_Cum tot signa edidisset, non credebant in eum._ Joan. xii. 37.
Non tibi, Christe, fidem tua tot miracula praestant; O verbi, ô dextrae dulcia regna tuae! Non praestant? neque te post tot miracula credunt? Mirac'lum qui non credidit, ipse fuit.[49]
_But though He had done so many miracles before them, yet they believed not on Him._
For all Thy signs they still refuse Thee, Lord; Those signs, blest symbols of Thy reign and word. Such signs, and not believe? Sure, who did thus Made unbelief itself miraculous. CL.
Quippe potes pulchre captare et fallere pisces; Centum illic discis lubricus ire dolis. Heus, bone piscator! tendit sua retia Christus: Artem inverte, et jam tu quoque disce capi.
How cleverly the fishes he beguiles! He learns to use a hundred cunning wiles. Ho, thou good Fisher: Christ casts out His net; Now haste thou to be caught; for thee 'tis set. G.
Vox ego sum, dicis: tu vox es, sancte Joannes? Si vox es, genitor cur tibi mutus erat? Ista tui fuerant quam mira silentia patris! Vocem non habuit tunc quoque cum genuit.
'I am the voice,' thou sayest. Thou holy John, If voice thou art, why was thy father dumb? O silence strange! which as I muse upon, I see thy voice from God, not man, did come. G.
Qui ferro Petrum cumulas, durissime custos, A ferro disces mollior esse tuo. Ecce fluit, nodisque suis evolvitur ultro: I, fatue, et vinc'lis vincula pone tuis.
Who loadest him with chains, thou jailer stern, To be more kind e'en from those chains shalt learn. Lo, they dissolve, and their own knots untie. Go, fool, and chains with chains to fetter try. G.
_Ne laedite terrain, neque mare, neque arbores, quousque obsignaverimus servos Dei nostri in frontibus suis._ Rev. vii. 3.
Nusquam immitis agat ventus sua murmura, nusquam Sylva tremat, crispis sollicitata comis. Aequa Thetis placide allabens ferat oscula Terrae; Terra suos Thetidi pandat amica sinus: Undique pax effusa piis volet aurea pennis, Frons bona dum signo est quaeque notata suo. Ah, quid in hoc opus est signis aliunde petendis? Frons bona sat lacrymis quaeque notata suis.
Let wind with murmurs harsh nowhere be heard; Nowhere wood tremble, its curl'd tresses stirr'd. Calm-flowing Sea greet Earth with kisses bland, Earth unto Sea its bosom kind expand. Let holy Peace on golden pinions steal, Till each blest brow is mark'd with its own seal. Ah, why elsewhere for this, need signs be sought? To each blest brow tears seal enough have brought. R. WI.