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Chorus- Now by abasèd lids shall learn to be Eagles; and shut our eyes that we may see. THE CLOSE.
Chorus-Therefore to Thee and Thine auspicious
(Dread Sweet!) lo thus
Does first his sceptre, then himself, in
Thus he undresses
His sacred unshorn tresses;
At Thy adored feet, thus he lays down
Of flame and fire,
2 King His glittering robe,
2 King His myrrh,
3 King-His frankincense; 1
Chorus― To which he now has no pretence:
He is from sun enough to make Thy star,
Or on Heaven's azure forehead high to
Thy golden index; with a duteous hand
UPON EASTER DAY
RISE heir of fresh Eternity,
Rise mighty Man of wonders, and Thy World with
Thy tomb the universal East,
Nature's new womb,
Thy tomb, fair Immortality's perfumèd nest.
Of all the glories make Noon gay,1
This Rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of Day:
In Joy's white annals lives this hour
When Life was born;
No cloud scowls on His radiant lids, no tempests lour.
Life, by this Light's nativity,
Death only by this Day's just doom is forced to die,
Nor is Death forced; for may he lie
Throned in Thy grave,
Death will on this condition be content to die.
1 That make.
Casting the times with their strong signs,
Herod's suspicion may heal his.
MUSE, now the servant of soft loves no more, Hate is thy theme, and Herod, whose unblest
Hand (O, what dares not jealous greatness?) tore A thousand sweet babes from their mothers' breast,
The blooms of martyrdom. O, be a door
Of Confessors; whose throats, answering his swords,
Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for words.
1 The jealousy of Herod. A poem in Italian by Marino, called "Strage degli Innocenti," Book I., of which this is a very free translation.
Great Anthony,1 Spain's well-beseeming pride, Thou mighty branch of emperors and kings; The beauties of whose dawn what eye may bide? Which with the sun himself weighs equal wings; Map of heroic worth, whom far and wide
To the believing world Fame boldly sings: Deign thou to wear this humble wreath that bows,
To be the sacred honour of thy brows.
Nor needs my Muse a blush, or these bright flowers Other than what their own blest beauties bring; They were the smiling sons of those sweet bowers, That drink the dew of life, whose deathless spring,
Nor Syrian flame, nor Borean 2 frost deflowers; From whence heaven-labouring bees with busy wing,
Suck hidden sweets, which, well digested,
1 Anthony. I think this refers to St. Anthony of Padua, who was born at Lisbon, however, in Portugal. This is very interesting, however, for Spain seized Portugal in 1580,and the Portuguese did not get back their kingdom till the treaty of Lisbon, 1668. As Crashaw died in 1648, he of course calls all that peninsula Spain. At the same time we must remember that Crashaw is here supposed to be translating.
Thou, whose strong hand with so transcendent worth,
Holds high the reign of fair Parthenope,1 That neither Rome nor Athens can bring forth A name in noble deeds rival to thee!
Thy fame's full noise makes proud the patient
Far more than matter for Muse and me.
And in their murmurs kept thy mighty name.
Below the bottom of the great Abyss,
There where one centre reconciles all things, The World's profound heart pants; there placed is Mischief's old master: close about him clings A curled knot of embracing snakes, that kiss His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings Hold the perverse Prince in eternal ties Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.
The Judge of torments, and the King of tears,
2 That part of the Mediterranean between Italy, Corsica, Sardinia, and Sicily.