Complete Poems

While they fear miserably to ruin Latin measures:
Both measures and substance the prophets have corrupted.
Therefore I, when the celestial Spirit shall call me back
From this world to the citadels, and the flaming treasury is laid open,
Straightway inflamed by silent voices, burning
With desire for the fatherland and for seeing the Father,
I shall place my mind upon the fatal altars as a calf.
Upon which the victim may not pour out its tender life with blood,
As that old one had done for the ancients once upon a time;
But may it restore the lost life in the blood of Christ.

He describes a part of his life, and concerning fame.

If you ask what I am doing, pious and dutiful friend,
As is customary, and as is right for you, take it: Sleep has fled from me.
It will not be held by any aid of nature, by any art,
Nor to be held, nor once enticed will it touch me. Wherefore
Little by little I am consumed, void of sap and of health.
And destitution deforms my poorly withering limbs,
Wasting me away, plucking whatever of these remains
Arthritis had allowed to stretch over my wrinkled skin.
Yet do not believe that cares are declaring war on this,
Because of desire for the fatherland, and dead hope of heaven,
Nor that Orphnus, that leech of the orphan and widow,
Is building feasts with better means. The old scar is lost.
Forgetfulness of the lost seat has become a virtue.
And to offer oneself to an heir is pure dementia:
Perhaps even to an enemy. None of these things harms me. That one thing
I greatly fear: lest ambition, the thirst for immortal fame,
Be ready to creep in like a virus. But what is this?
Whether we are something, as is true: (for what joy
Could fame bring to me, mourning my departure under the shades, if I am preferred
To heaven: how much value is this vain regard for him here?)
What then is my state of mind, if I should not be? Cease to be moved:
Whether you are, or whether you are not: none of these things pertains to you.