Oracles

56 TRANSLATIONS FROM BAUDELAIRE THE DENIAL OF ST. PETER I WHAT makes God then of all the curses deep That daily reach his Seraphim divine ? Like to a tyrant gorged with meat and wine, Our blasphemous music lulleth him to sleep. II Tears of the martyrs, and saints torturèd, Must prove intoxicating symphonies, Since, spite of blood-price paid to gain them ease, The heavens therewith are not yet satiated. III Jesus ! recall Gethsemane afresh, Where thy simplicity his pity sought Who in his heaven heard, and mocked for nought, Coarse hangmen pierce with nails thy living flesh. IV When on thy godhead spat the virulence Of scum of soldiery and kitchen-knaves ; When thou didst feel the thorns pierce bloody graves Within thy brain where Manhood burnt intense ; V When thy bruised broken body’s horrid weight Racked thy stretched arms, that sweat and blood enow Coursed down the marble paleness of thy brow, Lift up on high, a butt for all men’s hate :—