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Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes, !
What make you here? what hopes can 'tice 1
Whither away so fast?
For sure the sluttish earth
Your sweetness cannot taste,
Sweet, whither haste you then?
We go not to seek
The darlings of Aurora's bed,
birth. O say
Nor the violet's humble head.
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
N shade of Death's sad tree
Ah she, now by none other
Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother. Before her
Each wound of His, from every part,
What kind of marble then
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
1 The Cross.
2 His own eyes, which should be weeping.
O costly intercourse
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
She sees her Son, her God,
Of borrow'd sins; and swim
In woes that were not made for Him.
Charged to look on, and with a steadfast eye
Leaving her only so much breath
O mother turtle-dove!
Soft source of love!
That these dry lids might borrow
Something from thy full seas of sorrow!
Of thine (the noblest nest
1 Him that was the life of Her.
Both of Love's fires and floods) might I recline
O teach those wounds to bleed
This book of loves, thus writ
O let me, here, claim shares,
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
So fast 'twixt Him and Thee,
My breast may catch the kiss of some kind dart,
O you, your own best darts,
Hail! and strike home, and make me see
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)
Shall I set there in sins
(Dear wounds!), and only now In sorrows draw no dividend with you? O be more wise,
If not more soft, mine eyes!
Flow, tardy founts! and into decent showers
And if thou yet (faint soul!) defer
To bleed with Him, fail not to weep with her.
Rich queen, lend some relief;,
At least an alms of grief,
To a heart who by sad right of sin
Could prove the whole sum (too sure) due to him.