A GROAN
ON OCCASION OF THE DIFFICULT PARTURITION OF THE REMAINING WORKS OF PETERHOUSE.
O bird too fortunate, whose glorious name
Fills us with envy of her happy fame,
Which by an easy death on soaring wing,
Sweet mother of herself, doth upwards spring,
Assumes afresh her shining youth's attire,
And wins new lease of life through hasten'd fire!
She—not through slow-revolving natal days
To a thin shadow worn by sad delays—
Transports herself into another round
Of centuries, as by a single bound;
With beauteous leaves her head she covers o'er,
And with a rosy birth shoots forth once more.
Soon as she climbs the spicy funeral pyre
Joyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher,
Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike,
And her own ashes.
But, alas, we follow
No such example. 'Neath her own Apollo,
Our Mother Peterhouse, now ancient grown,
Our agèd Phœnix, hither, thither blown,
And balancing herself on doubtful air,
Hovers with wing uncertain, seeking where
Her relics she may lay, worn out with toils,
As in a nest, and from the very spoils
Of her own age renew'd, she may arise
In perfect comeliness of face and eyes,
As in the days of old, to mount the skies.
But now, alas, e'en in the very throes
Of her reviving age our Phœnix knows
And keenly feels a sad deficiency.
Alas, in life's long lingering effort she
Now in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face,
Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace;
But elsewhere, heedless of inviting calls
To union, stand the unfinish'd brother walls.
On unresponsive ears the summons falls;
As stones to fellow-stones appealing turn,
The interrupted works together mourn,
And beg a helping hand. O, succour bring,
Whoe'er is pious, to the parent wing
Which shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade,
And gave so many mother churches[130] aid
Parental; O, be now thy help display'd.
Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to thee
With gaping mouths are speaking audibly.
Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engage
To view thy walls, dismantled long with age
And base neglect, and ponder her gray hair.
By the full breasts which once she offer'd thee,
By the dry breasts which she is doom'd to see
Now for herself, she cries imploringly:
'My age to help, O fail not to appear;
So may long-lasting youth thy bosom cheer,
Youth which complaining age shall never fear.' R. Wi.
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 gone
In a swift resurrection—
Gone! by wondrous mystic skill
Wearing a richer plumage still,
Youth renew'd from feet to bill,—
Thou didst not linger in thine age,
Nor a slow weary struggle wage,
With changing cures and long delay
Searching for life in every way.
No; but a quick fate self-choosing,
All hindering self-ruth refusing,
Thou didst raise thy funeral pyre,
Thou didst hovering i' the fire,
From amidst the perfum'd flame
Spring up, immortal as thy fame.
Thou didst lift thy comely head,
Ev'ry moulting feather shed;
Thou didst raise thy radiant breast
Blazing to the blazing West.
O Phœnix, thou'rt an awful bird;
Who enviless thy fame has heard?
Climbing to thy funeral pyre,
Climbing self-martyr'd to the fire,
Sweetly there to bear thine ire;
Fetching down from the great sun
To pilèd nest of cinnamon
Rays intense; then upward winging,
Sudden from thine ashes springing;
Victorious by this quaint mewing,
Life strangely out of death renewing;
Now i' the red fire consuming,
Next at the sun thine eyes reluming.
Alas, how different is the fate
In this our later age, ingrate,
Of her, my mother-college, lying
All desolate and slowly dying;
Lifting but a feeble wing,
Though once, as Phœnix of the fire,
Springing immortal from its pyre;
When Apollo and the Graces
Reign'd where Ruin now defaces,
Gave her, when she shone in splendour,
Orator, sage, and poet tender;
Gave her sons, noble and good,
Better than the bluest blood:
O how chang'd, since those days olden
Such as in the ages golden,
I behold her, smitten, lorn,
And by every Fury torn,
Hanging in uncertain strife
As it were 'twixt death and life;
Doubting whether e'en she shall
Have so much as funeral;
Her corpse laid in some quiet bay,
Where the sea-waves softly play;
Willing they should take her bones—
Her time-stain'd, rent, and shatter'd stones;
If only thus but once again
Rebuilded, she might yet attain
To something of her old renown
By such resurrection,
And, phœnix-like, herself out-do
In her best days when she was new.
O ye sons, your mother own
In her desolation;
Own her, though in aging years
She shows few and thin gray hairs,
Where once,—ah—in brave times of old—
Flash'd her proud locks with sheen of gold.
Ah, Peter nam'd, thou art denied,
Thus is thy name verified.
'Tis a spectacle for tears;
'Tis a spectacle for fears;
'Tis a spectacle for wonder;
'Tis a crime deserves the thunder,
That from base to gold-touch'd ceiling
Day by day her halls are reeling;
Mullion'd window torn and rent,
And destruction imminent;
Everywhere such gaping wounds
As a stranger e'en astounds;
And what was in faith begun
Left in desolation;
Stone to stone in mute appealing,
Cold neglect and scorn revealing,
And the font of tears unsealing.
Sons of my Mother-College lying
All in ruins and slow dying,
If ye have aught of piety
Or least touch of charity,
Look on these broken walls, and see
Your mother in her misery;
Holding up, in vain appealing,
Wither'd hands, her woes revealing;
And in the rank growths tangled there
See her dishonourèd gray hair.
Woe is me, her genial breast,
Which so many sons has blest,
Each all welcoming that came,
Drawn by her renownèd name,
Wither'd, shrunk, can quench no thirst,
Ah, my heart with grief will burst.
To my dim eye there rises clear
The full tide that once roll'd here;
Now shingle, sand, and fest'ring mud
Tell of the far-refluent flood.
O, pity her, ye sons, and vow
Once more to crown your mother's brow;
Once more to rear her crumbling walls;
Once more to gather in her halls
The young, the brave, the true, the good,
The wise, the noble; and the Rood
Over all shall bless and keep;
So in old age ye shall not weep,
Nor ever shall your fair fame sleep. G.
VENERABILI VIRO MAGISTRO TOURNAY,
TUTORI SUO SUMME OBSERVANDO.
Messis inauravit Cereri jam quarta capillos,
Vitis habet Bacchum quarta corona suae,
Nostra ex quo, primis plumae vix alba pruinis,
Ausa tuo Musa est nidificare sinu.
Hic nemus, hic soles, et coelum mitius illi;5
Hic sua quod Musis umbra vel aura dedit.
Sedit ibi secura malus quid moverit Auster,
Quae gravis hibernum vexerit ala Jovem.
Nescio quo interea multum tibi murmure nota est:
Nempe sed hoc poteras murmur amare tamen.10
Tandem ecce, heu simili de prole puerpera! tandem
Hoc tenero tenera est pignore facta parens.
Jamque meam hanc sobolem, rogo, quis sinus alter haberet?
Quis mihi tam noti nempe teporis erat?
Sed quoque et ipsa meus, de te, meus, improba, tutor,15
Quam primum potuit dicere, dixit, erit.
Has ego legitimae, nec laevo sidere natae
Non puto degeneres indolis esse notas;
Nempe quod illa suo patri tam semper apertos,
Tam semper faciles norit adire sinus.20
Ergo tuam tibi sume: tuas eat illa sub alas:
Hoc quoque de nostro, quod tuearis, habe.
Sic quae Suada tuo fontem sibi fecit in ore,
Sancto et securo melle perennis eat.
Sic tua, sic nullas Siren non mulceat aures,25
Aula cui plausus et sua serta dedit.
Sic tuus ille, precor, Tagus aut eat obice nullo,
Aut omni, quod adhuc, obice major eat.