Materiam morti luxuriemque dabunt; Olim maturos ultro conabitur imbres; Robustum audebit tunc solidumque mori. Ergo illi, nisi qui in saevos concreverit usus, Nec nisi quem possit fundere, sanguis erit? Euge, puer trux! euge tamen mitissime rerum! Quique tibi tantum trux potes esse, puer? Euge tibi trux! euge mihi mitissime rerum! Euge Leo mitis! trux sed et Agne tamen! Macte, puer, macte hoc tam durae laudis honore! Macte, o paenarum hac indole et ingenio! Ah ferus, ah culter, sub quo, tam docte dolorum, In tristem properas sic, puer, ire virum. Ah ferus, ah culter, sub quo, puer auree, crescis, Mortis proficiens hac quasi sub ferula. TRANSLATION. THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST. Ah, fierce, fierce knife, which such sweet lilies first Into such cruel roses made to burst; Which first this ivory pure with purple stain'd, And in the white a deeper dye engrain'd. Whatever stream hereafter hence shall flow, Out of this purple fountain-head shall grow. Now first this tender Child Death's talons knows, The Fates and Fury now hurl their first blows. See now His blood begins to pour; and see Scarce blood enough to pour there seems to be. Scarce wise to broach the new wine from the wood, And 'gainst those young limbs call the Furies rude. Wanton, e'en now He girds on woes too much, And arms not to be tried by such soft touch: Wanton, He dares at gentle deaths to play, And for His age to die, as a child may: Wanton, beforehand acts His tragic woe, Restless, refusing in child-step to go. Buskins is this hand shaping for those feet, And does this mind plan threats with coaxings sweet? Such playthings stern does this small hand bespeak, And is it match'd with giant's iron cheek? To mingle cross with cradle, mother's breast With slaughter, wickedness, and rage unblest? His smiling eye now glances at the spear, And turns to arms from soothing mother dear. God, with such face to frown, such eyes to rage! War wins the looks which Love would fain engage. O winsome angers! savage smiles--mild brood-- Soft rage, sweet terror, awe which might be woo'd! Sad wanton forwardness of Child for woes; Harsh rudiments, stern training which He chose! Now scantier wound for scanty body show, And scantier blood for scanty wound let now. Soon, when His strength and deeper draught of breath Shall furnish food luxuriously for Death, 'Twill be His pleasure then full showers to try, Then will He strongly, wholly dare to die. No blood but what to cruel use will grow To Him belongs, or what He can bid flow. Ah, cruel Child, though of all things most mild, Yet to Thyself Thou canst be cruel, Child; To Thyself cruel, but most mild to me; A Lion mild, a pitiless Lamb here see. Long, long may this stern praise Thine honour lift,