Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 54

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night First does the longing lover right.

Days, that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days, that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by th' absence of the day.

Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend!'

Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night.

I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish--no more.

Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She.

'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.

May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying Wishes, And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions--but her story.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

337. The Weeper

HAIL, sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills!

Ever bubbling things, Thawing crystal, snowy hills!

Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

Heavens thy fair eyes be; Heavens of ever-falling stars; 'Tis seed-time still with thee, And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares Promise the earth to counters.h.i.+ne Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.

Every morn from hence A brisk cherub something sips Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music: and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

When some new bright guest Takes up among the stars a room, And Heaven will make a feast, Angels with their bottles come, And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine.

The dew no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep Nuzzled in the lily's neck: Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear.

When sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty, --For she is a Queen-- Then is she drest by none but thee: Then and only then she wears Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the Sun that dies, Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.

Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

Does the night arise?

Still thy tears do fall and fall.

Does night lose her eyes?

Still the fountain weeps for all.

Let day and night do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

Not So long she lived Will thy tomb report of thee; But So long she grieved: Thus must we date thy memory.

Others by days, by months, by years, Measure their ages, thou by tears.

Say, ye bright brothers, The fugitive sons of those fair eyes Your fruitful mothers, What make you here? What hopes can 'tice You to be born? What cause can borrow You from those nests of n.o.ble sorrow?

Whither away so fast For sure the sordid earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth.

Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, Why you trip so fast away?

We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head.

No such thing: we go to meet A worthier object--our Lord's feet.

Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649

338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

LOVE, thou are absolute, sole Lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms their triumphant crown: Such as could with l.u.s.ty breath Speak loud, unto the face of death, Their great Lord's glorious name; to none Of those whose s.p.a.cious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat: We'll see Him take a private seat, And make His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death.

She never undertook to know What death with love should have to do.

Nor has she e'er yet understood Why, to show love, she should shed blood; Yet, though she cannot tell you why, She can love, and she can die.

Scarce has she blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake; Yet has a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love....

Since 'tis not to be had at home, She'll travel for a martyrdom.

No home for her, confesses she, But where she may a martyr be.

She'll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem; She offers them her dearest breath, With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death: She'll bargain with them, and will give Them G.o.d, and teach them how to live In Him; or, if they this deny, For Him she'll teach them how to die.

So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.

Farewell then, all the world, adieu!

Teresa is no more for you.

Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys, Never till now esteemed toys!

Farewell whatever dear may be-- Mother's arms, or father's knee!

Farewell house, and farewell home!

She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.

Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse, Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows, Calls thee back, and bids thee come T' embrace a milder martyrdom....

O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain!

Of intolerable joys!

Of a death, in which who dies Loves his death, and dies again, And would for ever so be slain; And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he still may die!