P.

Suus est et florum fructus; quibus fruimur, si non utilius, delicatius

certe. Neque etiam rarum est quod ad spem Veris, de se per flores suos

quasi pollicentis, adultioris anni, ipsiusque adeo Autumni exigamus

fidem. Ignoscas igitur, vir colendissime, properanti sub ora Apollinis

sui, primaeque adolescentiae lascivia exultanti Musae. Tenerae aetatis

flores adfert, non fructus serae: quos quidem exigere ad seram illam et

sobriam maturitatem, quam in fructibus expectamus merito, durum fuerit;

forsan et ipsa hac praecoci importunitate sua placituros magis: tibi

praesertim quem paternus animus, quod fieri solet, intentum tenet omni

suae spei diluculo, quo tibi de tuorum indole promittas aliquid. Ex more

etiam eorum, qui in praemium laboris sui pretiumque patientiae festini,

ex iis quae severunt ipsi et excoluerunt, quicquid est flosculi

prominulum, prima quasi verecundia auras et apertum Jovem experientis

arripiunt avide, saporemque illi non tam ex ipsius indole et ingenio

quam ex animi sui affectu, foventis in eo curas suas et spes, affingunt.

Patere igitur, reverende custos, hanc tibi ex istiusmodi floribus

corollam necti; convivalem vero: nec aliter passuram sidus illud oris

tui auspicatissimum, nisi, qua est etiam amoenitate, remissiore radio

cum se reclinat, et in tantum de se demit. Neque sane hoc scriptionis

genere, modo partes suas satis praestiterit, quid esse potuit otio

theologico accommodatius, quo nimirum res ipsa theologica poetica

amoenitate delinita majestatem suam venustate commendat. Hoc demum

quicquid est, amare tamen poteris, et voles, scio: non ut magnum quid,

non ut egregium, non ut te dignum denique, sed ut tuum: tuum summo jure,

utpote quod e tua gleba, per tuum radium, in manum denique tuam evocatum

fuerit. Quod restat hujus libelli fatis, exorandus es igitur, vir

spectatissime, ut quem sinu tum facili privatum excepisti, eum jam ore

magis publico alloquentem te non asperneris. Stes illi in limine, non

auspicium modo suum, sed et argumentum. Enimvero Epigramma sacrum tuus

ille vultus vel est, vel quid sit docet; ubi nimirum amabili diluitur

severum, et sanctum suavi demulcetur. Pronum me vides in negatam mihi

provinciam; laudum tuarum, intelligo: quas mihi cum modestia tua

abstulerit, reliquum mihi est necessario ut sim brevis; imo vero longus

nimium; utpote cui argumentum istud abscissum fuerit, in quo unice

poteram, et sine taedio, prolixus esse. Vale, virorum ornatissime, neque

dedigneris quod colere audeam Genii tui serenitatem supplex tam tenuis,

et, quoniam numen quoque hoc de se non negat, amare etiam. Interim vero

da veniam Musae in tantum sibi non temperanti; quin in hanc saltem

laudis tuae partem, quae tibi ex rebus sacris apud nos ornatis

meritissima est, istiusmodi carmine involare ausa sit, qualicunque:

Salve, alme custos Pierii gregis,

Per quem erudito exhalat in otio;

Seu frigus udi captet antri,

Sive Jovem nitidosque soles.

Non ipse custos pulchrior invias

Egit sub umbras Aemonios greges;

Non ipse Apollo notus illis

Lege suae meliore cannae.

Tu, si sereno des oculo frui,

Sunt rura nobis, sunt juga, sunt aquae,

Sunt plectra dulcium sororum

(Non alio mihi nota Phoebo).

Te dante, castos composuit sinus;

Te dante, mores sumpsit; et in suo

Videnda vultu, pulveremque

Relligio cineremque nescit.

Stat cincta digna fronde decens caput:

Suosque per te fassa palam Deos,

Comisque, Diva, vestibusque

Ingenium dedit ordinemque.

Jamque ecce nobis amplior es modo

Majorque cerni. Quale jubar tremit

Sub os! verecundusque quanta

Mole sui Genius laborat!

Jam qui serenas it tibi per genas,

Majore coelo sidus habet suum;

Majorque circum cuspidatae

Ora comis tua flos diei.

Stat causa. Nempe hanc ipse Deus, Deus,

Hanc ara, per te pulchra, diem tibi

Tuam refundit, obvioque

It radio tibi se colenti.

Ecce, ecce! sacro in limine, dum pio

Multumque prono poplite amas humum,

Altaria annuunt ab alto;

Et refluis tibi plaudit alis

Pulchro incalescens officio, puer

Quicunque crispo sidere crinium,

Vultuque non fatente terram,

Currit ibi roseus satelles.

Et jure. Nam cum fana tot inviis

Moerent ruinis, ipsaque, ceu preces

Manusque non decora supplex

Tendat, opem rogat, heu negatam!

Tibi ipsa voti est ora sui rea.

Et solvet. O quam semper apud Deum

Litabis illum, cujus arae

Ipse preces prius audiisti!

[TRANSLATION. Prose G.; verse CL.]

_To the very reverend man_ BENJAMIN LANY, _Doctor of Divinity, most

worthy Master of Pembroke College [Cambridge], the least of the

least of those that are his, R[ichard] C[rashaw] implores the divine

protection._[41]

Even flowers have their own peculiar fruit, which we enjoy, if not so

profitably, yet in a manner more refined. Nor is it unusual that, in

accordance with the hope of Spring, making promises for herself as it

were by her flowers, we demand credit for the maturer year, and even for

Autumn itself. Forgive, then, most Reverend Sir, the Muse hastening into

the presence of her Apollo, and exulting in the wantonness of earliest

youth. She offers the flowers of a tender age, not the fruits of a late

one, which flowers indeed it were unreasonable to demand in accordance

with that late and sober maturity which we rightly look for in

fruits--flowers which are more likely to be pleasing from the very fact

of their precocious importunity,--to thee above all, whom a fatherly

mind, as it is wont to happen, holds watching for every dawning of its

hope, by which you may give yourself assurance of anything respecting

the genius of your sons; after the manner also of those who, in haste

for the reward of their labour and the price of their patience, from

what they have themselves sown and tended, snatch greedily whatever part

may project a little of a floweret, which, as with early bashfulness, is

making trial of the airs and the open sky, and attach an odour to it,

not so much from its own nature and character as from the inclination of

their own mind, which fosters in it their own anxieties and hopes.

Suffer then, Reverend Master, this little garland, made of flowers of

such a sort, to be bound on thee; a festal one assuredly, and not able

to endure that most auspicious star of thy countenance in any other way

than--for it is even of such a graciousness--when it draws back with

milder ray, and so far subtracts from itself. Nor assuredly than this

kind of writing, provided it have sufficiently discharged its proper

functions, could anything be more suitable to theological leisure; for

in it without doubt the very substance of theology being overlaid with

poetic grace, sets off its grandeur by loveliness. Finally, whatever

this may be, you will nevertheless, I know, be able and willing to be

lovingly disposed towards it; not as anything great or uncommon; not, in

short, as anything worthy of you, but as your own--your own by highest

right as having been called forth from your soil, by your light, and, in

fine, into your hand. As for what fortune awaits this little book, deign

to be persuaded, most worshipful Sir, not to scorn when addressing you

now in a more public style him whom you have welcomed in private with so

ready an affection. May you stand on its threshold, not only as its good

omen but also as its subject! In very truth that countenance of yours is

a Sacred Epigram, or teaches what it should be, where forsooth severity

is tempered with love, and sanctity is mellowed by sweetness. You see me

inclined towards a sphere denied to me--that of sounding your praises, I

mean; which since your modesty has taken from me, it remains of

necessity that I should be brief: yes indeed, I am too diffuse, seeing

that the very subject is cut off from me in which alone I was, and even

without irksomeness, able to be prolix. Farewell, most cultured of men,

and do not disdain me, so insignificant a suppliant, for daring to

honour your tranquil genius, and, since divinity even does not forbid

this respecting itself, also to love it. But in the mean while give

pardon to the Muse, to such a degree unrestrained as to have dared for

this part at least of your praise, which is most due to you on account

of sacred things that have been honoured amongst us, to fly towards you

with a strain of such kind as this, whatever it may be:

Kind Guardian of the Muses' flock,

Through whom it breathes in learn'd repose,

Whether it choose the dripping rock,

Or where the open sunshine glows.

Not fairer he through trackless shade

Who led Aemonia's flocks of old;

Not even Apollo, when he play'd,

With defter touch could charm the fold.

If thou the eye serene dost grant,

Green fields are ours, and streams and hills,

And, since no Phoebus else we want,

The Muses with their dulcet quills.

Religion too with modest grace

Through thee assumes a gentler mien;

Through thee again can show her face,

No more in dust and ashes seen.

Her brows crown'd meetly, and, through thee,

Her God in sight of all confess'd,

She gives in her divinity

Meaning and law to garb and vest.

Lo, while we gaze, an ample state

Adorns thee; what a lustrous sheen

Plays on thy lips! with what a weight

Thy reverent Genius toils within!

For him on whom thy calm glance flows

His star sheds down a fuller ray;

The light that o'er thine aspect glows

Is brighter than the shafts of Day.

And there is cause. The Lord of heaven,

Whose altar thou hast made so fair,

Pours back the light that thou hast given,

With glory meets His worshipper.

Lo, on the threshold of thy God

While thou dost stoop on bended knee,

The altar from on high doth nod,

Its plausive wings are bent to thee.

And, glowing with his duty's worth,

Each starry-tressed chorister

With look that savours not of earth

Tends like a rosy cherub there.

And rightly. For, when ruin-wreck'd,

With prayers and outstretch'd hands the fane

Bemoan'd itself in all neglect,

And sought elsewhere for help in vain,--

To thee by its own vows 'tis bound,

And now repays thee. At the shrine

Whose cry so well thy ears hath found

Long, long may prayer and praise be thine!