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Xf neither love, thy beauty, nor thy tears,
Invent some other way to make him know He need not hunt, that can have such a deer:
The Queen of Love did once Adonis woo, But, hard of soul, with no persuasions won,
RICHARD CRASHAW, a religious poet, whose devoHe felt the curse of his disdain too soon.
tional strains and lyric raptures' evince the highest In vain I counsel her to put on wing;
genius, was the son of a preacher at the Temple Echo hath left her solitary grove;
church, London. The date of his birth is not And in the vale, the palace of the spring,
known, but in 1644 he was a fellow of Peterhouse Sits silently attending to her love;
college, Cambridge. Crashaw was, at all periods But round about, to catch his voice with care,
of his life, of an enthusiastic disposition. He lived In every shade and tree she hid a snare.
for the greater part of several years in St Mary's Now do the huntsmen fill the air with noise,
church, near Peterhouse, engaged chiefly in reliAnd their shrill horns chafe her delighted ear,
gious offices and writing devotional poetry; and, as
the preface to his works informs us, like a primitive Which, with loud accents, give the woods a voice Proclaiming parley to the fearful deer:
saint, offering more prayers by night, than others
usually offer in the day.' He is said to have been She hears the jolly tunes ; but every strain,
an eloquent and powerful preacher. Being ejected As high and musical, she returns again.
from his fellowship for non-compliance with the Rous'd is the game ; pursuit doth put on wings ;
rules of the parliamentary army, he removed to The sun doth shine, and gild them out their way;
France, and became a proselyte to the Roman The deer into an o'ergrown thicket springs,
Catholic faith. Through the friendship of Cowley, Through which he quaintly steals his shine away ; Crashaw obtained the notice of Henrietta Maria, The hunters scatter ; but the boy, o'erthrown
then at Paris, and was recommended by her majesty In a dark part of the wood, complains alone.
to the dignitaries of the church in Italy. He beHim, Echo, led by her affections, found,
came secretary to one of the cardinals, and a canon Joy’d, you may guess, to reach him with her eye ; of the church of Loretto. In this situation, Crashaw But more, to see him rise without a wound
died about the year 1650. Cowley honoured his Who yet obscures herself behind some tree;
memory with He, vexed, exclaims, and asking,' Where am I?' The unseen virgin answers, ' Here am I !'
The meed of a melodious tear. "Some guide from hence ! Will no man hear he cries: The poet was an accomplished scholar, and his
She answers, in her passion, 'Oh man, hear !' translations from the Latin and Italian possess great "I die, I die,' say both; and thus she tries,
freedom, force, and beauty. He translated part of With frequent answers, to entice his ear
the Sospetto d' Herode, from the Italian of Marino; And person to her court, more fit for love ;
and passages of Crashaw's version are not unworthy He tracks the sound, and finds her odorous grove. of Milton, who had evidently seen the work. He The way he trod was paved with violets,
thus describes the abode of Satan : Whose azure leaves do warm their naked stalks ; In their white double ruffs the daisies jet,
Below the bottom of the great abyss, And primroses are scattered in the walks,
There, where one centre reconciles all things, Whose pretty mixture in the ground declares The world's profound heart pants; there placed is Another galaxy embossed with stars.
Mischief's old master ; close about him clings Two rows of elms ran with proportioned grace,
A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss Like nature's arras, to adorn the sides ;
His corresponding cheeks: these loathsome strings The friendly vines their loved barks embrace,
Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties
Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.
Fain would he have forgot what fatal strings
Eternally bind each rebellious limb; Into a spacious green, whose either side
He shook himself, and spread his spacious wings, A hill did guard, whilst with his trees, like hairs,
Which like two bosom'd sails, embrace the dim The clouds were busy binding up his head ;
Air with a dismal shade, but all in vain; The flowers here smile upon him as he treads,
Of sturdy adamant is his strong chain, And, but when he looks up, hang down their heads.
While thus Heaven's highest counsels, by the low Not far from hence, near an harmonious brook,
Footsteps of their effects, he trac'd too well, Within an arbour of conspiring trees,
He toss'd his troubled eyes-embers that glow Whose wilder boughs into the stream did look, Now with new rage, and wax too hot for hell; A place more suitable to her distress,
With his foul claws he fenc'd his furrow'd brow, Echo, suspecting tbat her love was gone,
And gave a ghastly shriek, whose horrid yell Herself had in a careless posture thrown.
Ran trembling through the hollow vault of night. But Time upon his wings had brought the boy To see this lodging of the airy queen,.
While resident in Cambridge, Crashaw published Whom the dejected nymph espies with joy
a volume of Latin poems and epigrams, in one of Through a small window of eglantine ;
which occurs the well-known conceit relative to the And that she might be worthy his embrace,
sacred miracle of water being turned into wineForgets not to new-dress her blubber'd face.
The conscious water saw its God and blush'de With confidence she sometimes would go out, And boldly meet Narcissus in the way;
In 1646 appeared his English poems, Steps to the But then her fears present her with new doubt, Temple, The Delights of the Muscs, and Carmen Deo And chide her over-rash resolve away.
Nostro. The greater part of the volume consists of Her heart with overcharge of love must break; religious poetry, in which Crashaw occasionally ad. Great Juno will not let poor Echo speak.
dresses the Saviour, the Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalen, with all the passionate earnestness and fer
vour of a lover. He had an extravagant admiration All his leaves so fresh and sweet,
Made Heaven's radiant face look foul,
Callid for an untimely night
To blot the newly-blossom & light.
The felicity and copiousness of Crashaw's language Of the dear Spouse of Spirits with them will bring; are, however, best seen from his translations; and For which it is no shame
we subjoin, entire, his version of Music's Duel, from That dull mortality must not know a name.
the Latin of Strada. It is seldom that so sweet and
luxurious a strain of pure description and sentiment Such seem to have been his daily contemplations, greets us in our poetical pilgrimage:the heavenly manna on which his young spirit fed with delight. This mystical style of thought and
Music's Duel. fancy naturally led to exaggeration and to conceits.
The latter pervaded all the poetry of the time, and Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Crashaw could hardly escape the infection, even if | Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams there had not been in his peculiar case strong pre- Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, disposing causes. But, amidst all his abstractions, Under protection of an oak, there sat metaphors, and apostrophes, Crashaw is seldom A sweet lute's master ; in whose gentle airs tedious. His imagination was copious and various. He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. He had, as Coleridge has remarked, a power and Close in the covert of the leaves there stood opulence of invention,' and his versification is some- A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood times highly musical. With more taste and judg. (The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, ment (which riper years might have produced), Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she): Crashaw would have outstripped most of his con- There stood she list’ning, and did entertain temporaries, even Cowley. No poet of his day is so 'The music's soft report : and mould the same rich in ‘barbaric pearl and gold,' the genuine ore of In her own murmurs ; that whatever mood poetry. It is deeply to be regretted that his life had His curious fingers lent, her voice made good : not been longer, more calm and fortunate-realising The man perceivd his rival, and her art, his own exquisite lines
Dispos’d to give the light-foot lady sport,
Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
Inforins it in a sweet præludium
Of closer strains, and e'er the war begin, Amidst his visions of angels ascending and des- He lightly skirmishes on every string cending, Crashaw had little time or relishi for earthly charged with a flying touch ; and straightway she love. He has, however, left a copy of verses en
Carves out her dainty voice as readily, titled, Wishes to a Supposed Mistress, in which are
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones, some fine thoughts. He desires bis fair one to pos- | Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know,
And reckons up in soft divisions
By that shrill taste, she could do something too. Sydneian showers
His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string
A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing
He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash
Blends all together; then distinctly trips
From this to that, then quick returning, skips
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, everywhere
Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, We are tempted also to quote two similes, the first Through the sleek passage of her open throat, reminding us of a passage in Jeremy Taylor's Holy A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she point it Dying, and the second of one of Shakspeare's best with tender accents, and severely joint it sonnets :
By short diminutives, that, being rear'd
In controverting warbles, evenly shar'd,
With her sweet self she wrangles ; he amaz'd,
That from 80 small a channel should be rais'd
The torrent of a voice, whose melody
Could melt into such sweet variety,
Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art,
The tattling strings, each breathing in his part,
Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base
In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ;
The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,
Until his finger (moderator) hides
Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call
Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo Sham'd not spitefully to waste
Men's hearts into their hands : this lesson too
She gives them back : ber supple breast thrills out
Shame now and anger mix'd a double stain
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup:
By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch,
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke
This done, he lists what she would say to this,
Temperance, or the Cheap Physician. Go, now, and with some daring drug Bait thy disease ; and, whilst they tug, Thou, to maintain their precious strife, Spend the dear treasures of thy life. Go, take physic, dote upon Some big-named composition, The oraculous doctors' mystic bills Certain hard words made into pills ; And what at last shalt gain by these ! Only a costlier disease. That which makes us have no need Of physic, that's physic indeed. Hark, hither, reader ! wilt thou see Nature her own physician be! Wilt see a man, all his own wealth, His own music, his own health ; A man whose sober soul can tell How to wear her garments well ; Her garments, that upon her sit, As garments should do, close and fit; A well-cloth'd soul that's not oppress'd Nor chok'd with what she should be dress'd ; A soul sheath'd in a crystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine ; As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aërial veil, is drawn O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide, More sweetly shows the blushing bride ; A soul, whose intellectual beams No mists do mask, no lazy steamsA happy soul, that all the way To heaven, hath a summer's day? Would'st see a man, whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood ?
A man whose tuned humours be
The attending world, to wait thy rise, A seat of rarest harmony !
First turn'd to eyes ; Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile And then, not knowing what to do, Age! Wouldst see December smile?
Turn'd them to tears, and spent them too. Wouldst see nests of new roses grow
Come, royal name ! and pay the expense In a bed of reverend snow ?
Of all this precious patience : Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Oh, come away Winter's self into a spring ?
And kill the death of this delay. In sum, wouldst see a man that can
Oh see, so many worlds of barren years Live to be old, and still a man !
Melted and measur'd out in seas of tears ! Whose latest and most leaden hours
Oh, see the weary lids of wakeful hope Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers ; (Love's eastern windows) all wide ope And when life's sweet fable ends,
With curtains drawn, Soul and body part like friends;
To catch the daybreak of thy dawn! No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;
Oh, dawn at last, long-look'd for day! A kiss, a sigh, and so away!
Take thine own wings and come away. This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Lo, where aloft it comes ! It comes, among
The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng
Oh, they are wise,
And know what sweets are suck'd from out it.
It is the hire I sing the Name which none can say,
By which they thrive, But touch'd with an interior ray ;
Where all their hoard of honey lies. The name of our new peace ; our good;
Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's Our bliss, and supernatural blood ;
Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves. The name of all our lives and loves :
Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day! Hearken and help, ye holy doves !
Unfold thy fair conceptions; and display The high-born brood of day ; you bright
The birth of our bright joys.
Oh, thou compacted
Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers,
In balmy showers ! Awake, my glory! soul (if such thou be,
Oh, fill our senses, and take from us
All force of so profane a fallacy,
To think aught sweet but that which smells of theo.
Fair flow'ry name! in none but thee, Bring hither thy whole self; and let me gee
And thy nectareal fragrancy,
Hourly there meets
An universal synod of all sweets ;
By whom it is defined thus-
That no perfume Narrow and low, and infinitely less
For ever shall presume
To pass for odoriferous,
But such alone whose sacred pedigree
Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee.
Sweet name ! in thy each syllable
A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
A thousand hills of frankincense;
Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices, Of heav'ns, the self-involving set of spheres,
And ten thousand paradises,
The soul that tastes thee takes from thence.
How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping ! The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound :
How many thousand mercies there
In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping !
Happy he who has the art
To awake them,
And to take them
Home, and lodge them in his heart.
Oh, that it were as it was wont to be,
When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee, To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious Fought against frowns with smiles ; gave glorious chaso day
To persecutions ; and against the face.
Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave Come, lovely name ! life of our hope !
And sober pace march on to meet a grave. Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope!
On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee, Unlock thy cabinet of day,
And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee; Dearest sweet, and come away.
In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,
Where racks and torments striy'd in vain to reach
Little, alas ! thought they
Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,
Their fury but made way,
Satean incense in a fragrant cloud
What did their weapons, but with wider pores
More freely to transpire
That impatient fire The heart that hides thee hardly covers ! What did their weapons, but set wide the doors For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising ; The ruby windows which enrich'd the east Of thy so oft-repeated rising. Each wound of theirs was thy new morning, And re-enthron'd thee in thy rosy nest, With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning : It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adored naine !
For sure there is no knee
That knows not thee;
Alas! what will they do,
To seek for humble beds
Will not adore thee,
And break before thee.
SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE, knight, brother of Thomas Lord Fanshawe, was born in 1607. He joined the royalists, and was secretary at war to Prince Rupert. After the Restoration, he was appointed ambassador to Spain and Portugal, in which character he died at Madrid in 1666. Fanshawe translated the Lusiad of Camoens, and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. With the latter production, published in 1648, he gave to the world some miscellaneous poems, from which the following are selected :
Song.—The Saint's Encouragement.
(Written in 1643.]
Fear not the cavaliers ;
Our jealousies and fears.
And all malignants slay,
The clean contrary way.
And for the kingdom's good,
And shedding guiltless blood.
All loyal subjects slay ;
The clean contrary way.
Of crown and power bereft him, And all his loyal subjects slain,
And none but rebels left him.
And sent our trunks away,
The clean contrary way.
That we against him fight, Nor are we ever beaten back,
Because our cause is right :
Our declarations say,
The clean contrary way.
And divers places more,
The like ne'er seen before !
And bravely won the day;
The clean contrary way.
The kingdom's peace and plenty ;
Not known to one of twenty ;
And teach men to obey
The clean contrary way.
By prisonments and plunder,
By keeping the wicked under.
To lecturise and pray;
The clean contrary way.
By that malignant crew;
Give all of us our due.
Rebellion to destroy,
A Rose. Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes ! Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon : What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee ! Thou’rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon : And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn : And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born; Nay, force thy bud to blow; their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death.
A Rich Pool. Thee, senseless stock, because thou'rt richly gilt, The blinded people without cause admire, And superstition impiously hath built Altars to that which should have been the fire. Where shall my tongue consent to worship thee, Since all's not gold that glisters and is fair ; Carving but makes an image of a tree : But gods of images are made by prayer.