Doubtless He will unload

Himself some otherwhere,
And pour abroad

His precious sweets

On the fair soul whom first He meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!
O happy and thrice-happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove
Whoe'er she be,

Whose early love

With winged vows,

Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse,
And close with His immortal kisses.
Happy indeed who never misses
To improve that precious hour,
And every day

Seize her sweet prey,

All fresh and fragrant as He rises,
Dropping with a balmy shower
A delicious dew of spices;

O let the blissful heart hold fast
Her heavenly armful; she shall taste
At once ten thousand paradises;

She shall have power

To rifle and deflower

The rich and roseal 1 spring of those rare sweets,
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets :
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures
Of pure inebriating pleasures.
Happy proof! she shall discover

What joy, what bliss,

How many heavens at once it is

To have her God become her Lover.

1 Sweet as a rose.

TO THE SAME

COUNSEL CONCERNING HER CHOICE

DEAR, Heaven designèd soul,
Amongst the rest

Of suitors that besiege your maiden breast
Why may not I
My fortune try

And venture to speak one good word,
Not for myself, alas! but for my dearer Lord?
You have seen already in this lower sphere
Of froth and bubbles, what to look for here :
Say, gentle soul, what can you find
But painted shapes,
Peacocks and apes,
Illustrious flies,

Gilded dunghills, glorious lies;
Goodly surmises

And deep disguises,

Oaths of water, words of wind?

Truth bids me say 'tis time you cease to trust Your soul to any son of dust.

'Tis time

you listen to a braver love,

Which from above

Calls you up higher

And bids you come

And choose your room

Among His own fair sons of fire;

Where you among

The golden throng,

That watches at His palace doors,

May pass along,

And follow those fair stars of yours;
Stars much too fair and pure to wait upon
The false smiles of a sublunary sun.

Sweet, let me prophesy that at last 't will prove
Your wary 1 love

Lays up his purer and more precious vows,
And means them for a far more worthy Spouse
Than this World of lies can give ye :
Even for Him, with Whom nor cost,

Nor love, nor labour can be lost;
Him Who never will deceive ye.
Let not my Lord, the mighty Lover
Of souls, disdain that I discover
The hidden art

Of His high stratagem to win your heart:
It was His heavenly art

Kindly to cross you
In your mistaken love ;

That, at the next remove

Thence, He might toss you

And strike your troubled heart

Home to Himself, to hide it in His breast,
The bright ambrosial nest

Of love, of life, and everlasting rest.
Happy mistake!

That thus shall wake

Your wise soul, never to be won

Now with a love below the sun.

Your first choice fails; O when you choose again May it not be among the sons of men!

1 Timorously prudent.

DESCRIPTION OF A RELIGIOUS HOUSE AND CONDITION OF LIFE1

N°

(OUT OF BARCLAY)

O roofs of gold o'er riotous tables shining,
Whole days and suns devour'd with endless
dining.

No sails of Tyrian silk, proud pavements sweeping,
Nor ivory couches costlier slumber keeping;
False lights of flaring gems; tumultuous joys;
Halls full of flattering men and frisking boys;
Whate'er false shows of short and slippery good
Mix the mad sons of men in mutual blood.
But walks and unshorn woods; and souls, just so
Unforced and genuine; but not shady though.
Our lodgings hard and homely as our fare,

That chaste and cheap, as the few clothes we wear;
Those, coarse and negligent, as the natural locks
Of these loose groves; rough as th' unpolish'd rocks.
A hasty portion of prescribed sleep;

Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep,
And sing, and sigh, and work, and sleep again;
Still rolling a round sphere of still-returning pain.
Hands full of hearty labours; pains that pay
And prize themselves; do much, that more they

may,

1 One may call to mind in reading this poem that Crashaw was a friend of Nicholas Ferrar, who had a house known to cavillers as the "Protestant nunnery" at Little Gidding during the reigns of James 1. and Charles 1. This place was destroyed by the Rebels in 1646.

And work for work, not wages; let to-morrow's
New drops, wash off the sweat of this day's sorrows.
A long and daily-dying life, which breathes
A respiration of reviving deaths.

But neither are there those ignoble stings
That nip the blossom of the World's best things,
And lash Earth-labouring souls. . .

No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep
Crown'd woes awake, as things too wise for sleep :
But reverent discipline, and religious fear,

And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
Silence, and sacred rest; peace, and

pure joys; Kind loves keep house, lie close, and make no noise; And room enough for monarchs, while none swells Beyond the kingdoms of contentful cells.

The self-rememb'ring soul sweetly recovers

Her kindred with the stars; not basely hovers
Below but meditates her immortal way

:

Home to the original source of Light and intellectual day.

ON MR. GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK,

ENTITLED, THE

SACRED POEMS

TEMPLE

SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN

you

KNOW you, fair, on what look?

Divinest love lies in this book:

Expecting fire from your fair eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.

When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings;

OF