Chapter 101
Cedit io jam, jamque cadet modo, fort.i.ter urge, Jam tua ni desit dextera, jamque cadet.
Nimirum hoc velit ipse, tuo favet ipse triumpho, Ipse tuas tacitus res tuus hostis agit.
Quas pat.i.tur facit ille ma.n.u.s; ictu ille sub omni est; Atque in te vires sent.i.t, amatque suas.
Usque adeo haud tuus hic ferus est, neque ferreus hostis; Usque adeo est miles non truculentus Amor.
Illo quam facilis victoria surgit ab hoste, Qui, tantum ut vinci possit, in arma venit!
_The woman of Canaan._
Now He yieldeth, now He falleth, As thy pa.s.sion on Him calleth: Press thee nigher still and nigher, Urge thee higher still and higher; Cleave and cling, nor let thy hand Cease to plead, nor fearing stand.
He thy triumph sees with gladness, Loves thee in thy clinging sadness; Seems thy foe, yet ne'ertheless Yearns in His heart of love to bless; Willing bears thy every blow, That from His own pow'r doth flow; Loves to hear thy interceding, His own voice within thee pleading.
Ah, this seeming en'my of thine, Of fierceness giveth thee no sign; For Love no grim soldier is, Rough and severe, denying bliss.
Eas'ly is that victory won, When the foe seeks to be undone. G.
x.x.xVII.
_Quare comedit Magister vester c.u.m peccatoribus, &c._ Matt. ix. 11.
Siccine fraternos fastidis, improbe, morbos, c.u.m tuus, et gravior, te quoque morbus habet?
Tantum ausus medic.u.m morbus sibi quaerere, magnus; Tantum ausus medic.u.m spernere, major erat.
_Wherefore eateth your Master with sinners, &c._
Dost loathe thy brother, Pharisee, Since his disease to Christ he brings?
And knowest not that all men see Disease to thee more deadly clings?
That he dare seek Healer so great, Shows great his disease to be; That thou dar'st scorn on Him to wait, Shows a greater cleaves to thee. G.
x.x.xVIII.
_In febricitantem et hydropic.u.m sanatos._ Marc. i. 30, 31; Luc. xiv.
2-4.
Nuper lecta gravem extinxit pia pagina febrem, Hydropi siccos dat modo lecta sinus.
Haec vice fraterna quam se miracula tangunt, Atque per alternum fida juvamen amant!
Quippe ignes istos his quam bene mersit in
_Miracles of healing the men sick of fever and of dropsy._
We read within the sacred page Christ quench'd a fever's burning rage; Read that a dropsy's swollen flood Ebb'd at His word e'en as He stood.
Well join'd these mir'cles each to other, As loving brother unto brother: How well these waters drown'd that flame, That fire these waters overcame! G.
x.x.xIX.
_In S. Lucam medic.u.m._ Col. iv. 14.
Hanc, mihi quam miseram faciunt mea crimina vitam, Hanc, medici, longam vestra medela facit.
Hoc'ne diu est vixisse? diu, mihi credite, non est Hoc vixisse; diu sed timuisse mori.
Tu foliis, Medice alme, tuis medicamina praebes, Et medicaminibus, quae mala summa, malis.
Hoc mortem bene vitare est, vitare ferendo.
Et vixisse diu est hoc, cito posse mori.
_To St. Luke the physician._
This life my sins with wretchedness make rife, Physicians by their art prolong this life.
Is this to live long time? I hear one sigh; This is but fearing a long time to die.
Thy leaves, Physician blest, medicines contain E'en for our medicines poor, our chiefest bane.
This is to escape death well--in death to lie; And this is to live long--quickly to die. R. WI.
XL.
_Tollat crucem suam, &c._ Matt. xxvii. 32.
Ergo tuam pone; ut n.o.bis sit sumere nostram: Si nostram vis nos sumere, pone tuam.
Illa, illa, ingenti quae te trabe duplicat, illa Vel nostra est, nostras vel tulit illa cruces.
_He bears His own cross, &c._
Wherefore Thy cross, O Lord, lay down, That we our own may make it: If ours Thou willest us to own, Thine, Lord, lay down; we'll take it: That, that, I say, with its huge beam, Which Thy prest body doubles; That cross, e'en that, our own we deem, For it has borne our troubles.
Our sin Thy burden sendeth; Thy cross our crosses blendeth. G.
XLI.
_In cygneam D. Jesu cantionem._ Joan. xvii.
Quae mella, o quot, Christe, favos in carmina fundis!
Dulcis et, ah furias! ah, moribundus olor!
Parce tamen, minus hae si sunt mea gaudia voces: Voce quidem dulci, sed moriente canis.
_Upon our Lord's last comfortable discourse with His disciples._
All Hybla's honey, all that sweetnesse can, Flowes in Thy song, O faire, O dying Swan!
Yet is the joy I take in't small or none; It is too sweet to be a long-liv'd one. CR.
ANOTHER VERSION. _On the swan-song of our Lord Jesus._
What songs, like honeycomb, your tongue employ, Sweet Swan! but ah, Thou waitest for Death's call.
O cease; these sounds are but a doubtful joy; 'Tis a sweet voice, but has a dying fall. G.
XLII.
_Et conspuebant illum._ Marc. xiv. 65.
Quid non tam foede saevi maris audeat ira?
Conspuit ecce oculos, sydera nostra, tuos.
Forsan et hic aliquis sputo te excaecat, Jesu, Qui debet sputo, quod videt ipse, tuo.