Et peccamus et punimur,
 Et diversis irretimur
 Laqueis venantium. 
 O Maria, mater Dei,
 Tu, post Deum, summa spei,
 Tu dulce refugium;

Tot et tantis irretiti,
 Non valemus his reniti
 Ne vi nec industria;
 Consolatrix miserorum,
 Suscitatrix mortuorum,
 Mortis rompe retia!

In this valley full of tears,
 Nothing softens, nothing cheers,
 All is suspected lure;
 What safety can we hope for, here,
 When even virtue faints for fear
 Her victory be not sure!

Within, the flesh a traitor is,
 Without, the world encompasses,
 A deadly wound to bring. 
 The foe is greedy for our spoils,
 Now clasping us within his coils,
 Or hiding now his sting.

We sin, and penalty must pay,
 And we are caught, like beasts of prey,
 Within the hunter’s snares. 
 Nearest to God! oh Mary Mother! 
 Hope can reach us from none other,
 Sweet refuge from our cares;

We have no strength to struggle longer,
 For our bonds are more and stronger
 Than our hearts can bear! 
 You who rest the heavy-laden,
 You who lead lost souls to Heaven,
 Burst the hunter’s snare!

The art of this poetry of love and hope, which marked the mystics, lay of course in the background of shadows which marked the cloister.  “Inter vania nihil vanius est homine.”  Man is an imperceptible atom always trying to become one with God.  If ever modern science achieves a definition of energy, possibly it may borrow the figure:  Energy is the inherent effort of every multiplicity to become unity.  Adam’s poetry was an expression of the effort to reach absorption through love, not through fear; but to do this thoroughly he had to make real to himself his own nothingness; most of all, to annihilate pride; for the loftiest soul can comprehend that an atom,—­say, of hydrogen,—­which is proud of its personality, will never merge in a molecule of water.  The familiar verse:  “Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?” echoes Adam’s epitaph to this day:—­

Haeres peccati, natura filius irae,
 Exiliique reus nascitur omnis homo. 
 Unde superbit homo, cujus conceptio culpa,
 Nasci poena, labor vita, necesse mori?

Heir of sin, by nature son of wrath,
 Condemned to exile, every man is born. 
 Whence is man’s pride, whose conception fault,
 Birth pain, life labour, and whose death is sure?

Four concluding lines, not by him, express him even better:—­

Hic ego qui jaceo, miser et miserabilis Adam,
 Unam pro summo munere posco precem. 
 Peccavi, fateor; veniam peto; parce fatenti;
 Parce, pater:  fratres, parcite; parce, Deus!