Richard Crashaw

Who e’er she be That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me; Wher e’er she lie, Lock’d 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, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye call’d my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-ty. Something more than Taffeta or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, 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. A face made up Out of no other shop Than what nature’s white hand sets ope. A cheek where youth, And blood, with pen of truth Write, what the reader sweetly ru’th. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes. Lips, where all day A lover’s kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness. Eyes, that displaces The neighbour diamond, and outfaces That sunshine, by their own sweet graces. Tresses, that wear Jewels but to declare How much themselves more precious are. Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems, that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tam’d heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on Love’s bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys, that confess Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. Fears, fond and flight As the coy bride’s when night First does the longing lover right. Tears, quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a forespent 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.” Sidneian 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 lours. Whate’er delight Can make Day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night. In her whole frame Have nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. 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.

To see both blended in one flood, The mothers’ milk, the children’s blood, Makes me doubt if heaven will gather Roses hence, or lilies rather.

Two went to pray? O rather say One went to brag, th’ other to pray: 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.

Go, smiling souls, your new-built cages break, In heaven you’ll learn to sing, ere here to speak, Nor let the milky fonts that bathe your thirst Be your delay; The place that calls you hence is, at the worst, Milk all the way.

What bright soft thing is this? Sweet Mary, the fair eyes’ expense? A moist spark it is, A wat’ry diamond; from whence The very term, I think, was found The water of a diamond. O ’tis not a tear, ’Tis a star about to drop From thine eye its sphere; The sun will stoop and take it up. Proud will his sister be to wear This thine eyes’ jewel in her ear. O ’tis a tear Too true a tear; for no sad eyne, How sad so e’re, Rain so true a teare as thine; Each drop leaving a place so dear, Weeps for itself, is its own tear. Such a pearl as this is, (Slipped from Aurora’s dewy breast) The rose bud’s sweet lip kisses; And such the rose itself, when vexed With ungentle flames, does shed, Sweating in too warm a bed. Such the maiden gem, By the wanton spring put on, Peeps from her parent stem, And blushes on the manly sun: This wat’ry blossom of thy eyne, Ripe, will make the richer wine. Faire drop, why quak’st thou so? ’Cause thou straight must lay thy head In the dust? o no; The dust shall never be thy bed: A pillow for thee will I bring, Stuffed with down of angels’ wing. Thus carried up on high, (For to Heaven thou must go) Sweetly shalt thou lie And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe; Till the singing orbs awake thee, And one of their bright chorus make thee. There thy self shalt be An eye, but not a weeping one, Yet I doubt of thee, Whether th’hadst rather there have shone An eye of Heaven; or still shine here, In th’Heaven of Mary’s eye, a tear.

Come and let us live my Deare, Let us love and never feare, What the sowrest Fathers say: Brightest Sol that dies to day Lives againe as blithe to morrow, But if we darke sons of sorrow Set; o then, how long a Night Shuts the Eyes of our short light! Then let amorous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell A Thousand, and a Hundred, score An Hundred, and a Thousand more, Till another Thousand smother That, and that wipe of another. Thus at last when we have numbred Many a Thousand, many a Hundred; Wee’l confound the reckoning quite, And lose our selves in wild delight: While our joyes so multiply, As shall mocke the envious eye.

Know you fair, on what you look; Divinest love lies in this book, Expecting fire from your eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings, Think you’have an angel by th’ wings. One that gladly will be nigh, To wait upon each morning sigh. To flutter in the balmy air Of your well-perfumed prayer. These white plumes of his he’ll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you, To take acquaintance of the sphere, And all the smooth-fac’d kindred there. And though Herbert’s name do owe These devotions, fairest, know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine.

CHORUS Come we shepherds whose blest sight Hath met love’s noon in nature’s night; Come lift we up our loftier song And wake the sun that lies too long. To all our world of well-stol’n joy He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, While we found out heav’n’s fairer eye, And kiss’d the cradle of our King. Tell him he rises now too late To show us aught worth looking at. Tell him we now can show him more Than he e’er show’d to mortal sight, Than he himself e’er saw before, Which to be seen needs not his light. Tell him, Tityrus, where th’ hast been; Tell him, Thyrsis, what th’ hast seen. TITYRUS Gloomy night embrac’d the place Where the Noble Infant lay; The Babe look’d up and show’d his face, In spite of darkness, it was day. It was thy day, Sweet! and did rise Not from the east, but from thine eyes. CHORUS It was thy day, Sweet! and did rise Not from the east, but from thine eyes. THYRSIS Winter chid aloud, and sent The angry North to wage his wars; The North forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars. By those sweet eyes’ persuasive pow’rs, Where he meant frost, he scatter’d flow’rs. CHORUS By those sweet eyes’ persuasive pow’rs, Where he meant frost, he scatter’d flow’rs. BOTH We saw thee in thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day! We saw thine eyes break from their east And chase the trembling shades away. We saw thee, and we bless’d the sight, We saw thee by thine own sweet light. TITYRUS Poor World, said I, what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger? Is this the best thou canst bestow, A cold, and not too cleanly, manger? Contend, ye powers of heav’n and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth. CHORUS Contend, ye powers of heav’n and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth. THYRSIS Proud World, said I, cease your contest, And let the Mighty Babe alone; The phoenix builds the phoenix’ nest, Love’s architecture is his own; The Babe whose birth embraves this morn, Made his own bed ere he was born. CHORUS The Babe whose birth embraves this morn, Made his own bed ere he was born. TITYRUS I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o’er the place’s head, Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow To furnish the fair Infant’s bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold. CHORUS Forbear, said I, be not too bold; Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold. THYRSIS I saw the obsequious Seraphims Their rosy fleece of fire bestow; For well they now can spare their wings, Since Heav’n itself lies here below. Well done, said I, but are you sure Your down so warm will pass for pure? CHORUS Well done, said I, but are you sure Your down so warm will pass for pure? TITYRUS No no, your King’s not yet to seek Where to repose his royal head; See see, how soon his new-bloom’d cheek ’Twixt’s mother’s breasts is gone to bed. Sweet choice, said we! no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. CHORUS Sweet choice, said we! no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow. BOTH We saw thee in thy balmy nest, Bright dawn of our eternal day! We saw thine eyes break from their east, And chase the trembling shades away. We saw thee, and we bless’d the sight, We saw thee, by thine own sweet light. CHORUS We saw thee, and we bless’d the sight, We saw thee, by thine own sweet light. FULL CHORUS Welcome, all wonders in one sight! Eternity shut in a span; Summer in winter; day in night; Heaven in earth, and God in man. Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heav’n to earth. Welcome; though nor to gold nor silk, To more than Caesar’s birthright is; Two sister seas of virgin-milk, With many a rarely temper’d kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other. Welcome, though not to those gay flies Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings, Slippery souls in smiling eyes; But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth’s their flock, whose wit, to be Well read in their simplicity. Yet when young April’s husband-show’rs Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed, We’ll bring the first-born of her flow’rs To kiss thy feet and crown thy head. To thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds more than they the sheep. To thee, meek Majesty! soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves, Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves; Till burnt at last in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.

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 lusty breath Speak loud into the face of death Their great Lord’s glorious name; to none Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne For love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat, And see him take a private seat, Making his mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child. Scarce has she learn’d to lisp the 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 she’a heart dares hope to prove How much less strong is death than love. Be love but there, let poor six years Be pos’d with the maturest fears Man trembles at, you straight shall find Love knows no nonage, nor the mind. ’Tis love, not years or limbs that can Make the martyr, or the man. Love touch’d her heart, and lo it beats High, and burns with such brave heats, Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up A thousand cold deaths in one cup. Good reason, for she breathes all fire; Her weak breast heaves with strong desire Of what she may with fruitless wishes Seek for amongst her mother’s kisses. Since ’tis not to be had at home, She’ll travel to a martyrdom. No home for hers confesses she But where she may a martyr be. She’ll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem. She’ll offer them her dearest breath, With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death. She’ll bargain with them, and will give Them God; 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. Blest powers forbid thy tender life Should bleed upon a barbarous knife; Or some base hand have power to rase Thy breast’s chaste cabinet, and uncase A soul kept there so sweet; oh no, Wise Heav’n will never have it so; Thou art Love’s victim, and must die A death more mystical and high; Into Love’s arms thou shalt let fall A still-surviving funeral. He is the dart must make the death Whose stroke shall taste thy hallow’d breath; A dart thrice dipp’d in that rich flame Which writes thy spouse’s radiant name Upon the roof of heav’n, where aye It shines, and with a sovereign ray Beats bright upon the burning faces Of souls, which in that name’s sweet graces Find everlasting smiles. So rare, So spiritual, pure, and fair Must be th’ immortal instrument Upon whose choice point shall be sent A life so lov’d; and that there be Fit executioners for thee, The fair’st and first-born sons of fire, Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire And turn Love’s soldiers, upon thee To exercise their archery. Oh, 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 forever so be slain, And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he thus may never leave to die. How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam to heal themselves with. Thus When these thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at last die into one, And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to Heav’n at last In a resolving sigh; and then, O what? Ask not the tongues of men; Angels cannot tell; suffice, Thyself shall feel thine own full joys And hold them fast forever. There So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come And in her first ranks make thee room; Where ’mongst her snowy family Immortal welcomes wait for thee. O what delight, when reveal’d Life shall stand And teach thy lips heav’n with his hand, On which thou now mayst to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses. What joys shall seize thy soul when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, (Those second smiles of heav’n) shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart! Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before And waited for thee, at the door, Shall own thee there, and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee; All thy sorrows here shall shine, All thy suff’rings be divine; Tears shall take comfort and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Ev’n thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul that erst they slew; Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb’s wars. Those rare works where thou shalt leave writ Love’s noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. Each heav’nly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee, Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. Thou shalt look round about and see Thousands of crown’d souls throng to be Themselves thy crown; sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy sovereign spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul, go now And with them all about thee, bow To him. “Put on,” he’ll say, “put on, My rosy love, that thy rich zone Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls whose happy names Heav’n keeps upon thy score. Thy bright Life 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.

(excerpt) .... O heart, the equal poise of love’s both parts, Big alike with wounds and darts, Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same, And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame; Live here, great heart, and love and die and kill, And bleed and wound, and yield and conquer still. Let this immortal life, where’er it comes, Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms; Let mystic deaths wait on ’t, and wise souls be The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. O sweet incendiary! show here thy art, Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart, Let all thy scatter’d shafts of light, that play Among the leaves of thy large books of day, Combin’d against this breast, at once break in And take away from me my self and sin; This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. O thou undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dow’r 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 seiz’d thy parting soul and seal’d thee his, By all the heav’ns thou hast in him, Fair sister of the seraphim! By all of him we have in thee, Leave nothing of my self in me: Let me so read thy life that I Unto all life of mine may die.