ON A TREATISE OF CHARITY

Rise, then, immortal maid! Religion, rise!
Put on thyself in thine own looks: t' our eyes
Be what thy beauties, not our blots, have made thee,
Such as (ere our dark sins to dust betray'd thee)
Heaven set thee down new-dress'd; when thy bright

birth

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ΙΟ

Shot thee like lightning to th' astonished earth.
From th' dawn of thy fair eyelids wipe away
Dull mists and melancholy clouds: take Day
And thine own beams about thee: bring the best
Of whatso'er perfumed thy Eastern nest.
Girt all thy glories to thee: then sit down,
Open this book, fair Queen, and take thy crown.
These learnèd leaves shall vindicate to thee
Thy holiest, humblest handmaid, Charity.
She'll dress thee like thyself, set thee on high
Where thou shalt reach all hearts, command each eye.
Lol where I see thy off'rings wake, and rise
From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice

Which they themselves were; each one putting on
A majesty that may beseem thy throne.

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The holy youth of Heaven, whose golden rings
Girt round thy awful altars, with bright wings
Fanning thy fair locks (which the World believes
As much as sees) shall with these sacred leaves
Trick their tall plumes, and in that garb shall go
If not more glorious, more conspicuous though.
Be it enacted then

By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen,
God's services no longer shall put on
A sluttishness for pure religion :

No longer shall our Churches' frighted stones
Lie scatter'd like the burnt and martyr'd bones
Of dead Devotion; nor faint marbles weep

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In their sad ruins; nor Religion keep

A melancholy mansion in those cold

Urns. Like God's sanctuaries they look'd of old:
Now seem they Temples consecrate to none,

Or to a new god, Desolation.

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No more the hypocrite shall th' upright be
Because he's stiff, and will confess no knee:
While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou,
(Disdainful dust and ashes!) bend thy brow;
Nor on God's altar cast two scorching eyes
Baked in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice:
But (for a lamb) thy tame and tender heart
New struck by Love, still trembling on his dart;
Or (for two turtle-doves) it shall suffice
To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes.

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This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme
Pulpits and pens shall sweat in; to redeem

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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 wont to dress the fair
And fruitful Charity's full breasts (of old),

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Turning her out to tremble in the cold.

What can the poor hope from us, when we be
Uncharitable even to Charity?

Nor shall our zealous ones still have a fling

At that most horrible and hornèd thing,

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Forsooth the Pope: by which black name they call
The Turk, the devil, Furies, Hell and all,
And something more. O he is anti-Christ :

Doubt this, and doubt (say they) that Christ is

Christ:

Why, 'tis a point of Faith. Whate'er it be,
I'm sure it is no point of Charity.

In sum, no longer shall our people hope,

To be a true Protestant's but to hate the Pope.

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FROM POSTHUMOUS POEMS.

LUKE 2. QUAERIT JESUM SUUM MARIA, ETC.

And is he gone whom these arms held but now?
Their hope, their vow?

Did ever grief and joy in one poor heart
So soon change part?

He's gone; the fair'st flower that e'er bosom dress'd, 5
My soul's sweet rest.

My womb's chaste pride is gone, my heaven-born

boy :

And where is joy?

He's gone; and his loved steps to wait upon,

My joy is gone.

My joys and he are gone, my grief and I

Alone must lie.

He's gone; not leaving with me, till he come,

One smile at home.

Oh, come then, bring Thy mother her lost joy:

Oh come, sweet boy.

Make haste and come, or e'er my grief and I

Make haste and die.

Peace, heart! the heavens are angry, all their spheres

Rival thy tears.

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I was mistaken, some fair sphere or other

Was thy blest mother.

What but the fairest heaven could own the birth
Of so fair earth?

Yet sure thou did'st lodge here; this womb of mine 25
Was once call'd thine.

Oft have these arms thy cradle envièd,

Beguiled thy bed.

Oft to thy easy ears hath this shrill tongue

Trembled and sung.

Oft have I wrapt thy slumbers in soft airs,

And strok'd thy cares.

Oft hath this hand those silken casements kept,

While their suns slept.

Oft have my hungry kisses made thine eyes

Too early rise.

Oft have I spoil'd my kisses' daintiest diet,

To spare thy quiet.

Oft from this breast to thine my love-tossed heart

Hath leapt, to part.

Oft my lost soul have I been glad to seek

On thy soft cheek.

Oft have these arms, alas, show'd to these eyes

Their now lost joys.

Dawn then to me, thou morn of mine own day,

And let heaven stay.

Oh, would'st thou here still fix thy fair abode,

My bosom God:

What hinders but my bosom still might be

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Thy heaven to Thee?

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