The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) excluding Seneca and Manilius Introduced and Annotated by F. J. Van Beeck |
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Christo Smarrito. |
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 | The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) |  |
Christo Smarrito.
Sighing, her sad Heart fraught with Fears,
Whilst from her Eyes gush streams of Tears,
Seeking again how to retrive
Her little wandring Fugitive,
Each where with weary Steps doth rove,
The Virgin Mother of lost Love.
Like a sad Turtle, up and down
She mourning runs through all the Town:
With searching Eyes she pries about
In every Creek; within, without.
Sticks at each Place, looks o're and ore;
Searches, where she had search'd before:
Old Joseph following with sad Face,
A heavy Heart, and halting Pace.
Whilst from her Eyes gush streams of Tears,
Seeking again how to retrive
Her little wandring Fugitive,
Each where with weary Steps doth rove,
The Virgin Mother of lost Love.
Like a sad Turtle, up and down
She mourning runs through all the Town:
With searching Eyes she pries about
In every Creek; within, without.
Sticks at each Place, looks o're and ore;
Searches, where she had search'd before:
Old Joseph following with sad Face,
A heavy Heart, and halting Pace.
Thrice had the Day been born i'th'East,
As oft been buried in the West,
Since the Dear Comfort of her Eyes
She miss't; yet still her Search she plyes.
Each where she seeks with anxious Care
To find him out, yet knows not where.
When the third Morn she saw arose,
And yet no Beam of Hope disclose;
Looking to Heaven, in these sad Words
She vent to her full Grief affords.
O my dear God! Son of my Wombe!
My Joy, my Love, my Life, for whom
These Tears I shed, on thee I call,
But oh! thou answer'st not at all.
For thee I search, but cannot find thee:
Say (Dear!) what new Embraces bind thee?
What Heart, enamour'd on thy Eyes,
Enjoyes what Heaven to Me denies?
As oft been buried in the West,
Since the Dear Comfort of her Eyes
She miss't; yet still her Search she plyes.
Each where she seeks with anxious Care
To find him out, yet knows not where.
When the third Morn she saw arose,
And yet no Beam of Hope disclose;
Looking to Heaven, in these sad Words
She vent to her full Grief affords.
O my dear God! Son of my Wombe!
My Joy, my Love, my Life, for whom
These Tears I shed, on thee I call,
But oh! thou answer'st not at all.
For thee I search, but cannot find thee:
Say (Dear!) what new Embraces bind thee?
What Heart, enamour'd on thy Eyes,
Enjoyes what Heaven to Me denies?
Daughters of Sion! you which stray
With nimble feet upon the Way,
I beg of you, (if you can tell,)
To shew me where my Love doth dwell:
Whose Beauty with Celestiall Rayes,
The Light of Paradise displayes.
Perhaps to you he is unknown;
Ah! if you wish to hear him shown,
I'l tell y'him: Snow her whiteness, seeks,
Vermilion, Blushes, from his Cheeks:
His Eye a light more chaste discloses
Then amorous Doves, his Lips then Roses.
Amber, and Gold shine in his Hair
(If Gold, or Amber may compare
With that,) a Beauty so Divine,
No Tongue, Pen, Fant'sie can design.
With nimble feet upon the Way,
I beg of you, (if you can tell,)
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Whose Beauty with Celestiall Rayes,
The Light of Paradise displayes.
Perhaps to you he is unknown;
Ah! if you wish to hear him shown,
I'l tell y'him: Snow her whiteness, seeks,
Vermilion, Blushes, from his Cheeks:
His Eye a light more chaste discloses
Then amorous Doves, his Lips then Roses.
Amber, and Gold shine in his Hair
(If Gold, or Amber may compare
With that,) a Beauty so Divine,
No Tongue, Pen, Fant'sie can design.
Why break'st thou not (my Soul) this Chain
Of Flesh? why lett'st thou that restrain
Thy nimble Flight into his Arms,
VVhose only Look with gladness charms?
But (alas!) in vain I speak to thee
Poor Soul! already fled from Me;
To seek out him in whose lov'd Brest,
Thy Life, as mine in thee, doth rest.
Of Flesh? why lett'st thou that restrain
Thy nimble Flight into his Arms,
VVhose only Look with gladness charms?
But (alas!) in vain I speak to thee
Poor Soul! already fled from Me;
To seek out him in whose lov'd Brest,
Thy Life, as mine in thee, doth rest.
Blest Virgin! who in Tears half drown'd,
Griev'st that thy Son cannot be found.
The time will come when Men shall hear thee
Complain that he is too too near thee.
When in the midd'st of hostile Bands
With pierced Feet, and nailed Hands
Advanc'd upon a cursed Tree
His naked Body thou shalt see
As void of Coverture, as Friends,
But what kind Heaven in pitty lends,
Thy Soul will then abhor the Light,
And think no Grief worse than his Sight.
Griev'st that thy Son cannot be found.
The time will come when Men shall hear thee
Complain that he is too too near thee.
When in the midd'st of hostile Bands
With pierced Feet, and nailed Hands
Advanc'd upon a cursed Tree
His naked Body thou shalt see
As void of Coverture, as Friends,
But what kind Heaven in pitty lends,
Thy Soul will then abhor the Light,
And think no Grief worse than his Sight.
But loe, as thus she search'd, and wept,
By chance she to the Temple stept,
Where her dear Son with joyfull Eyes
Set 'mongst the Rabbins she espies.
And as the Light of some kind Star
To a distressed Marriner,
So his dear sight to her appears,
Tost in this Tempest of her Fears.
By chance she to the Temple stept,
Where her dear Son with joyfull Eyes
Set 'mongst the Rabbins she espies.
And as the Light of some kind Star
To a distressed Marriner,
So his dear sight to her appears,
Tost in this Tempest of her Fears.
But O what tongue can now impart
The joy of her revived Heart?
The Welcome, spoke in mutuall Blisses
Of sweet Embraces, sweeter Kisses!
Muse, since too high for thy weak Wing
It is, contemplate what thou canst not sing.
The joy of her revived Heart?
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Of sweet Embraces, sweeter Kisses!
Muse, since too high for thy weak Wing
It is, contemplate what thou canst not sing.
| The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) | |