The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw Volume II Part 68

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, see He catches at the man impatiently, The rogue declines to keep in his own years; Not yet a child, he more than child appears.

If on the tapestry, with feign'd anger fraught, A lion stands, by skilful needle wrought, A foe behold; such foe to fight he deigns; A lesser wrath his mighty hand disdains.

Fierce spear he brandishes; a wand his spear: Soon in false breast behold true wound appear.

The lion stands, maz'd by such enemy, Fearing or loving something in his eye, So sternly, sweetly bright; nor can he tell Whether beneath that eye Mars or Love dwell.

In sooth, a Mars who may be lov'd is here; And Love indeed, but Love deserving fear.

Such Love, such Mars, 'tis easy here to scan; This G.o.d or that, as he is boy or man.

Thy babe now comes to take the endearing place, A creature not beyond thy fond embrace.

Now let thy troops of kisses have their way, Now let thy love with brooding murmur play; Here is material tractable and tender, Which waxen surface to soft touch shall render.

Hail, infant! gentle subject for caresses, Employment sweet a mother's lips which blesses; O hail; for with thy birth, thou golden boy, Lo, to thy parents a third eye brings joy! R. WI.

VOTIVA DOMUS PETRENSIS

PRO DOMO DEI.[128]

Ut magis in mundi votis aviumque querelis Jam veniens solet esse dies, ubi cuspide prima Palpitat, et roseo lux praevia ludit ab ortu; c.u.m nec abest Phbus, nec Eois laetus habenis Totus adest, volucrumque procul vaga murmura mulcet: Nos ita; quos nuper radiis afflavit honestis 6 Relligiosa dies; nostrique per atria cli-- Sacra domus nostrum est coelum--jam luce tenella Libat adhuc trepidae fax nondum firma diei: Nos ita jam exercet nimii impatientia voti, 10 Speque sui propiore premit.

Quis pectora tanti Tendit amor coepti, desiderio quam longo Lentae spes inhiant, domus o dulcissima rerum, Plena Deo domus! Ah, quis erit, quis, dicimus, ille-- O bonus, o ingens meritis, o proximus ipsi, 16 Quem vocat in sua dona, Deo--quo vindice totas Excutiant tenebras haec sancta crepuscula?

Quando, Quando erit, ut tremulae flos heu tener ille diei, 20 Qui velut ex oriente suo jam altaria circ.u.m Lambit, et ambiguo n.o.bis procul anuit astro, Plenis se pandat foliis, et lampade tota Laetus, ut e medio c.u.m sol micat aureus axe, Attonitam penetrare domum bene possit adulto 25 Sidere, nec dubio pia moenia mulceat ore?

Quando erit, ut convexa suo quoque pulchra sereno Florescant, roseoque tremant laquearia risu?

Quae nimium informis tanquam sibi conscia frontis Perpetuis jam se l.u.s.trant lacrymantia guttis? 30 Quando erit, ut claris meliori luce fenestris Plurima per vitreos vivat pia pagina vultus?

Quando erit, ut sacrum n.o.bis celebrantibus hymnum Organicos facili et nunquam fallente susurro n.o.bile murmur agat nervos; pulmonis iniqui 35 Fistula nec monitus faciat malefida sinistros?

Denique, quicquid id est quod res hic sacra requirit, Fausta illa et felix--sitque o tua--dextra, suam cui Debeat haec Aurora diem. Tibi supplicat ipsa, Ipsa tibi facit ara preces. Tu jam illius audi, 40 Audiet illa tuas. Dubium est, modo porrige dextram, Des magis, an capias: audi tantum esse beatus, Et d.a.m.num hoc lucrare tibi.

Scis ipse volucres Quae rota volvat opes; has ergo, hic fige perennis 45 Fundamenta Domus Petrensi in rupe, suamque Fortunae sic deme rotam. Scis ipse procaces Divitias quam p.r.o.na vagos vehat ala per Euros; Divitiis illas, age, deme volucribus alas, Facque suus nostras illis sit nidus ad aras: 50 Remigii ut tandem pennas melioris adeptae, Se rapiant, dominumque suum super aethera sec.u.m.

Felix o qui sic potuit bene providus uti Fortunae pennis et opum levitate suarum, Divitiisque suis aquilae sic addidit alas. 55

TRANSLATION.

THE PRAYER OF PETERHOUSE FOR THE HOUSE OF G.o.d [=ITS CHAPEL].

As bids the Day a keener longing stir The waking world, and warblings cheerier To birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills, As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrills Through lattic'd sky from roseate East the light Presaging his approach; nor absent quite, Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the Sun Is present all; and birds, to music won By gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,-- So we, on whom with radiance severe A solemn day begins to dawn; whose eye Now sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie, With portals wide--G.o.d's house is heaven, we say-- The flame unsteady of still wavering Day Slenderly stealing in; the prospect nigher, Our hearts too labour with extreme desire, And throb with hopes impatient of their end.

How love of such a work our heart doth rend!

How long desire makes hopes in leash restrain'd To pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'd The torrent of G.o.d's fulness. Ah, who is he, Ah, who--O good, O huge in charity, O nigh to G.o.d Himself,--Whom to descend On His own gracious gifts he prays--shall lend This sacred twilight power to drive away All gloom, and shake her raiment into day?

Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloom Of glimmering Day, that as from bridal room In the Orient cam'st to kiss our altar-stone, And beckonest to us from a star alone, In yonder distance s.h.i.+ning doubtfully,-- Ah, when wilt thou expand to Day, and, free In conscious joy of thy full splendour, pour A flood of light, as when the Sun doth soar In golden mid-day, and, to full age grown, s.h.i.+ne through and through the pile, and make it own With awe thy sway, nor let the sacred walls Doubt thy embrace?

Blest he to whom befalls To see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky, And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lie Trembling with rosy laughter; which do now, As wearing of their shame a conscious brow, Bedew their formless face with dropping tear.

When shall it be? the window growing clear With better light, that many a page devout May live, and life from gla.s.sy face breathe out.

Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate, Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrate The organ's nerves with graceful ceaseless hum; Nor pipe of lung unjust intruding come, Each harsh, uncertain note for ever dumb?

Whatever else, in fine, this Sanctuary May need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be, And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall owe Its day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thou List to her prayer, and she will thine allow; Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful live Whether thou dost not more receive than give; That thou art happy do thou only hear, And turn thy loss to gain in yonder sphere.

Thou know'st what wheel makes riches fly away; These riches therefore here securely lay, Fountains of a House perennial, On the Petrensian rock; from Fortune shall Her own wheel thus be wrench'd. Thou knowest how p.r.o.ne A wing bears up unconstant riches, blown On vagrant, veering winds. Come, take away These wings from fleeting riches, make them stay At these our altars, and build here their nest; Till arm'd with wings to better flight redress'd, They may transport themselves to the home of rest, Bearing their master with them.

Blest that man Who knowing prudently the times to scan, The airiness of wealth to profit brings, And him on Fortune's pinions deftly flings, And to his riches adds an eagle's wings. S.S.

IN CAETERORUM OPERUM

DIFFICILI PARTURITIONE GEMITUS.[129]

O felix nimis illa, et nostrae n.o.bile nomen Invidiae volucris, facili quae funere surgens Mater odora sui, nitidae nova fila juventae, Et festinatos peragit sibi fata per ignes.

Illa, haud natales tot tardis mensibus horas 5 Tam miseris tenuata moris, saltu velut uno In nova secla rapit sese, et caput omne decoras Explicat in frondes, roseoque repullulat ortu.

Cinnameos simul illa rogos conscenderit, omnem Laeta bibit Phoeb.u.m, et jam jam victricibus alis 10 Plaudit humum cineresque suos.

Heu, dispare fato Nos ferimur; seniorque suo sub Apolline phnix Petrensis mater, dubias librata per auras Pendet adhuc, quaeritque sinum in quo ponat inertes 15 Exuvias, spoliisque suae reparata senectae Ore pari surgat, similique per omnia vultu.

At nunc heu nixu secli melioris in ipso Deliquium pat.i.tur!

At nunc heu lentae longo in molimine vitae 20 Interea moritur! Dubio stant moenia vultu Parte sui pulchra, et fratres in foedera muros Invitant frustra, nec respondentia saxis Saxa suis; moerent opera intermissa, ma.n.u.sque Implorant. 25 Succurre piae, succurre parenti, O quisquis pius es. Illi succurre parenti, Quam sibi tot sanctae matres habuere parentem.

Quisquis es, o tibi, crede, tibi tot hiantia ruptis Moenibus ora loqui. Matrem tibi, crede verendam 30 Muros tam longo laceros senioque situque Ceu canos monstrare suos. Succurre roganti.

Per tibi plena olim, per jam sibi sicca precatur Ubera, ne desis senio. Sic longa juventus Te foveat, querulae nunquam cessura senectae. 35

TRANSLATION.

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, a.s.sumes afresh her s.h.i.+ning 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 aged Phnix, 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 Phnix 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s which once she offer'd thee, By the dry b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 Phnix, 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 Phnix, 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 piled 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 Phnix 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, n.o.ble 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, phnix-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 dishonoured gray hair.

Woe is me, her genial breast, Which so many sons has blest, Each all welcoming that came, Drawn by her renowned 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 s.h.i.+ngle, sand, and fest'ring mud Tell of the far-refluent flood.