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SOSPETTO D'HERODE1

LIBRO PRIMO

ARGOMENTO

Casting the times with their strong signs,
Death's master his own death divines;
Struggling for help, his best hope is
Herod's suspicion may heal his.
Therefore he sends a friend to wake
The sleeping tyrant's fond mistake,
Who fears (in vain) that He Whose birth
Means Heaven, should meddle with his Earth.

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
Earth,

Far more than matter for my Muse and me.
The Tyrrhene 2 Seas and shores sound all the

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,
He fills a burnish'd throne of quenchless fire:
And for his old fair robes of light he wears
A gloomy mantle of dark flames; the tire

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
Seven crested Hydras horribly adorn.

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;
Whose unconsumed consumption preys upon
The never-dying life of a long death.
In this sad house of slow destruction

(His shop of flames) he fries himself, beneath
A mass of woes; his teeth for torment gnash,
While his steel sides sound with his tail's
strong lash.

IX

Three rigorous virgins waiting still behind,
Assist the throne of th' iron-sceptred King :

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
Thee all the beauties of thy once bright eyes.
How hath one black eclipse cancelled and crost
The glories that did gild thee in thy rise.
Proud Morning1 of a perverse day, how lost
Art thou unto thyself, thou too self-wise
Narcissus, foolish Phaethon, who for all
Thy high-aim'd hopes gain'dst but a flaming
fall.

XI

From Death's sad shades to the life-breathing air,

This mortal enemy to mankind's good,
Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautiful in human blood.
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair
The fields of Palestine, with so pure a flood,

There does he fix his eyes, and there detect
New matter, to make good his great suspect.

1 Satan is called the son of the morning, Isaiah xiv. 12: "How art thou fallen . . . Lucifer, son of the morning!"

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