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.
AN APOLOGY FOR THE PRECEDENT
As having been written when the Author was yet a Protestant.
HUS have I back again to thy bright name, Fair flood of holy fires! transfused the flame I took from reading thee. 'Tis to thy wrong, I know, that in my weak and worthless song Thou here art set to shine, where thy full day
Scarce dawns. O, pardon, if I dare to say
Thine own dear books are guilty for from thence I learnt to know that love is eloquence, That heavenly maxim gave me heart to try If, what to other tongues is tuned so high, Thy praise might not speak English, too; forbid, By all thy mysteries that here lie hid, Forbid it, mighty love! let no fond hate Of names and words so far prejudicate; Souls are not Spaniards, too, one friendly flood Of baptism blends them all into one blood. Christ's faith makes but one body of all souls, And love's that body's soul; no law controls Our free traffic for heaven; we may maintain Peace, sure, with piety, though it come from Spain. What soul soe'er in any language can
Speak heaven like hers is my soul's countryman. O, 'tis not Spanish, but 'tis heaven she speaks, 'Tis heaven that lies in ambush there, and breaks From thence into the wond'ring reader's breast, Who finds his warm heart hatch into a nest Of little eagles and young loves, whose high Flights scorn the lazy dust, and things that die. There are enow, whose draughts, as deep as hell, Drink up all Spain in sack. Let my soul swell With thee, strong wine of love! let others swim In puddles; we will pledge this Seraphim. Bowls full of richer blood than blush of grape Was ever guilty of; change we, too, our shape, My soul! Some drink from men to beasts! O, then, Drink we till we prove more, not less, than men :
And turn not beasts, but angels. Let the king Me ever into these His cellars bring,
Where flows such wine as we can have of none But Him who trod the winepress all alone: Wine of youth's life, and the sweet deaths of love; Wine of immortal mixture, which can prove Its tincture from the rosy nectar; wine That can exalt weak earth; and so refine Our dust, that at one draught mortality May drink itself up, and forget to die.
ON A TREATISE OF CHARITY.
ISE, then, immortal maid! religion rise! Put on thyself in thine own looks: t'our eyes Be what thy beauties, not our blots, have
Such as, ere cur dark sins to dust betray'd thee, Heav'n set thee down new-dress'd; when thy bright birth Shot thee like lightning to th' astonish'd earth. From th' dawn of thy fair eyelids wipe away Dull mists and melancholy clouds: take day And thine own beams about thee: bring the best Of whatsoe'er perfumed thy eastern nest.
Gird all thy glories to thee: then sit down, Open this book, fair queen, and take thy crown. These learned leaves shall vindicate to thee Thy holiest, humblest, handmaid, Charity; She'll dress thee like thyself, set thee on high
Where thou shalt reach all hearts, command each eye.
Lo! where I see thy off'rings wake, and rise From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice Which they themselves were; each one putting on A majesty that may beseem thy throne.
The holy youth of heav'n, whose golden rings Girt round thy awful altars, with bright wings Fanning thy fair locks, which the world believes As much as sees, shall with these sacred leaves Trick their tall plumes, and in that garb shall go If not more glorious, more conspicuous though. -Be it enacted, then,
By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen, God's services no longer shall put on
A sluttishness for pure religion :
No longer shall our churches' frighted stones Lie scatter'd like the burnt and martyr'd bones Of dead devotion; nor faint marbles weep In their sad ruins; nor religion keep A melancholy mansion in those cold
Urns; like God's sanctuaries they look'd of old; Now seem they temples consecrate to none, Or to a new god, Desolation.
No more th' hypocrite shall th' upright be Because he's stiff, and will confess no knee: While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou, Disdainful dust and ashes, bend thy brow, Nor on God's altar cast two scorching eyes, Baked in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice; But, for a lamb, thy tame and tender heart, New struck by love, still trembling on his dart; Or, for two turtle-doves, it shall suffice
To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes;
This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme Pulpits and pens shall sweat in; to redeem Virtue to action; that life-feeding flame That keeps religion warm; not swell a name Of faith, a mountain-word, made up of air, With those dear spoils that want to dress the fair And fruitful charity's full breasts, of old, Turning her out to tremble in the cold.
What can the poor hope from us? when we be Uncharitable even to Charity.
ON THE GLORIOUS ASSUMPTION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN.
ARK! she is call'd, the parting hour is come; Take thy farewell, poor world, Heaven must go home.
A piece of heavenly light, purer and brighter Than the chaste stars, whose choice lamps come to light her, While through the crystal orbs, clearer than they She climbs, and makes a far more milky way.
She's call'd again; hark! how th' immortal dove Sighs to his silver mate: rise up, my love, Rise up, my fair, my spotless one! The winter's past, the rain is gone : The spring is come, the flowers appear, No sweets, since thou are wanting here.
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