XXX Say, ye bright brothers, The fugitive sons of those fair eyes, What make you here? what hopes can 'tice 1 XXXI Whither away so fast? For sure the sluttish earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither haste you then? O say Why you trip so fast away? XXXII We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, Nor the violet's humble head. XXXIII Much less mean we to trace SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM, OR, THE MOTHER OF SORROWS A PATHETICAL DESCANT UPON THE DEVOUT PLAINSONG OF STABAT MATER DOLOROSA I N shade of Death's sad tree 1 IN Stood doleful she. Ah she, now by none other Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother. Before her eyes Hers and the whole World's Joy, Hanging all torn, she sees; and in His woes And pains, her pangs and throes: Each wound of His, from every part, All more at home in her one heart. II What kind of marble then Is that cold man Who can look on and see, Nor keep such noble sorrows company? (My flints) 2 some drops are due, To see so many unkind swords contest While with a faithful, mutual flood, Her eyes bleed tears, His wounds weep blood. 1 The Cross. 2 His own eyes, which should be weeping. O costly intercourse Of deaths, and worse Divided loves. While Son and mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another, Quick deaths that grow And gather, as they come and go. His nails write swords in her, which soon her heart Pays back, with more than their own smart; Her swords, still growing with His pain, Turn spears, and straight come home again. IV She sees her Son, her God, Of borrow'd sins; and swim In woes that were not made for Him. Of love! Here must she stand, Charged to look on, and with a steadfast eye Leaving her only so much breath V O mother turtle-dove! That these dry lids might borrow Of thine (the noblest nest 1 Him that was the life of Her. Both of Love's fires and floods) might I recline The chill lump would relent, and prove VI O teach those wounds to bleed This book of loves, thus writ O let me, here, claim shares, Yield something in thy sad prerogative (Great Queen of griefs!), and give Me too, my tears; who, though all stone, VII Yea, let my life and me And at the humble foot Of this fair tree,1 take our eternal root. That so we may At least be in Love's way; And in these chaste wars, while the wing'd wounds flee So fast 'twixt Him and Thee, My breast may catch the kiss of some kind dart, 1 The Cross. VIII O you, your own best darts, Hail! and strike home, and make me see That wounded bosoms their own weapons be. Come wounds, come darts! Nail'd hands and pierced hearts! Come your whole selves, Sorrow's great Son and Mother! Nor grudge a younger brother Of griefs his portion, who (had all their due) IX' Shall I set there in sins So deep a share, (Dear wounds!), and only now In sorrows draw no dividend with you? O be more wise, If not more soft, mine eyes! And if thou yet (faint soul!) defer To bleed with Him, fail not to weep with her. Could X Rich queen, lend some relief;, To a heart who, by sad right of sin |