The poem which I quote is found in Migne and Gautier. It differs from another sequence upon a similar theme—one which Dr. Neale has translated. It is “The Praise of the Cross.”
This poem, it will be seen, is abrupt, irregular, and altogether inferior, in some features, to the usually finished and elegant diction of its author. For this very reason I have selected it; it exhibits Adam of St. Victor when he dashes off the stanzas without revision, fired by the glow of his theme. Only on this account do I render it, trying merely to carry its dash and spirit into the English version.
Salve, Crux, arbor Vitae praeclara. Vexillum Christi, Thronus et ara. O Crux, profanis Terror et ruina, Tu Christianis Virtus es divina Salus et victoria. Tu properantis Contra Maxentium Tu praeliantis Juxta Danubium Constantini gloria. Favens Heraclio Perdis cum filio Chosroe profanum. In hoc salutari Ligno gloriari Decet Christianum. Crucis longum, latum, Sublimè, profundum, Sanctis propalatum Quadrum salvat mundum Sub quadri figura Medicina vera. Christus in statera Crucis est distractus, Pretiumque factus, Solvit mortis jura. Crux est nostrae Libra justitiae Sceptrum regis, Virga potentiae. Crux, coelestis Signum victoriae. Belli robur Et palma gloriae. Tu scala, tu vatis Tu crux desperatis Tabula suprema. Tu de membris Christi Decorem traxisti Regum diadema.
Ter te nobis Crux beata Crux, cruore consecrata Sempiterna gaudia Det superna gratia. Amen!
Hail, thou Cross, splendid Tree, of life’s own place; Christ’s very standard, Altar and throne-place. Thou to the heathen Ruin and terror; Thou to the Christian Bringing joy nearer— Health and success! Thou when Maxentius Swiftly defied— Thou when the Danube Flowed at his side— Gavest to Constantine Glory no less! Yea, and Heraclius’ Fight thou hast won When the proud Chosroes Fell, with his son. So should a Christian tongue Boast of the worth Of this most wonderful Tree of the earth. This the true medicine Of the whole land Four-square and perfect As it shall stand; Four-square in breadth and height, Depth and length, ever; Shown to the saints of God, Cure for life’s fever. Christ in such balances, Poised on the cross, Maketh death lightest, Saveth from loss! Yea, the cross truly— Justest of scales!— For a king’s sceptre And priest’s rod avails. Cross thou art surely Our heavenly sign, Strength of our battle And guerdon divine. Ladder and life-raft And plank on the wave— Those that are drowning, O cross, thou canst save! Thou that hast carried The Saviour of men, Hadst the best honor Of royalty, then.