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and not as himself here, upon scriptures, divine graces, martyrs, and angels."

He appears to have been a man of a warm and enthusiastic temperament, which he carried into every thing, and most especially into his religion. No lover ever depicted the charms of his fair enslaver with greater warmth and animation, than fill the verses addressed to St. Theresa, "founder of the discalced Carmelites, both men and women; a woman, who for angelical height of speculation, for masculine courage of performance, more than a woman, who, yet a child, out-ran maturity, and durst plot a martyrdom."

In the very spirit of mystical devotion, he thus speaks of the only " dart" which should have power to " rase her breasts' chaste cabinet."

"So rare,
So spiritual pure and fair,
Must be the immortal instrument
Upon whose choice point shall be spent
A life so lov'd; and that there be
Fit executioners for thee,
The fairest and the first-born loves of fire:
Blest seraphims shall leave their quire,
And turn Love's soldiers, upon thee
To exercise their archery.

0, how oft shalt thou complain

Of a sweet and subtile 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."

In some verses on " the assumption of the blessed virgin," he feigns " the immortal dove thus sighing to his silver mate," the mother of Jesus Christ.

"Come away, my love,
Come away, my dove,

Cast off delay.
The court of Heav'n is come
To wait upon thee home,

Come away, come away."

In a most ingenious poem, " on a praye.r-book sent to a female friend," he thus speaks of the "sacred store, hidden sweets, and holy joys," which the soul feels, when the noble bridegroom comes, "who is alone the spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son."

"Amorous languishments, luminous trances,

Sights which are not seen with eyes;
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances,

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire;
And melts it down in sweet desire:

Yet doth not stay
To ask the windows leave, to pass that way.

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations

Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;

A thousand unknown rites

Of joys, and rarified delights.

An hundred thousand loves and graces,

And many a mystick thing,

Which the divine embraces
Of the dear spouse of spirits with them will bring;

For which it is no shame,
That dull mortality must not know a name."

Besides the religious poetry, among which is a large collection of sacred epigrams, completely worthless, are numerous translations and paraphrases; together with a number of original poems, chiefly on occasional subjects, from which we hope to extract some passages, well worthy of perusal. The first division of his poems is entitled " Steps to the Temple," so called, says the before-mentioned author of the preface, from his passing the greater part of his time in St. Mary's church, Cambridge.—" There he lodged under Tertullian's roof of angels; there he made his nest, more gladly than David's swallow near the house of God; where, like a primitive saint, he offered more prayers in the night, than others usually offer in the day;" there he penned these poems, " Steps for happy souls to climb Heav'n by." The first step we meet with is a poem, called the "Weeper," which, had we room to quote, Would very completely illustrate the few remarks we have above made on the conceits of this writer, and of the taste of his age. Take the first verse only.

"Hail, sister springs, Parents of silver-forded rills! Ever bubbling things!

Thawing crystal! snowy hills'.
Still spending, never spent; I mean
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene."

Nevertheless, there are some tender images and expressions to be found even here; and we quote the following verses, as possessing great beauty in their kind.

"The dew no more will weep,
The primrose's pale cheek to deck,

The dew no more will sleep,
Nuzzel'd in the lillies neck.
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Not the soft gold which
Steals from the amber-weeping tree,

Makes sorrow half so rich,
As the drops distill'd from' thee.
Sorrows best jewels lie in these
Caskets of which Heaven keeps the keys.

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.
No where but here did ever meet
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet."

Some verses, called "the Tear," then occur, wherein the author asks, " "What bright soft thing is this," and conjectures it to be a " moist spark," a "wat'ry diamond," a " star about to drop," or any thing else to which it bears any the least fanciful resemblance: when he is satisfied that it is in truth a tear, he says:

"Such a pearl as this is
(Slipt from Aurora's dewy breast)
The rose-bud's sweet lip kisses;

Such the maiden gem

By the wanton spring put on,

Peeps from her parent stem,

And blushes on the wat'ry sun."

After catching the said tear on a pillow,

"Stuffed with down of angel's wing;"

and carrying it to be an eye in Heav'n, he finishes, by doubting, with ineffable conceit, whether it had

"rather there have shone An eye of Heav'n, or still shine here, In the heav'n of Mary's eye, a tear."

The " Divine Epigrams" follow next in order—and are, to say the least, utterly worthless—we will give a single specimen "upon the infant martyrs."

"To see both blended in one flood,
The mother's milk, the children's blood,
Makes me doubt if Heav'n will gather
Roses hence, or lillies rather."

During the composition of the greater part of the religious poems, it must be confessed, that the genius of Crashaw suffered an eclipse—the nature of his subject is frequently such, that the poet can shew nothing but his piety, and even when the ingenuity of his fancy engrafts life and animation on a most unpromising stock, he dresses up a sacred topic in a painted vest, so gaudy and flowery, as to be disgusting to the simpler taste of a good protestant. No one ought to write poems " on the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord," or " on our Lord, naked and bloody," much less speak of the lacerations of the crucifixion in terms like these: addressing Mary Magdalen, our converted poet says:

"This foot hath got a mouth and lips,
To pay the sweet sum of thy kisses:

To pay thy tears, an eye that weeps,
Instead of tears, such gems as this is.

The difference only this appears,

Nor can the change offend,
The debt is paid in ruby tears,

Which thou in pearls did lend."

In a poem on " the Nativity," which contains some ingenious, though misplaced, verses, we can excuse the following lines for the sake of their beauty. He is addressing the infant Saviour.

"Welcome .

To many a rarely temper'd kiss,

That breathes at once both maid and mother;


She sings thy tears asleep, and dips

Her kisses in thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of thy lips,

That in their buds yet blushing lie."

In the " Delights of the Muses," where the poet descends from his lofty contemplations to the humbler topics of the " profane" muse, there are two or three poems on the deaths of some friends, that possess many more charms, and beauties of a higher order, than we expect to meet with in verses of an occasional kind. Though here sometimes the fancy of our author frequently runs wild, and insinuates itself into winding and sequestered paths, forbidden to the dignity of poetry. The following extract, from the verses on the death of Mr. Herrys, may, perhaps, incur the charge of diffuseness; we, however, do not think the poet has weaved "the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument."

"I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud

Of a ruddy rose, that stood

Blushing to behold the ray

Of the new saluted day;

His tender top not fully spread;

The sweet dash of a shower now shed,

Invited him no more to hide

Within himself the purple pride

Of his forward flower, when lo,

While he sweetly 'gan to show

His swelling glories, Auster spied him,

Cruel Auster thither hied him,

And with the rush of one rude blast,

Sham'd not spitefully to waste

All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,

And lay them trembling at his feet.

I've seen the morning's lovely ray

Hover o'er the new-born day,

With rosie wings so richly bright,

As if he scorn'd to think of night,

When a ruddy storm, whose scowl

Made Heaven's radiant face look foul,


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