XVII.
O hear a suppliant heart, all crushed
And crumbled into contrite dust.
My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Friend!
Take charge of me, and of my end.
IX.
TRANSLATION OF "CHRISTE, VENI,"
BY REV. R. WILTON, M.A.
EVEN SO COME, LORD JESUS.
O come; whatever fears Thy standards carry,
Or sorrows summon us, Lord, do not tarry.
Come, Lord; though labouring heaven whirl from its place,
And its perplexèd paths no more can trace;
Though sympathising earth astonied reel,
And nature jarrèd cease its round to wheel.
Come, Lord; though sun refuse with rosy beam
To rise, and sickly drives a doubtful team.
Come, Lord; though moon look more aghast at night
Than when her cheeks with panic fear are white;
Though ominous comets through the dolorous air
Hurtle, and round their brow dread fire-wreaths wear;
Though spite of struggling sun Night's sudden sway
Impious and lawless seize the accustom'd day;
Mistimèd Day, mindless of eastern glow,
Through moanings of forsaken Night should go.
Come, Lord; though father Ocean roars and lowers,
That his mov'd mountain-bars own other powers.
Come, Lord; whate'er Fear dares, e'en let it dare;
Let Fates do what they will, be Thou but there.
Come, Lord; with whate'er recompense of ill,
Whate'er Thy coming cost, O come, Lord, still.
Thee and Thine eyes, O what 'twill be to see!
Thee to enjoy e'en so, what will that be!
Let come what will, do Thou, Lord, only come.
ST. MARY MAGDALENE, OR THE WEEPER.
Lo! where a wounded heart with bleeding eyes conspire.
Is she a flaming fountain, or a weeping fire?
HAIL, sister springs!
Parents of silver-footed rills!
Ever bubbling things!
Thawing crystal! snowy hills
Still spending, never spent! I mean
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene!
II.
Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars.
'Tis seed-time still with thee;
And stars thou sow'st, whose harvest dares
Promise the Earth, to countershine
Whatever makes heaven's forehead fine.
But we are deceived all:
Stars indeed they are too true;
For they but seem to fall,
As Heaven's other spangles do :
It is not for our Earth and us
To shine in things so precious.
Upwards thou dost weep:
Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream.
Where th' milky rivers creep,
Thine floats above, and is the cream.
Waters above th' heavens, what they be
We are taught best by thy tears and thee.
Every morn from hence,
A brisk cherub something sips,
Whose sacred influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music; and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.
When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
And Heaven will make a feast :
Angels with crystal phials come
And draw from these full eyes of thine,
Their Master's water, their own wine.
VII.
The dew no more will weep
The primrose's pale cheek to deck:
The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzel'd in the lily's neck;
Much rather would it be thy tear,
And leave them both to tremble here.
VIII.
Not the soft gold which
Steals from the amber-weeping tree,
Makes Sorrow half so rich
As the drops distill'd from thee.
Sorrow's best jewels lie in these
Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys.
When Sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty:
(For she is a Queen):
Then is she dress'd by none but thee.
Then, and only then, she wears
Her proudest pearls: I mean, thy tears.
Not in the Evening's eyes,
When they red with weeping are
For the Sun that dies;
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
Nowhere but here did ever meet
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
XI.
Sadness all the while
She sits in such a throne as this,
Can do naught but smile,
Nor believes she Sadness is:
Gladness itself would be more glad,
To be made so sweetly sad.
XII.
There's no need at all,
That the balsam-sweating bough
So coyly should let fall
His med'cinable tears; for now
Nature hath learn'd to extract a dew
More sovereign and sweet, from you.
Yet let the poor drops weep, (Weeping is the ease of Woe): Softly let them creep,
Sad that they are vanquish'd so. They, though to others no relief, Balsam may be for their own grief.
Golden though he be,
Golden Tagus murmurs though.
Were his way by thee,
Content and quiet he would go;
So much more rich would he esteem
Thy silver, than his golden stream.
Well does the May that lies
Smiling in thy cheeks, confess
The April in thine eyes;
Mutual sweetness they express.
No April e'er lent kinder showers,
Nor May returned more faithful flowers.
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