277. ON GEORGE HERBERT'S 'THE TEMPLE' SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN KNOW you, fair, on what you look ? When your hands untie these strings, These white plumes of his he'll lend you, R. CRASHAW. 278. ON A PRAYER BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R. Lo, here a little volume, but great book! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native fires disdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast! It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foes to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields 279. SAINT TERESA O THOU undaunted daughter of desires! By thy large draughts of intellectual day, R. CRASHAW. And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His; R. CRASHAW. 280. AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER To these whom death again did wed It could not sever man and wife, R. CRASHAW. 281. TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY Two went to pray? oh, rather say One stands up close, and treads on high, One nearer to God's altar trod; 282. THE SHEPHERD'S SONG WE saw thee in thy balmy nest, R. CRASHAW. Young dawn of our eternal day; Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do ? Proud world, said I, cease your contest, The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, R. CRASHAW (A Hymn of the Nativity). 283. FROM WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS WHOE'ER she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me; Where'er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny: Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: -Meet you her, my Wishes, And be ye called my absent kisses. I wish her Beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe-tie; Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shops or silkworm's toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can, alone, command the rest. 139 R. CRASHAW. WOULDST see blithe looks, fresh cheeks beguile Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering In sum wouldst see a man that can Whose latest and most leaden hours, Fall with soft wings stuck with soft flowers; Soul and body part like friends; No quarrels, murmurs, no delay- This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see? Hark hither!-and thyself be he. R. CRASHAW. 285. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast, my boys, Away the good ship flies and leaves O for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon hornèd moon, And lightning in yon cloud; But hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, While the hollow oak our palace is, A. CUNNINGHAM. |