Volume 7 — Saint Mary Magdalen. From The Latin Of Petrarch.

The following lines were written by the great Italian poet, Petrarch, on the occasion of a visit to Sainte-Baume, near Marseilles, where tradition points out the tomb of Saint Mary Magdalen. He inscribed them on the grotto, in which she is said to have passed the last thirty years of her life.

Dulcis amica Dei, lacrymis inflectere nostris, Atque meas attende preces, nostraeque saluti Consule: namque potes. Neque enim tibi tangere frustra Permissum, gemituque pedes perfundere sacros, Et nitidis siccare comis, ferre oscula plantis, Inque caput Domini pretiosos spargere odores. Nec tibi congressus primos a morte resurgens Et voces audire suas et membra videre, Immortale decus lumenque habitura per aevum, Nequicquam dedit aetherei rex Christus Olympi. Viderat ille cruci haerentem, nee dira paventem Judaicae tormenta manus, turbaeque furentis Jurgia et insultus, aequantes verbera linguas; Sed maestam intrepidamque simul, digitisque cruentos Tractantem clavos, implentem vulnera fletu, Pectora tundentem violentis candida pugnis, Vellentem flavos manibus sine more capillos. Viderat haec, inquam, dum pectora fida suorura Diffugerent pellente metu. Memor ergo revisit Te primam ante alios; tibi se priùs obtulit uni. Te quoque, digressus terris ad astra reversus, Bis tria lustra, cibi nunquàm mortalis egentem Rupe sub hâc aluit, tarn longo tempore solis Divinis contenta epulis et rore salubri Haec domus antra tibi stillantibus humida saxis, Horrifico tenebrosa situ, tecta aurea regum, Delicias omnes ac ditia vicerat arva. Hìc inclusa libens, longis vestita capillis, Veste carens aliâ, ter denos passa decembres Diceris, hìc non fracta gelu nec victa pavore. Namque famem, frigus, durum quoque saxa cubile Dulcia fecit amor spesque alto pectore fixa. Hìc hominum non visa oculis, stipata catervis Angelicis, septemque die subvecta per horas, Coelestes audire choros alterna canentes Carmina, corporeo de carcere digna fuisti. Translation. Sweet friend of God! my tears attend, Hark to me suppliant and defend— O thou, all-potent to befriend! Not vain that care thou didst accord— Thy hands, uplifted o'er thy Lord, Upon his head sweet odors poured, And touched his feet with unguents rare— The kiss of love imprinted there— And wiped them with thy beauteous hair. Not vain, when he in majesty Rose up from death, 'twas given to thee The first to meet, to hear, to see. This glory did the Lord divine, The Christ august, to thee assign, Made this unending splendor thine. Unto his cross he saw thee cling, Unawed by threat and buffeting— The taunts the furious rabble fling; For him he saw thee lashed with scorn, Yet clasping, faithful and forlorn, Those feet with nails now pierced and torn. He watched thy tear-drenched face below— Thy bosom stricken in thy woe— Thy long fair hair's dishevelled flow. All this he saw, while from his side His other loved ones scattered wide, And left alone their Crucified. 'Twas therefore, mindful of those sighs, He, deigning from the tomb to rise, Sought his first welcome from thine eyes. And heavenward when from earth he sped, Through thrice ten years for thee here spread A feast by angels ministered. This rugged cave obscure and lone, Black rock-dews dripping down the stone. For thee a regal palace shone. No fields with harvest wealth besprent Accord such manna as was sent; Thy needs did heavenly gifts content. Here through December's frost and sleet. Thy long hair, falling to thy feet. Enrobed thee in a robe complete. No fear appalled; love made thee bold; Love sweetened sufferings manifold. The rock, the hunger, and the cold. Here, hid from mortal eyes, to be Cheered with celestial company. Angelic bands encompassed thee. And still a dweller in our sphere. Seven hours each day rapt hence, thine ear The alternate choirs of heaven could hear. C. E. R