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Sparkling with the sacred flames
Of thousand souls, whose happy names
Heaven keep upon thy score: (Thy bright
Li 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.
FROM "THE FLAMING HEART:
UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICAL SAINT TERESA, AS SHE IS USUALLY EXPRESSED WITH A SERAPHIM BESIDE HER."
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; 10
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.
DESCRIPTION OF A RELIGIOUS HOUSE AND CONDITION OF LIFE.
(OUT OF BARCLAY.)
No roofs of gold o'er riotous tables shining,
Whole days and suns devour'd with endless dining.
No sails of Tyrian silk, proud pavements sweeping,
Nor ivory couches costlier slumber keeping;
False lights of flaring gems; tumultuous joys;
Halls full of flattering men and frisking boys;
Whate'er false shows of short and slippery good
Mix the mad sons of men in mutual blood.
But walks and unshorn woods; and souls, just so
Unforced and genuine; but not shady though.
Our lodgings hard and homely as our fare,
That chaste and cheap, as the few clothes we wear;
Those, coarse and negligent, as the natural locks
Of these loose groves; rough as th' unpolish'd rocks.
A hasty portion of prescribed sleep;
Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep,
And sing, and sigh, and work, and sleep again;
Still rolling a round sphere of still-returning pain.
Hands full of hearty labours; pains that pay
And prize themselves'; do much, that more they may,
And work for work, not wages; let to-morrow's
New drops, wash off the sweat of this day's sorrows.
A long and daily-dying life, which breathes
A respiration of reviving deaths.
But neither are there those ignoble stings
That nip the blossom of the World's best things,
And lash Earth-labouring souls. . . .
No cru guard of diligent cares, that keep
Crown'd woes awake, as things too wise for sleep:
But reverent discipline, and religious fear,
And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
Silence, and sacred rest; peace, and pure joys;
Kind loves keep house, lie close, make no noise;
And room enough for monarchs, while none swells
Beyond the kingdoms of contentful cells.
The self-rememb'ring soul sweetly recovers
Her kindred with the stars; not basely hovers
Below but meditates her immortal way
Home to the original source of Light and intellectual day.
ON the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood,
There we sate, and there we wept :
Our harps, that now no music understood,
Nodding, on the willows slept :
While unhappy captived we,
Lovely Sion, thought on thee.
They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast
Would have a song carved to their ears
In Hebrew numbers, then (O cruel jest!)
When harps and hearts were drown'd in tears:
Come, they cried, come sing and play
One of Sion's songs to-day.
Sing? play? to whom (ah!) shall we sing or play,
If not, Jerusalem, to thee?
Ah! thee Jerusalem! ah! sooner may
This hand forget the mastery
Of Music's dainty touch, than I
The music of thy memory.
Which when I lose, O may at once my tongue
Lose this same busy-speaking art,
Unperch'd, her vocal arteries unstrung,
No more acquainted with my heart,
On my dry palate's roof to rest
A wither'd leaf, an idle guest.
No, no, Thy good Sion, alone, must crown
The head of all my hope-nursed joys.
But Edom, cruel thou! thou cri'dst down, down
Sink Sion, down and never rise;
Her falling thou didst urge and thrust,
And haste to dash her into dust:
Dost laugh? proud Babel's daughter! do, laugh on,
Till thy ruin teach thee tears,
Even such as these; laugh, till a 'venging throng
Of woes, too late, do rouse thy fears:
Laugh, till thy children's bleeding bones
Weep precious tears upon the stones.
FAIR Hope! Our earlier Heaven! by thee Young Time is taster to Eternity:
Thy generous wine with age grows strong, not sour,
Nor does it kill thy fruit, to smell thy flower.
Thy golden, growing head never hangs down,
Till in the lap of Love's full noon
It falls; and dies! O no, it melts away
As doth the dawn into the Day:
("M. CRASHAW'S ANSWER" (TO COWLEY) "FOR HOPE," lines 21-30, and 37-44.)
As lumps of sugar lose themselves, and twine
Their subtle essence with the soul of wine.
Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by thee
We are not where nor what we be,
But what and where we would be. Thus art thou
Our absent presence, and our future now.
Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire!
Fear's antidote! a wise and well-stay'd fire!
Temper 'twixt chill Despair, and torrid Joy!
Queen regent in young Love's minority!
One stands up close, and treads on high,
Where th' other dares not send his eye.
One nearer to God's altar trod;
The other to the altar's God.
TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY (Luke xviii. 10).
Two went to pray! O, rather say,
One went to brag, th' other to pray.
UPON THE Sepulchre of OUR LORD.
HERE, where our Lord once laid His head,
Now the grave lies buried.