SOSPETTO D'HERODE1 LIBRO PRIMO ARGOMENTO Casting the times with their strong signs, I MUSE, now the servant of soft loves no more, Hate is thy theme, and Herod, whose unblest Hand (O, what dares not jealous greatness?) tore A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast, The blooms of martyrdom. O, be a door Of language to my infant lips, ye best Of Confessors; whose throats, answering his swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for words. 1 The jealousy of Herod. A poem in Italian by Marino, called "Strage degli Innocenti," Book I., of which this is a very free translation. II Great Anthony,1 Spain's well-beseeming pride, Thou mighty branch of emperors and kings; The beauties of whose dawn what eye may bide? Which with the sun himself weighs equal wings; Map of heroic worth, whom far and wide To the believing world Fame boldly sings: Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows, To be the sacred honour of thy brows. III Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flowers Other than what their own blest beauties bring; They were the smiling sons of those sweet bowers, That drink the dew of life, whose deathless spring, Nor Syrian flame, nor Borean 2 frost deflowers; From whence heaven-labouring bees with busy wing, Suck hidden sweets, which, well digested, prove Immortal honey for the hive of love. 1 Anthony. I think this refers to St. Anthony of Padua, who was born at Lisbon, however, in Portugal. This is very interesting, however, for Spain seized Portugal in 1580, and the Portuguese did not get back their kingdom till the treaty of Lisbon, 1668. As Crashaw died in 1648, he of course calls all that peninsula Spain. At the same time we must remember that Crashaw is here supposed to be translating. 2 Northern. IV Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth, Holds high the reign of fair Parthenope,1 That neither Rome nor Athens can bring forth A name in noble deeds rival to thee! Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient Far more than matter for my Muse and me. same, And in their murmurs kept thy mighty name. V Below the bottom of the great Abyss, There where one centre reconciles all things, The World's profound heart pants; there placed is Mischief's old master: close about him clings A curled knot of embracing snakes, that kiss His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings Hold the perverse Prince in eternal ties Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies. VI The Judge of torments, and the King of tears, 1 Naples. 2 That part of the Mediterranean between Italy, Corsica, Sardinia, and Sicily. That crowns his hated head on high appears; Where seven tall horns (his empire's pride) aspire; His And to make up Hell's Majesty, each horn VII eyes, the sullen dens of Death and Night, Startle the dull air with a dismal red: Such his fell glances as the fatal light Of staring comets, that look kingdoms dead. From his black nostrils and blue lips, in spite Of Hell's own stink, a worser stench is spread. His breath Hell's lightning is: and each deep groan Disdains to think that Heaven thunders alone. VIII His flaming eyes' dire exhalation Unto a dreadful pile gives fiery breath; (His shop of flames) he fries himself, beneath IX Three rigorous virgins waiting still behind, With whips of thorns and knotty vipers twined They rouse him, when his rank thoughts need a sting. Their locks are beds of uncombed snakes, that wind About their shady brows in wanton rings. Thus reigns the wrathful King, and while he reigns, His sceptre and himself both he disdains. X Disdainful wretch, how hath one bold sin cost XI From Death's sad shades to the life-breathing air, This mortal enemy to mankind's good, There does he fix his eyes, and there detect 1 Satan is called the son of the morning, Isaiah xiv. 12: "How art thou fallen . . . Lucifer, son of the morning!" |