Call'd for an untimely night,
To blot the newly blossom'd light.
But were the roses' blush so rare
Were the morning's smile so fair
As is he, nor cloud nor wind

But would be courteous, would be kind."

The lines on Mr. Staninough's death possess great moral beauty, and forcibly remind us of the powerful and enthusiastic preacher, which character belongs to Crashaw as well as that of poet.

"Come then youth, beauty, and blood, all ye soft powers,
Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours

Into a false eternity; come, man,

(Hyperbolized nothing!) know thy span ;

Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow

Before thy self in thy idea, thou

Huge emptiness contract thy bulk, and shrink

All thy wild circle to a point! O sink

Lower and lower yet, till thy small size

Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes;
Lesser and lesser yet, till thou begin

To show a face fit to confess thy kin,
Thy neighbour-hood to nothing! here put on
Thy self in this unfeign'd reflexion;

Here, gallant ladies, this impartial glass

Through all your painting, shows you your own face.
These death-seal'd lips are they dare give the lye
To the proud hopes of poor mortality.

These curtain'd windows, this self-prison'd eye,
Out-stares the lids of large-look'd tyranny:
This posture is the brave one; this that lies
Thus low, stands up (me-thinks) thus, and defies
The world:-All-daring dust and ashes, onely you

Of all interpreters read nature true."

Crashaw wrote for his own amusement and that of friends. Careless of fame, he engaged in no long poem, and the subjects of those he has left are generally written on occasions which occur to every man. We cannot regret the " foul morning, the author being then to take a journey," which produced lines so spirited and poetical as these-the poet thus addresses the sun :

"Where art thou, Sol, while thus the blind-fold day
Staggers out of the east, loses her way

Stumbling on night? Rouse thee, illustrious youth,
And let no dull mists choak the light's fair growth.
Point here thy beams.

Say to the sullen morn, thou com'st to court her;
And wilt demand proud Zephirus to sport her
With wanton gales; his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain

On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet harvest, which discloses
To every blushing bed of new-born roses.
He'l fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow
And frisk in curl'd meanders; he will throw
A fragrant breath, suck'd from the spicy nest
O' th' precious phoenix, warm upon her breast:
He, with a dainty and soft hand, will trim

And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'r she'll tread,
Bright clouds like golden fleeces shall be spread.

Rise then, fair blue-ey'd maid, rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight,
Into thy bosome, bath'd with liquid light.
Fly, fly, prophane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing day
With dull influence: it is for you,
your

To sit and scowl upon night's heavy brow;

Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin morn,

Where nought but smiles and ruddy joys are worn.
Fly then, and do not think with her to stay;

Let it suffice, she'l wear no mask to day.”

"His satisfaction to the Morning" for having slept too long, is an exquisite specimen of the playfulness and luxuriance of our poet's fancy, and would excuse a much longer extract.

"O in that morning of my shame! when I

Lay folded up in sleep's captivity;

How, at the sight, didst thou draw back thine eyes

Into thy modest veil? how did'st thou rise

Twice dy'd in thine own blushes, and did'st run
To draw the curtains, and awake the Sun ?
Who rouzing his illustrious tresses came,
And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shame
His head in thy fair bosome, and still hides
Me from his patronage; I pray,-he chides ;

And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My own Apollo, try if I can make

His Lethe be my Helicon; and see
If Morpheus have a muse to wait on me.
Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings,
No nimble rapture starts to Heaven and brings
Enthusiastick flames, such as can give
Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Drest in the glorious madness of a muse,
Whose feet can walk the milky way, and chuse
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The grave, and hold up an exalted arm
To lift me from my lazy urne, and climb
Upon the stooped shoulders of old time;
And trace eternity-But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,
Where mercy cannot find them; but O thou
Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lye
So warm in thy soft brest, it cannot dye :
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise,
O meet the angry god, invade his eyes,
And stroak his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss
Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss.
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew,

Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
At th' oriental gates; and duly mock
The early lark's shrill orizons to be
An anthem at the day's nativity.

And the same rosie-finger'd hand of thine,
That shuts night's dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I
Was ever known to be thy votary.

No more my pillow shall thine altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
My self a melting-sacrifice; I'm born

Again a fresh child of the buxome morn,

Heir of the Sun's first beams,-why threat'st thou so?

Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? go,

Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,

Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'r know
Thy downy finger, dwell upon their eyes,
Shut in their tears; shut out their miseries."

The poem on "Lessius, his rule of life," is reckoned among the best of the productions of Crashaw's muse, and is, though short, fertile in beautiful images, and written with a masterly power over his native language.

"Goe now with some daring drugg,
Bait the disease, and while they tug,
Thou, to maintain their cruel strife,
Spend the dear treasure of thy life :
Go, take physick; doat upon
Some big-nam'd composition,

The oraculous doctor's mystick bills,
Certain hard words made into pills;
And what at length shalt get by these?
Onely a costlier disease.

Goe, poor man, think what shall be,

Remedy against thy remedy.

That which makes us have no need
Of physick, that's physick indeed.

Hark hither, reader, wouldst thou see
Nature her own physitian be;

Wouldst see a man all, his own wealth,
His own physick, 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-cloath'd soul that's not opprest,

Nor choakt with what she should be drest?
A soul sheath'd in a chrystal shrine
Through which all her bright features shine?
As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aëreal vail is drawn

O'r beauties face, seeming to hide

More sweetly shows the blushing bride.

A soul whose intellectual beams

No mists do mask, no lazy steams?

A happy soul, that all the way

To heaven hath a summer's day?

Wouldst thou see a man, whose well warm'd blood

Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man, whose tuned humours be

A set of rarest harmony?

Wouldst see blith looks fresh cheeks beguile?

Age, wouldst see December smile?

Wouldst see a nest of roses grow
In a bed of reverend snow ?
Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In summe, wouldst see a man that can

Live to be old, and still a man?"

The next extract we shall make is a selection from a large number of very pleasing verses, which are entitled "Wishes, to his supposed mistress."

Of chrystal 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 its duty

To gaudy tire, or glistring shoo-tye.

Something more than

Taffata or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More then 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;