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VOL. III.

CRASHAW.

Unfold thy fair conceptions; and display
The birth of our bright joys.

Oh, thou compacted

Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted!
Oh dissipate thy spicy powers,

Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us
In balmy showers!

Oh, fill our senses, and take from us

All force of so profane a fallacy,

To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee.
Fair, flowery name! in none but thee,

And thy nectareal fragrancy,
Hourly there meets

An universal synod of all sweets;
By whom it is defined thus-
That no perfume

For ever shall presume

To pass for odoriferous,

But such alone whose sacred pedigree

Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee.

Sweet name, in thy each syllable

A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
A thousand hills of frankincense;
Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices,
And ten thousand paradises,

The soul, that tastes thee, takes from thence.

How many unknown worlds there are

Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!

How many thousand mercies there

In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping!

Happy he who has the art

To awake them,

And to take them

Home, and lodge them in his heart.

Oh, that it were as it was wont to be,

When thy old friends of fire, all full of thee,

Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase

To persecutions; and against the face

Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave

And sober pace march on to meet a grave.

I

On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee,
And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee;

In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,
Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach thee.
Little, alas! thought they

Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,

Their fury but made way

For thee, and served them in thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons, but with wider pores
Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers,

More freely to transpire

That impatient fire

The heart that hides thee hardly covers?
What did their weapons, but set wide the doors
For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising;
The ruby windows which enrich'd the east
Of thy so oft-repeated rising.

Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,

And re-enthroned thee in thy rosy nest,

With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning:

It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds

Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adored name!

For sure there is no knee

That knows not thee;

Or if there be such sons of shame,
Alas! what will they do,

When stubborn rocks shall bow,

And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads
To seek for humble beds

Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,

And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty.
They that by love's mild dictate now

Will not adore thee,

Shall then, with just confusion, bow
And break before thee.

CRASHAW,

The Hymn, "Dies Fræ.”

Hear'st thou, my soul, what serious things
Both the psalm and sybil sings

Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray
The world in flames shall fly away?

O that fire! before whose face Heav'n and earth shall find no place: O these eyes! whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night.

O that trump! whose blast shall run
An even round with the circling sun,
And urge the murmuring graves to bring
Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

Horror of nature, hell and death!
When a deep groan from beneath
Shall cry,
"We come! we come!" and all
The caves of night answer one call.

O that book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the world in severe light:
O that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can endure-yet none can fly.

Ah, then, poor soul, what wilt thou say?
And to what patron choose to pray?
When stars themselves shall stagger, and
The most firm foot no more then stand.

But Thou giv'st leave, dread Lord, that we

Take shelter from Thyself, in Thee;

And, with the wings of Thine own dove,

Fly to the sceptre of soft love.

Dear Lord! remember in that day

Who was the cause Thou cam'st this way:

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Though both my pray'rs and tears combine,

Both worthless are; for they are mine:
But Thou Thy bounteous self still be,
And shew Thou art, by saving me.

O, when Thy last frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goats to folds of flame,
And all Thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let "Come, ye blessed," then call me.

When the dread "Ite" shall divide Those limbs of death from Thy left side, Let those life-speaking lips command That I inherit Thy right hand.

COWLEY.

Oh, hear a suppliant heart, all crush'd
And crumbled into contrite dust!

My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Friend!
Take charge of me, and of my end.

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ABRAHAM COWLEY.

The style of which Crashaw and Herbert are examples, culminated in Abraham Cowley.* Like the old fashion of gilding green leaves, it must be lamented that the most versatile poet in the seventeenth century wasted on ephemeral themes so much of the fine gold of his genius; and it is equally lamentable that, in his graver efforts, "never pathetic, and rarely sublime, but always either ingenious or learned, either acute or profound," the taste of his readers is constantly offended by extravagance, and their patience tried by pedantry. Still, it must be admitted, in the words of the great critic, that "he brought to his poetic labours a mind replete with learning, and that his pages are embellished with all the ornaments which books could supply; that he was the first who imparted to English numbers the enthusiasm of the greater ode, and the gaiety of the less; that he was equally qualified for sprightly sallies and for lofty flights; and that he was among those who freed translation from servility, and, instead of following his author at a distance, walked by his side." +

The first of the following specimens is from "Davideis," an epic poem on the Triumphs of David, of which only the first four books were written :

Gabriel.

Thus dress'd, the joyful Gabriel posts away,
And carries with him his own glorious day

*Born 1618; died May 2, 1667.

+ Johnson's Lives of the Poets.