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 n.o.bler 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 p.u.b.em 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 sec.u.m facies, imae mala pignora noctis; Quot sec.u.m 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.

WAR IN HEAVEN.

Rev. xii. 7.

To arms, ye starry chieftains all, who lead The youth of heaven to war--to arms, with speed!

Let each right-hand its untried arrows grasp, Or its own fiercely-gleaming falchion clasp.

_He_ is _all_ here, and mightier in his wrath, The Dragon brings all powers the Dragon hath: Strange forms, curst children of the deepest Night-- What dusky G.o.ds he marshals to the fight!

Now he makes ready, fights now, fierce as h.e.l.l!

Scarce could I say 'He fights,' when, lo, he fell.

Ah, 'twas too much to scar with wrath these faces, And leave on angel-cheeks such furrow'd traces.

'Tis his grim boast and proudly-swelling fate, That of a great crime e'en the end was great: If vanquish'd, that 'twas no mean victory; Much bolted thunder there requir'd to be; That with these words his fiery pains he charms: 'Arms I bore vainly; but I did bear arms.' R. WI.

NOTE.

See our Essay, as before, for relation of this poem to the Sospetto d' Herode, and others. G.

NON ACCIPIMUS BREVEM VITAM,

SED FACIMUS.

Ergo tu luges nimium citatam Circulo vitam properante volvi?

Tu Deos parcos gemis, ipse c.u.m sis Prodigus aevi?

Ipse quod perdis, quereris perire?

Ipse tu pellis, sed et ire ploras?

Vita num servit tibi? servus ipse Cedet abactus.

Est fugax vitae, fateor, fluentum: p.r.o.na sed clivum modo det voluptas, Amne proclivi magis, et fugace Labitur unda.

Fur Sopor magnam hinc, oculos recludens, Surripit partem, ruit inde partem Temporis magnam spolium reportans Latro voluptas.

Tu creas mortes tibi mille, et aeva Plura quo perdas, tibi plura poscis......

TRANSLATION.

WE DO NOT RECEIVE, BUT MAKE, A SHORT LIFE.

Dost thou lament that life, urg'd-on too quickly, Rolls round its course in hasting revolution?

Dost blame the thrifty G.o.ds, when thou thyself art Lavish of lifetime?

What thyself wastest, mourn'st thou if it perish?

Dost drive it from thee, but deplore it going?

Is life thy servant? Sooth, a very servant Turn'd off departeth.

Life's stream is fleeting--I confess it--always; But once let Pleasure yield an easy incline, With headlong wave and with more fleeting current Onward it glideth.

Sleep, the thief, closing drowsy eyelids, s.n.a.t.c.heth One mighty portion; while as large a portion Pleasure, the robber, carries off unchalleng'd-- Time's precious gold-dust.

Thou for thyself a thousand deaths createst; And the more lifetimes thou dost spend in folly, So many more in lieu of them demandest; Wasting and wanting. R. WI.

DE SANGUINE MARTYRUM.

Felices, properatis io, properatis, et altam Vicistis gyro sub breviore viam.

Vos per non magnum vestri mare sanguinis illuc Cymba tulit nimiis non operosa notis, Quo nos tam lento sub remigio luctantes Ducit inexhausti vis male fida freti.

Nos mora, nos longi consumit inertia lethi; In ludum mortis luxuriemque sumus.

Nos aevo et senio et latis permittimur undis; Spargimur in casus, porrigimur furiis.

Nos miseri sumus ex amplo spatioque perimus; In nos inquirunt fata, probantque ma.n.u.s; Ingenium fati sumus, ambitioque malorum.

Conatus mortis consiliumque sumus.

In vitae multo multae patet area mortis[95]

Non vitam n.o.bis numerant, quot viximus anni: Vita brevis nostra est; sit licet acta diu.

Vivere non longum est, quod longam ducere vitam: Res longa in vita saepe peracta brevi est.

Nec vos tam vitae Deus in compendia misit, Quam vetuit vestrae plus licuisse neci.

Accedit vitae quicquid decerpitur aevo, Atque illo brevius, quo citius morimur.