Into Love's arms thou shalt let fall

A still-surviving funeral.

His is the dart must make the death

Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath ;
A dart thrice dipp'd in that rich flame
Which writes thy Spouse's radiant name
Upon the roof of Heaven, where aye

It shines; and with a sovereign ray
Beats bright upon the burning faces

Of souls which in that Name's sweet graces
Find everlasting smiles: so rare,

So spiritual, pure, and fair

Must be th' immortal instrument

Upon whose choice point shall be sent

A life so loved: and that there be

Fit executioners for thee,

The fairest and first-born sons of fire,
Blest seraphim, shall leave their quire,
And turn Love's soldiers, upon thee
To exercise their archery.

O how oft shalt thou complain
Of a sweet and subtle pain:
Of intolerable joys:

Of a death, in which who dies

Loves his death, and dies again,

And would for ever so be slain.

And lives, and dies; and knows not why.

To live, but that he thus may never leave to die.

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 last 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 shall 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 shining 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 revealed Life shall stand, And teach thy lips Heaven with His hand; On which thou now may'st to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses.

What joys 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 shine,

All thy sufferings be divine:

Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,

And wrongs repent to diadems.

Even thy death shall live; and new

Dress the soul, that erst he 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 noble 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 sovereign 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 keep 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 Fore-Going Hymn,

AS HAVING BEEN WRIT WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS YET
AMONG THE PROTESTANTS.

THUS have I back again to thy bright name,
(Fair flood of holy fires!) transfus'd 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 learn'd to know that Love is eloquence.

That hopeful 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 there 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 a 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 Heav'n like her's, is my soul's countryman.
O'tis not Spanish, but 'tis Heav'n she speaks!
'Tis Heav'n that lies in ambush there, and breaks