TO THE VIRGIN MARY,
ON LOSING THE CHILD JESUS.
Not, not too much, Virgin, to plaints give way;
Nor will, nor can, thy Son long from thee stay.
Why should He? Where so love to be carest?
What could prevent His nestling in thy breast?
What lips more suited to those cheeks divine?
What hand to clasp that neck more fit than thine?
What could He hope more clinging than these arms?
Or what embraces e'er possess such charms?
What kindlier vine its tender elm around
Could twine, in mutual folds e'en dying found?
To whom with sudden arms more eager go?
Who on this face such yearning glances throw?
Where 'mid such quick-rain'd kisses could He wake?'
Whence His prest cheek a nobler ruby take?
Where could that grape ripen in airs more mild,
Or hang 'neath hills where suns so sweetly smil'd?
Where could such grateful languor o'er Him creep,
Or what more soothing murmur lull to sleep?
Where could He reign in nook so chaste, so dear,
As in this Mother's, Virgin's bosom here?
Could He fly hence, and such blest joys decline,
And could He help hastening to breast of thine?
This balmy bosom's heritage not share,
Of such delights so easily made heir?
Nay, Lady, nay; thy loud complainings stay;
Be cheer'd: this is no Love that flies away. R. Wi.
APOCALYPSE XII. 7.
Arma, viri! aetheriam quocunque sub ordine pubem
Siderei proceres ducitis; arma, viri!
Quaeque suis, nec queis solita est, stet dextra sagittis;
Stet gladii saeva luce corusca sui.
Totus adest, totisque movet se major in iris,
Fertque Draco, quicquid vel Draco ferre potest.
Quas secum facies, imae mala pignora noctis;
Quot secum nigros ducit in arma deos.
Jam pugnas parat, heu saevus! jam pugnat, et ecce,
Vix potui 'Pugnat' dicere, jam cecidit.
His tamen ah nimium est quod frontibus addidit iras;
Quod potuit rugas his posuisse genis.
Hoc torvum decus est, tumidique ferocia fati,
Quod magni sceleris mors quoque magna fuit.
Quod neque, si victus, jaceat victoria vilis;
Quod meruit multi fulminis esse labor;
Quod queat ille suas hoc inter dicere flammas:
'Arma tuli frustra: sed tamen arma tuli.'
TRANSLATION.