imagens e sombras de santa maria madalena na literatura e arte portuguesas

- a construção de uma personagem: simbolismos e metamorfoses - helena barbas - fev.2003

 

[]  Henry Vaugham, 1650

 

St. Mary Magdalene [1]

 

Dear, beauteous Saint! more white then day,

When in his naked, pure array;

Fresher then morning-flowers which shew

As thou in tears dost, best in dew.

5       How art thou chang’d! how lively-fair,

Pleasing and innocent an air,

Not tutor’d by thy glass, but free,

Native and pure  shines now in thee!

But since thy beauty doth still keep

10     Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep?

This dusky state of sighs and tears

Durst not look on those smiling years,

When Magdal-castle was thy seat,

Where all was sumptuous, rare and neat.

15     Why lies this Hair despised now

Which  once thy care and art did show?

Who then did dress the much lov’d toy,

In Spires, Globes, angry Curls and coy,

Which with skill’d negligence seem’d shed

20    About thy curious, wilde, yong head?

Why is this rich, this Pistic Nard

Split, and the box quite broke and marr’d?

What pretty sullenness did hast

Thy easie hands to do this waste?

25    Why art thou humbled thus, and low

As earth, thy lovely head dost bow?

Dear Soul! thou knew’st, flowers here on earth

At their Lords foot-stool have their birth;

Therefore thy wither’d self in haste

30     Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast,

That at the root of this green tree

Thy great decays restor’d might be.

Thy curious vanities and rare

Odorous ointments kept with care,

35     And dearly bought, (when thou didst see

They could not cure, nor comfort thee,)

Like a wise, early Penitent

Thou saddly didst to him present

Whose interceding, meek and calm

40     Blood, is the worlds all-healing Balm.

This, this Divine Restorative

Call’d forth thy tears, which ran in live

And hasty drops, as if they had

(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad.

45     Learn, Ladies, here the faithful cure

Makes beauty lasting, fresh and pure;

Lears Marys art of tears, and then

Say, You have got the day from men.

Cheap, mighty Art! her Art of love,

50     Who lov’d much and much more could move;

 

Her Art! whose memory mast last

Till truth through all the world be past,

Till his abus’d, despised flame

Return to Heaven, from whence it came,

55     And send a fire down, that shall bring

Destruction on his ruddy wing.

 

Her Art! whose pensive, weeping eyes,

Were once sins loose and tempting spies,

But now are fixed stars, whose light

60    Helps such dark stragglers to their sight.

Self-boasting Pharisee! how blinde

A Judge wert thou, and how unkinde?

It was impossible that thou

Who wert all false, should’st true grief know;

65     Is’t just to judge her faithfull tears

By that foul rheum they false eye wears?

 

This Woman (say’st thou) is a sinner:

And state there none such at thy dinner?

Go Leper, go; wash till thy flesh

70     Comes like a childes, spotless and fresh;

He is still leprous, that still paints:

Who Saint themselves, they are no Saints.

 

[]

 


[1] in Silex Scintilans, or Sacred Poems (1650) apud. The Works of Henry Vaughan.  L. C. Martin, (ed.), (Oxford:Oxford University Press, 1957, 2ª.ed.), pp. 507-8;