From thence into the wondering reader's breast;
Who feels 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 the 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 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 wine-press all alone:
Wine of youth, 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.

F

E

E

The Flaming heart:

UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICAL SAINT
TERESA, AS SHE IS USUALLY EXPRESSED WITH A SERAPHIM
BESIDE HER.

WELL-MEANING readers! you that come as friends,

And catch the precious name this piece pretends;

Make not too much haste to admire

That fair-cheek'd fallacy of fire

That is a seraphim, they say,
And this the great Teresia.

Readers, be ruled by me; and make
Here a well-placed and wise mistake;
You must transpose the picture quite,
And spell it wrong to read it right;
Read him for her, and her for him,
And call the saint the seraphim.

Painter, what didst thou understand

To put her dart into his hand?
See, even the years and size of him
Shows this the mother-seraphim.

This is the mistress-flame; and duteous he

Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men!

Had thy cold pencil kiss'd her pen,
Thou couldst not so unkindly err
To show us this faint shade for her.

Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame;

And mocks with female frost Love's manly flame.
One would suspect thou meant'st to paint
Some weak, inferior, woman-saint.

But had thy pale-faced purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book,

Thou wouldst on her have heap'd up all

That could be found seraphical ;

Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair,

Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheek, and glist'ring wings,
All those fair and fragrant things,
But before all, that fiery dart

Had fill'd the hand of this great heart.

Do then, as equal right requires ;
Since his the blushes be, and her's the fires,
Resume and rectify thy rude design;
Undress thy seraphim into mine ;
Redeem this injury of thy art,

Give him the veil, give her the dart.
Give him the veil, that he may cover
The red cheeks of a rivall'd lover;
Ashamed that our world now can show
Nests of new seraphims here below.

Give her the dart, for it is she

(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee;
Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,

What is't your tasteful spirits do prove

In that rare life of her, and Love?
Say, and bear witness. Sends she not
A seraphim at every shot?

What magazines of immortal arms there shine!
Heaven's great artillery in each love-spun line.
Give then the dart to her who gives the flame;
Give him the veil, who gives the shame.
But if it be the frequent fate
Of worst faults to be fortunate;
If all's prescription; and proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song ;
For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suffering seraphim.

His be the bravery of all those bright things,

The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings;
The rosy hand, the radiant dart ;

Leave her alone the flaming heart.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her

Not one loose shaft, but Love's whole quiver;
For in Love's field was never found

A nobler weapon than a wound.
Love's passives are his activ'st part :
The wounded is the wounding heart.

O heart! the equal poise of Love's both parts,
Big alike with wound and darts.

Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same;
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame.
Live here, great heart; and love, and die, and kill;

And bleed, and wound; and yield and conquer still. Let this immortal life where'er it comes

Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms.

Let mystic deaths wait on't; and wise souls be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.

O sweet incendiary! show here thy art,
Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart;
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light that play
Among the leaves of thy large books of day,
Combined against this breast at once break in
And take away from me myself and sin;
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be,
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
O thou undaunted daughter of desires !
By all thy dower of lights and fires;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;

By thy large draughts of intellectual day,

And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;

By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire,

By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire;

By the full kingdom of that final kiss.

That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His;

By all the Heaven thou hast in Him

(Fair sister of the seraphim!)

By all of Him we have in thee;
Leave nothing of myself in me.
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die.