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 :—