ON OCCASION OF THE DIFFICULT PARTURITION OF THE REMAINING WORKS OF
PETERHOUSE.
O bird too fortunate, whose glorious name
Fills us with envy of her happy fame,
Which by an easy death on soaring wing,
Sweet mother of herself, doth upwards spring,
Assumes afresh her shining youth's attire,
And wins new lease of life through hasten'd fire!
She--not through slow-revolving natal days
To a thin shadow worn by sad delays--
Transports herself into another round
Of centuries, as by a single bound;
With beauteous leaves her head she covers o'er,
And with a rosy birth shoots forth once more.
Soon as she climbs the spicy funeral pyre
Joyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher,
Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike,
And her own ashes.
But, alas, we follow
No such example. 'Neath her own Apollo,
Our Mother Peterhouse, now ancient grown,
Our aged Phoenix, hither, thither blown,
And balancing herself on doubtful air,
Hovers with wing uncertain, seeking where
Her relics she may lay, worn out with toils,
As in a nest, and from the very spoils
Of her own age renew'd, she may arise
In perfect comeliness of face and eyes,
As in the days of old, to mount the skies.
But now, alas, e'en in the very throes
Of her reviving age our Phoenix knows
And keenly feels a sad deficiency.
Alas, in life's long lingering effort she
Now in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face,
Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace;
But elsewhere, heedless of inviting calls
To union, stand the unfinish'd brother walls.
On unresponsive ears the summons falls;
As stones to fellow-stones appealing turn,
The interrupted works together mourn,
And beg a helping hand. O, succour bring,
Whoe'er is pious, to the parent wing
Which shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade,
And gave so many mother churches[130] aid
Parental; O, be now thy help display'd.
Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to thee
With gaping mouths are speaking audibly.
Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engage
To view thy walls, dismantled long with age
And base neglect, and ponder her gray hair.
By the full breasts which once she offer'd thee,
By the dry breasts which she is doom'd to see
Now for herself, she cries imploringly:
'My age to help, O fail not to appear;
So may long-lasting youth thy bosom cheer,
Youth which complaining age shall never fear.' R. WI.
TRANSLATION (_more freely_).