on his residence in Paris. COWLEY was in the 'gay city' in 1646 as Secretary to LORD JERMYN; and inasmuch as the volume of that year contained his own alternate poem on 'Hope,' I like to imagine that he carried over a copy of it to CRASHAW, and renewed their old friendship. COWLEY, it is told, found our Poet in great poverty: but CAR's verses somewhat lighten the gloom. The Recre tary' of LORD JERMYN introduced his friend to the Queen of Charles I., who was then a fugitive in Paris. Ho it usually runs but CRASHAW had previously sung of and to her Majesty. From the Queen the Poet obtained letters of recommendation to Italy; and from a contem porary notice, hereafter to be used, we learn he bexame 'Secretary' at Rome to CARDINAL Pasorta. He appeare to have remained in Rome until 1649 59, and by very 'plain speech on the moralition, that is imme of certain eccleiation, to have drawn down on himes it Italian jealousy and threate. He got Qurdium you vided a place of deter in the Soy my hom of which he wa made a Can be with very brief: for. by a tomment wat we from Lontu,, 1 ascertained tus in hot I've dust

Sail. · In these verses there are beauties which common anth. may justly think not only above their attainment, but above their ambition."-1 se for the present our

I make new songs, but say the old.
And they kind sprits all all releet
How little le
xalted nan may le

tlang on Fath still keeps up Hell

Not have we yet quite puz d the Christ

Yet still in thyme the tieni Apollo spe.

Vain nen

A. 1 Paradise in them, by whom we lost it. place

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, & à contac

That her eternal verse employ'd should be

On a less subject than eternity;

And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take

But her whom God Himself scorn'd not His spouse to make :

It (in a kind) her miracle did do,

A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.

How well (blest Swan) did Fate contrive thy death,

And made thee render up thy tuneful breath

In thy great mistress's arms! Thou most divine,
And richest off'ring of Loretto's shrine!
Where, like some holy sacrifice t' expire,
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chappel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph thro' the air:
'Tis surer much they brought thee there; and they,
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Pardon, my Mother-Church, if I consent
That angels led him, when from thee he went;
For ev'n in error, sure no danger is,

When join'd with so much piety as his.

Ah! mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief;
Ah! that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet,
Rather than thus, our wills too strong for it.
His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right:
And I, myself, a Catholick will be;

So far at least, great Saint! to pray to thee.

Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow

On us, the Poets militant below:

Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse Chance,

Attack'd by Envy and by Ignorance;

Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by desires,

Expos'd by tyrant-love, to savage beasts and fires.

Thou from low Earth in nobler flames didst rise,

And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.

Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,

More fit thy greatness and my littleness ;)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove

So humble to esteem, so good to love)

Not that thy sprit might on me doubled be,

I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me:

And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing,

"Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.1

ALEXANDER B. GROSART.

Works, vol. i. (1707) pp. 41-7. Line 3 by a strange oversight is misprinted in all the editions I have seen The hard, and rarest . . .' I accept WILLMOTT'S correction.

THE

WORKS OF RICHARD CRASHAW.

VOL. I.

ENGLISH POETRY.