_To the very reverend man_ BENJAMIN LANY, _Doctor of Divinity, most worthy Master of Pembroke College [Cambridge], the least of the least of those that are his, R[ichard] C[rashaw] implores the divine protection._[41]

Even flowers have their own peculiar fruit, which we enjoy, if not so profitably, yet in a manner more refined. Nor is it unusual that, in accordance with the hope of Spring, making promises for herself as it were by her flowers, we demand credit for the maturer year, and even for Autumn itself. Forgive, then, most Reverend Sir, the Muse hastening into the presence of her Apollo, and exulting in the wantonness of earliest youth. She offers the flowers of a tender age, not the fruits of a late one, which flowers indeed it were unreasonable to demand in accordance with that late and sober maturity which we rightly look for in fruits--flowers which are more likely to be pleasing from the very fact of their precocious importunity,--to thee above all, whom a fatherly mind, as it is wont to happen, holds watching for every dawning of its hope, by which you may give yourself a.s.surance of anything respecting the genius of your sons; after the manner also of those who, in haste for the reward of their labour and the price of their patience, from what they have themselves sown and tended, s.n.a.t.c.h greedily whatever part may project a little of a floweret, which, as with early bashfulness, is making trial of the airs and the open sky, and attach an odour to it, not so much from its own nature and character as from the inclination of their own mind, which fosters in it their own anxieties and hopes.

Suffer then, Reverend Master, this little garland, made of flowers of such a sort, to be bound on thee; a festal one a.s.suredly, and not able to endure that most auspicious star of thy countenance in any other way than--for it is even of such a graciousness--when it draws back with milder ray, and so far subtracts from itself. Nor a.s.suredly than this kind of writing, provided it have sufficiently discharged its proper functions, could anything be more suitable to theological leisure; for in it without doubt the very substance of theology being overlaid with poetic grace, sets off its grandeur by loveliness. Finally, whatever this may be, you will nevertheless, I know, be able and willing to be lovingly disposed towards it; not as anything great or uncommon; not, in short, as anything worthy of you, but as your own--your own by highest right as having been called forth from your soil, by your light, and, in fine, into your hand. As for what fortune awaits this little book, deign to be persuaded, most worshipful Sir, not to scorn when addressing you now in a more public style him whom you have welcomed in private with so ready an affection. May you stand on its threshold, not only as its good omen but also as its subject! In very truth that countenance of yours is a Sacred Epigram, or teaches what it should be, where forsooth severity is tempered with love, and sanct.i.ty is mellowed by sweetness. You see me inclined towards a sphere denied to me--that of sounding your praises, I mean; which since your modesty has taken from me, it remains of necessity that I should be brief: yes indeed, I am too diffuse, seeing that the very subject is cut off from me in which alone I was, and even without irksomeness, able to be prolix. Farewell, most cultured of men, and do not disdain me, so insignificant a suppliant, for daring to honour your tranquil genius, and, since divinity even does not forbid this respecting itself, also to love it. But in the mean while give pardon to the Muse, to such a degree unrestrained as to have dared for this part at least of your praise, which is most due to you on account of sacred things that have been honoured amongst us, to fly towards you with a strain of such kind as this, whatever it may be:

Kind Guardian of the Muses' flock, Through whom it breathes in learn'd repose, Whether it choose the dripping rock, Or where the open sunshine glows.

Not fairer he through trackless shade Who led aemonia's flocks of old; Not even Apollo, when he play'd, With defter touch could charm the fold.

If thou the eye serene dost grant, Green fields are ours, and streams and hills, And, since no Phbus else we want, The Muses with their dulcet quills.

Religion too with modest grace Through thee a.s.sumes a gentler mien; Through thee again can show her face, No more in dust and ashes seen.

Her brows crown'd meetly, and, through thee, Her G.o.d in sight of all confess'd, She gives in her divinity Meaning and law to garb and vest.

Lo, while we gaze, an ample state Adorns thee; what a l.u.s.trous sheen Plays on thy lips! with what a weight Thy reverent Genius toils within!

For him on whom thy calm glance flows His star sheds down a fuller ray; The light that o'er thine aspect glows Is brighter than the shafts of Day.

And there is cause. The Lord of heaven, Whose altar thou hast made so fair, Pours back the light that thou hast given, With glory meets His worshipper.

Lo, on the threshold of thy G.o.d While thou dost stoop on bended knee, The altar from on high doth nod, Its plausive wings are bent to thee.

And, glowing with his duty's worth, Each starry-tressed chorister With look that savours not of earth Tends like a rosy cherub there.

And rightly. For, when ruin-wreck'd, With prayers and outstretch'd hands the fane Bemoan'd itself in all neglect, And sought elsewhere for help in vain,--

To thee by its own vows 'tis bound, And now repays thee. At the shrine Whose cry so well thy ears hath found Long, long may prayer and praise be thine!

LECTORI.

Salve. Jamque vale. Quid enim quis pergeret ultra?

Qua jocus et lusus non vocat, ire voles?

Scilicet hic, Lector, cur noster habebere, non est; Deliciis folio non faciente tuis.

Nam nec Acidalios halat mihi pagina rores; Nostra Cupidineae nec favet aura faci.

Frustra hinc ille suis quicquam promiserit alis: Frustra hinc illa novo speret abire sinu.

Ille e materna melius sibi talia myrto; Illa jugis melius poscat ab Idaliis.

Quaerat ibi suus in quo cespite surgat Adonis, Quae melior teneris patria sit violis.

Illinc totius Florae, verisque, suique Consilio, ille alas impleat, illa sinus.

Me mea, casta tamen, si sit rudis, herba coronet: Me mea, si rudis est, sit rudis, herba juvat.

Nulla meo Circaea tument tibi pocula versu: Dulcia, et in furias officiosa tuas.

Nulla latet Lethe, quam fraus tibi florea libat, Quam rosa sub falsis dat malefida genis.

Nulla verecundum ment.i.tur mella venenum: Captat ab insidiis linea nulla suis.

Et spleni, et jecori foliis bene parcitur istis.

Ah, male c.u.m rebus staret utrumque meis!

Rara est quae ridet, nulla est quae pagina prurit, Nulla salax, si quid norit habere salis.

Non nudae Veneres, nec, si jocus, udus habetur: Non nimium Bacchus noster Apollo fuit.

Nil cui quis putri sit detorquendus ocello; Est nihil obliquo quod velit ore legi.

Haec coram atque oculis legeret Lucretia justis; Iret et illaesis hinc pudor ipse genis.

Nam neque candidior voti venit aura pudici De matutina virgine thura ferens: c.u.m vestis nive vincta sinus, nive tempora fulgens, Dans nive flammeolis frigida jura comis, Religiosa pedum sensim vestigia librans, Ante aras tandem const.i.tit, et tremuit.

Nec gravis ipsa suo sub numine castior halat Quae pia non puras summovet ara ma.n.u.s.

Tam Venus in nostro non est nimis aurea versu: Tam non sunt pueri tela timenda dei.

Saepe puer dubias circ.u.m me moverat alas, Jecit et incertas nostra sub ora faces; Saepe vel ipse sua calamum mihi blandus ab ala, Vel matris cygno de meliore dedit; Saepe Dionaeae pactus mihi serta coronae; Saepe: Meus vates tu, mihi dixit, eris.

I procul, i c.u.m matre tua, puer improbe, dixi: Non tibi c.u.m numeris res erit ulla meis.

Tu Veronensi c.u.m pa.s.sere pulchrior ibis: Bilbilicisve queas comptius esse modis.

Ille tuos finget quocunque sub agmine crines: Undique nequitiis par erit ille tuis.

Ille nimis, dixi, patet in tua proelia campus: Heu, nimis est vates et nimis ille tuus!

Gleba illa, ah, tua quam tamen urit adultera messis!

Esset Idumaeo germine quanta parens!

Quantus ibi et quantae premeret puer ubera matris!

Nec coelos vultu dissimulante suos.

Ejus in isto oculi satis essent sidera versu; Sidereo matris quam bene tuta sinu!

Matris ut hic similes in collum mitteret ulnas, Inque sinus niveos pergeret, ore pari; Utque genis pueri haec aequis daret oscula labris, Et bene cognatis iret in ora rosis; Quae Mariae tam larga meat, quam disceret illic Uvida sub pretio gemma tumere suo!

Staret ibi ante suum lacrymatrix Diva Magistrum: Seu levis aura volet, seu gravis unda cadat; Luminis haec soboles, et proles pyxidis illa, Pulchrius unda cadat, suavius aura volet.

Quicquid in his sordet demum, luceret in illis.

Improbe, nec satis est hunc tamen esse tuum?

Improbe, cede, puer: quid enim mea carmina mulces?

Carmina de jaculis muta futura tuis.

Cede, puer, qua te petulantis fraena puellae; Turpia quae revocant pensa procacis herae; Qua miseri male pulchra nitent mendacia limi; Qua cerussatae, furta decora, genae; Qua mirere rosas, alieni sidera veris; Quas nivis haud propriae bruma redempta domat.

Cede, puer, dixi et dico; cede, improba mater: Altera Cypris habet nos; habet alter Amor.

Scilicet hic Amor est; hic est quoque mater Amoris.

Sed Mater virgo; sed neque caecus Amor.

O Puer! o Domine! o magnae reverentia Matris, Alme tui stupor et relligio gremii!

O Amor, innocuae cui sunt pia jura pharetrae, Nec nisi de casto corde sagitta calens!

Me, Puer, o certa, quem figis, fige sagitta; O tua de me sit facta pharetra levis!

Quodque illinc sit.i.t et bibit, et bibit et sit.i.t usque; Usque meum sitiat pectus, et usque bibat.

Fige, Puer, corda haec. Seu spinis exiguus quis, Seu clavi aut hastae cuspide magnus ades; Seu major cruce c.u.m tota; seu maximus ipso Te corda haec figis denique; fige, Puer.

O metam hanc tuus aeternum inclamaverit arcus: Stridat in hanc teli densior aura tui.

O tibi si jaculum ferat ala ferocior ullum, Hanc habeat triti vulneris ire viam.

Quique tuae populus cunque est, quae turba, pharetrae; Hic bene vulnificas nidus habebit aves.

O mihi sis bello semper tam saevus in isto!

Pectus in hoc nunquam mitior hostis eas.

Quippe ego quam jaceam pugna bene sparsus in illa!

Quam bene sic lacero pectore sa.n.u.s ero!

Haec mea vota. Mei sunt haec quoque vota libelli.

Haec tua sint, Lector, si meus esse voles.

Si meus esse voles, meus ut sis, lumina, Lector, Casta, sed o nimium non tibi sicca, precor.

Nam tibi fac madidis meus ille occurrerit alis, Sanguine, seu lacryma diffluat ille sua: Stipite totus hians, clavisque reclusus, et hasta: Fons tuus in fluvios desidiosus erit?

Si tibi sanguineo meus hic tener iverit amne, Tune tuas illi, dure, negabis aquas?

Ah durus! quicunque meos, nisi siccus, amores Nolit, et hic lacrymae rem neget esse suae.

Saepe hic Magdalinas vel aquas vel amaverit undas; Credo nec a.s.syrias mens tua malit opes.

Scilicet ille tuos ignis recalescet ad ignes; Forsan et illa tuis unda natabit aquis.

Hic eris ad cunas, et odoros funere manes: Hinc ignes nasci testis, et inde meos.

Hic mec.u.m, et c.u.m matre sua, mea gaudia quaeres: Maturus Procerum seu stupor esse velit; Sive per antra sui lateat, tunc templa, sepulchri: Tertia lux reducem, lenta sed illa, dabit.

Sint fidae precor, ah, dices, facilesque tenebrae; Lux mea dum noctis, res nova! poscit opem.

Denique charta meo quicquid mea dicat amori, Illi quo metuat cunque, fleatve, modo, Laeta parum, dices, haec, sed neque dulcia non sunt: Certe et amor, dices, hujus amandus erat.