Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 55

How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart!

And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam, to heal themselves with thus, When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at once die into one, And melt thy soul's sweet mansion; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a resolving sigh, and then,-- O what? Ask not the tongues of men.

Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, And hold them fast for ever there.

So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy s.h.i.+ning self, shall come, And in her first ranks make thee room; Where, 'mongst her snowy family, Immortal welcomes wait for thee.

O what delight, when she shall stand And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand, On which thou now may'st to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses!

What joy shall seize thy soul, when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart!

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee.

All thy good works which went before, And waited for thee at the door, Shall own thee there; and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee: All thy sorrows here shall s.h.i.+ne, And thy sufferings be divine.

Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems.

Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul which late they slew.

Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb's wars.

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ Love's n.o.ble history, with wit Taught thee by none but Him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.

Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee; Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace.

Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now, And with them all about thee bow To Him; put on, He'll say, put on, My rosy Love, that thy rich zone, Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls, whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars; and so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.

And, wheresoe'er He sets His white Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, Which who in death would live to see, Must learn in life to die like thee.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

339. Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa

O THOU undaunted daughter of desires!

By all thy dower of lights and fires; By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him (Fair sister of the seraphim!); By all of Him we have in thee; Leave nothing of myself in me.

Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may die!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

340. Verses from the Shepherds' Hymn

WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw Thine eyes break from the East, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger?

Is this the best thou canst bestow-- A cold and not too cleanly manger?

Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone; The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love's architecture is His own.

The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Off'ring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant's bed.

Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th' obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heaven itself lies here below.

Well done, said I; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pa.s.s for pure?

No, no, your King 's not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head; See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 'Twixt mother's b.r.e.a.s.t.s is gone to bed!

Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!

She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, That in their buds yet blus.h.i.+ng lie.

She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries The points of her young eagle's eyes.

Welcome--tho' not to those gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth 's their flocks, whose wit 's to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April's husband show'rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the first-born of her flowers, To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.

To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves!

Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves!

At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

341. Christ Crucified

THY restless feet now cannot go For us and our eternal good, As they were ever wont. What though They swim, alas! in their own flood?

Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift, Yet will Thy hand still giving be; It gives, but O, itself's the gift!

It gives tho' bound, tho' bound 'tis free!

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

342. An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife Who died and were buried together

TO these whom death again did wed This grave 's the second marriage-bed.

For though the hand of Fate could force 'Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sever man and wife, Because they both lived but one life.

Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep.

They, sweet turtles, folded lie In the last knot that love could tie.

Let them sleep, let them sleep on, Till the stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into a light Whose day shall never die in night.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

343. To Lucasta, going to the Wars

TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a s.h.i.+eld.

Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.

Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658

344. To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas