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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.

Come away, my love;

Come away, my dove;

Cast off delay:

The court of heav'n is come,

To wait upon thee home;

Come away, come away.

She's call'd again, and will she go?
When heav'n bids come, who can say no?
Heav'n calls her, and she must away;
Heav'n will not, and she cannot stay.
Go then, go, glorious, on the golden wings
Of the bright youth of heaven, that sings
Under so sweet a burden: go,

Since thy great Son will have it so:
And while thou go'st, our song and we
Will, as we may, reach after thee.
Hail! holy queen of humble hearts,

We in thy praise will have our parts;

And though thy dearest looks must now be light To none but the blest heavens, whose bright Beholders, lost in sweet delight,

Feed for ever their fair sight

With those divinest eyes, which we
And our dark world no more shall see.

Though our poor joys are parted so,
Yet shall our lips never let go
Thy gracious name, but to the last
Our loving song shall hold it fast.

Thy sacred name shall be
Thyself to us, and we

With holy cares will keep it by us;

We to the last

Will hold it fast,

And no assumption shall deny us.

All sweetest showers

Of fairest flowers

We'll strew upon

it:

Though our sweetness cannot make

It sweeter, they may

take

Themselves new sweetness from it.

Maria, men and angels sing,

Maria, mother of our King.

Live, rarest princess, and may the bright
Crown of a most incomparable light

Embrace thy radiant brows! O, may the best
Of everlasting joys bathe thy white breast!
Live our chaste love, the holy mirth
Of heaven, and humble pride of earth:
Live crown of women, queen of men :
Live mistress of our song; and when
Our weak desires have done their best,
Sweet angels come, and sing the rest!

A HYMN ON THE CIRCUMCISION OF OUR

LORD.

RISE, thou best and brightest morning,

Rosy with a double red;

With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning,

And the dear drops this day were shed.

All the purple pride of laces,

The crimson curtains of thy bed; Gild thee not with so sweet graces, Nor set thee in so rich a red.

Of all the fair-cheek'd flowers that fill thee, None so fair thy bosom strews,

As this modest maiden lily

Our sins have shamed into a rose.

Bid the golden god, the sun,
Burnish'd in his best beams rise,
Put all his red-eyed rubies on,-
These rubies shall put out his eyes.

Let him make poor the purple East,
Search what the world's close cabinets keep,
Rob the rich births of each bright nest
That flaming in their fair beds sleep.

Let him embrace his own bright tresses
With a new morning made of gems;
And wear, in those his wealthy dresses,
Another day of diadems.

When he hath done all he may,

To make himself rich in his rise,

All will be darkness to the day

That breaks from one of these bright eyes.

And soon this sweet truth shall appear,

Dear babe, ere many days be done :

The morn shall come to meet thee here,
And leave the long-adorèd sun.

Here are beauties shall bereave him

Of all his eastern paramours:
His Persian lovers all shall leave him,

And swear faith to thy sweeter powers.

Nor while they leave him shall they lose the sun,
But in thy fairest eyes find two for one.

*

ON HOPE.

By way of Question and Answer, between A. Cowley

and R. Crashaw.

COWLEY.

OPE, whose weak being ruin'd is,

Alike, if it succeed and if it miss :

Whom ill and good doth equally confound,

And both the horns of fate's dilemma wound:

Vain shadow! that doth vanish quite

Both at full noon and perfect night:
The Fates have not a possibility
Of blessing thee.

If things, then, from their ends we happy call,
'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

CRASHAW.

Dear Hope! earth's dowry, and heaven's debt,

The entity of things that are not yet:

. These two lines are not in the version of the Paris edition

of 1652.

G

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