Your ever affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Jameson

58 Welbeck Street:  Tuesday, [July-October 1852].

Dearest Monna Nina,—­Here are the verses.  I did them all because that was easiest to me, but of course you will extract the two you want.

It has struck me besides that you might care to see this old ballad which I find among my papers from one of the Percy or other antiquarian Society books, and which I transcribed years ago, modernising slightly in order to make out some sort of rhythm as I went on.  I did this because the original poem impressed me deeply with its pathos.  I wish I could send you the antique literal poem, but I haven’t it, nor know where to find it; still, I don’t think I quite spoilt it with the very slight changes ventured by me in the transcription.

God bless you.  Let us meet on Wednesday.  Robert’s best love, with that of your ever affectionate

BA.

    STABAT MATER

    Mother full of lamentation,
    Near that cross she wept her passion,
      Whereon hung her child and Lord. 
    Through her spirit worn and wailing,
    Tortured by the stroke and failing,
      Passed and pierced the prophet’s sword.

    Oh, sad, sore, above all other,
    Was that ever blessed mother
      Of the sole-begotten one;
    She who mourned and moaned and trembled
    While she measured, nor dissembled,
      Such despairs of such a son!

    Where’s the man could hold from weeping,
    If Christ’s mother he saw keeping
      Watch with mother-heart undone? 
    Who could hold from grief, to view her,
    Tender mother true and pure,
      Agonising with her Son?

    For her people’s sins she saw Him
    Down the bitter deep withdraw Him
      ’Neath the scourge and through the dole! 
    Her sweet Son she contemplated
    Nailed to death, and desolated,
      While He breathed away His soul.

    E.B.B.

    BALLAD—­Beginning of Edward II.’s Reign

    ’Stand up, mother, under cross,
    Smile to help thy Son at loss. 
      Blythe, O mother, try to be!’
    ’Son, how can I blythely stand,
    Seeing here Thy foot and hand
      Nailed to the cruel tree?’

    ’Mother, cease thy weeping blind. 
    I die here for all mankind,
      Not for guilt that I have done.’ 
    ’Son, I feel Thy deathly smart. 
    The sword pierces through my heart,
      Prophesied by Simeon.’

    ’Mother, mercy! let me die,
    Adam out of hell to buy,
      And his kin who are accurst.’ 
    ’Son, what use have I for breath? 
    Sorrow wasteth me to death—­
      Let my dying come the first.’

    ’Mother, pity on thy Son! 
    Bloody tears be running down
      Worse to bear than death to meet!’
    ’Son, how can I cease from weeping? 
    Bloody streams I see a-creeping
      From Thine heart against my feet.’