Chapter 98
XVII.
_Ego vitis vera._ Joan. xv. 1.
Credo quidem, sed et hoc hostis te credidit ipse Caiaphas, et Judas credidit ipse, reor.
Unde illis, Jesu, vitis nisi vera fuisses, Tanta tui potuit sanguinis esse sitis?
_I am the True Vine._
'Believe!' e'en Caiaphas, thy foe, believed Thee the True Vine; and Judas too, I think.
Had they not, Lord, Thee as True Vine received, Could they have thirsted so Thy Blood to drink? G.
XVIII.
_Abscessum Christi queruntur Discipuli._
Ille abiit, jamque o quae nos mala cunque manetis, Sist.i.te jam in nostras tela parata neces.
Sist.i.te; nam quibus haec vos olim tela paratis, Abscessu Domini jam periere sui.
_The departure of Christ lamented by the Disciples._
The Lord is gone; and now, all evils dire, Hold back the darts which for our death you flourish: Yea, hold them back, nor waste on us your ire, For with our Lord's departure, lo, we perish. G.
XIX.
_In descensum Spiritus Sancti._ Act. ii. 1-4.
Quae vehit auratos nubes dulcissima nimbos?
Quis mitem pluviam lucidus imber agit?
Agnosco, nostros haec nubes abstulit ignes: Haec nubes in nos jam redit igne pari.
O nubem gratam et memorem, quae noluit ultra Tam saeve de se nos potuisse queri!
O bene; namque alio non posset rore rependi, Coelo exhalatum quod modo terra dedit.
_On the descent of the Holy Spirit._
What sweetest cloud comes wafting golden shower?
What gentle raindrops bring their s.h.i.+ning dower?
The cloud which stole our flame, our heart's desire, This very cloud returns with equal fire.
O kindly-mindful cloud, which could not brook That we should mourn thee with so sad a look!
'Tis well; no
XX.
Act. x. 39.
Quis malus appendit de mortis stipite vitam?
O malus agricola, hoc inseruisse fuit?
Immo, quis appendit vitae hac ex arbore mortem?
O bonus Agricola, hoc inseruisse fuit.
What wicked one affix'd Life to Death's tree?
O wretched gard'ner, call'st thou this engrafting?
Nay, tell me who affix'd Death to Life's tree?
O n.o.ble Gard'ner, this I call engrafting. G.
XXI.
_Ego sum Ostium._ Joan. x. 9.
Jamque pates, cordisque seram gravis hasta reclusit, Et clavi claves undique te reserant.
Ah, vereor, sibi ne ma.n.u.s impia clauserit illas, Quae cli has ausa est sic aperire fores.
_I am the Doore._
And now th' art set wide ope; the speare's sad art, Lo, hath unlockt Thee at the very heart.
He to himselfe--I feare the worst-- And his owne hope, Hath shut these doores of heaven, that durst Thus set them ope. CR.
ANOTHER VERSION.
Now Thou art open wide; the barrier dear Of Thy great heart unclos'd by cruel spear; And nails as keys unlock Thee everywhere.
Ah, he whose wicked hand thus forc'd the gate Of heaven, perhaps at heaven's shut door will wait One day, with outer darkness for his fate. G.
XXII.
_In spinas demtas a Christi capite cruentatas._
Accipe, an ignoscis? de te sata germina, miles.
Quam segeti est messis discolor illa suae!
O quae tam duro gleba est tam grata colono?
Inserit hic spinas: reddit et illa rosas.
_Upon the thornes taken downe from our Lord's head b.l.o.o.d.y._
Knowst thou this, souldier? 'tis a much-chang'd plant, which yet Thyselfe didst set; 'Tis chang'd indeed: did Autumn e're such beauties bring To shame his Spring?
O, who so hard an husbandman could ever find A soyle so kind?
Is not the soile a kind one, thinke ye, that returnes Roses for thornes? CR.
ANOTHER VERSION.
Take, soldier--know'st them not?--thy planted germs; A harvest how unlike to its seed-corn!
What soil yields husbandman such kindly terms?
The rose he gathers, where he planted thorn. G.
XXIII.