A Hymn of the Nativity, Sung By the Shepherds

COME we shepherds who have seen

Day's king deposed by Night's queen.

Come lift we up our lofty song,

To wake the Sun that sleeps too long.

He in this our general joy,

Slept, and dreamt of no such thing

While we found out the fair-ey'd boy,

And kissed 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.

Gloomy night embrac'd the place

Where the noble infant lay:

The babe looked 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 thy eyes.

Winter chid the world, 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 powers,

Where he meant frosts, he scattered flowers.

We saw thee in thy balmy nest,

Bright dawn of our eternal day;

We saw thine eyes break from the east,

And chase the trembling shades away:

We saw thee (and we blest the sight)

We saw thee by thine own sweet light.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow

Come hovering o'er the place's head,

Offring their whitest sheets of snow,

To furnish the fair infant's bed.

Forbear (said I) be not too bold,

Your fleect is white, but 'tis too cold.

I saw th'officious angels bring,

The down that their soft breasts did strow,

For well they now can spare their wings,

When Heaven itself lies here below.

Fair youth (said I) be not too rough,

Thy down though soft's not soft enough.

The babe no sooner 'gan to seek

Where to lay his lovely head,

But straight his eyes advis'd his cheek,

'Twixt mother's breasts to go to bed.

Sweet choice (said I) no way but so,

Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow.

Welcome to our wond'ring sight

Eternity shut in a span!

Summer in winter! Day in night!

Heaven in Earth! and God in Man!

Great little one, whose glorious birth,

Lifts Earth to Heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

Welcome, though not to gold, nor silk,

To more than Cæsar's birthright is,

Two sister-seas of virgin's milk,

WIth many a rarely-temper'd kiss,

That breathes at once both maid and mother,

Warms in the one, cools in the other.

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.

She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries

The points of her young eagle's eyes.

Welcome, (though not to those gay flies

Guilded i'th' beams of earthly kings

Slippery souls in smiling eyes)

But to poor Shepherds, simple things,

That use no varnish, no oil'd arts,

But lift clean hands full of clear hearts.

Yet when young April's husband showers

Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed,

We'll bring the first-born of her flowers,

To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head.

To thee (dread lamb) whose love must keep

The shepherds, while they feed their sheep.

To seek Majesty, soft king

Of simple graces, and sweet loves,

Each of us his lamb will bring,

Each his pair of silver doves.

At last, in fire of thy fair eyes,

We'll burn, our own best sacrifice.

Richard Crashaw

On Marriage

I WOULD be married, but I'd have no wife,

I would be married to a single life.

Richard Crashaw

The Flaming Heart Upon the Book and Picture of Saint Teresa

WELL meaning readers! you that come as friends

And catch the precious name this piece pretends;

Make not too much haste to admire

That fair-cheeked fallacy of fire.

That is a Seraphim, they say

And this the great Teresia.

Readers, be rul'd by me; and make

Here a well-plac'd and wise mistake

You must transpose the picture quite,

And spell it wrong to read it right;

Read him for her, and her for him;

And call the saint the Seraphim.

Painter, what did'st thou understand

To put her dart into his hand!

See, even the years and size of him

Shows this the mother Seraphim.

This is the mistress flame; and duteous he

Her happy fireworks, here comes down to see.

O most poor-spirited of men!

Had thy cold pencil kist her pen

Thou couldst not so unkindly err

To show us this faint shade for her.

Why man, this speaks pure mortal frame;

And mocks with female frost love's manly flame.

One would suspect, thou meant'st to paint

Some weak, inferior, woman saint.

But had thy pale-fac'd purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book

Thou wouldst on her have leapt up all

That could be found seraphical;

Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair,

Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheek, and glistering wings,

All those fair and flagrant things,

But before all, that fiery dart

Had fill'd the hand of this great heart.

Do then as equal right requires,

Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires,

Resume and rectify thy rude design;

Undress thy Seraphim into mine.

Redeem this injury of thy art;

Give him the veil, give her the dart.

Give him the veil; that he may cover

The red cheeks of a rivall'd lover.

Asham'd that our world, now, can show

Nests of new Seraphims here below.

Give her the dart for it is she

(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee.

Say, all ye wise and well-pierc'd hearts

That live and die amidst her darts,

What is't your tasteful spirits do prove

In that rare life of her, and love?

Say and bear witness. Sends she not

A Seraphim at every shot?

What magazines of immortal arms there shine!

Heav'n's great artillery in each love-spun line.

Give then the dart to her who gives the flame;

Give him the veil, who kindly takes the shame.

But if it be the frequent fate

Of worst faults to be fortunate;

If all's prescription; and proud wrong

Hearkens not to an humble song;

For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suff'ring Seraphim.

His be the bravery of all those bright things,

The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings;

The rosy hand, the radiant dart;

Leave her alone, the Flaming Heart.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her

Not one loose shaft but love's whole quiver.

For in love's field was never found

A nobler weapon than a wound.

Love's passives are his activ'st part.

The wounded is the wounding heart.

O heart! the equal poise of love's both parts

Big alike with wound 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,

Combined 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 the 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.

Richard Crashaw

Wishes, To His (Supposed) Mistress

WHOE'ER she be,

That not impossible she

That shall command my heart and me;

Where'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-tie.

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 commend 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 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 ther 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.

Sidneyan 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 lowers.

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 thse 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.

Richard Crashaw

Music's Duel

NOW Westward Sol had spent the richest Beams

Of Noon's high Glory, when hard by the streams

Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,

Under protection an an Oak, there sat

A sweet Lute's-master, in whose gentle aires

He lost the Day's heat, and his own hot cares.

Close in the covert of the leaves there stood

A Nightingale, come from the neighboring wood:

(The sweet inhabitant of each glad Tree,

Their Muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she)

There stood she list'ning, and did entertain

The Music's soft report, and mold the same

In her own murmurs, that what ever mood

His curious fingers lent, her voice made good;

The man preceiv'd his Rival, and her Art,

Dispos'd to give the light-foot Lady sport

Awakes his Lute, and 'gainst the fight to come

Informs it, in a sweet Praeludium

Of closer strains, and ere the war begin,

He lightly skirmishes on every string

Char'd with a flying touch; and staightway she

Carves out her dainty voice as readily,

Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd Tones,

And reckons up in soft divisions,

Quick volumes of wild Notes, to let him know

By that shrill taste, she could do something, too.

His nimble hands instinct then taught each string

A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing

Toi their own dance; now negligently rash

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, every where

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,

Through the sleek passage of her open throat;

A clear unwrinckled song, then doth she point it

With tender accents, and severely joint it

By short diminutives, that being rear'd

In controverting warbles evenly shar'd,

With her sweet self she wrangles; He amaz'd

That from so 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 tatling 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'd Treble chirps at this, and chides,

Until his finger (Moderator) hides

And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all

Hoarse, shrill, at once; as when the Trumpets call

Hot Mars to th'Harvest of Death's Field, and woo

Men's hearts into their hands; this lesson too

She gives him back; her supple Breast thrills out

Sharp Aires, and staggers in a warbling doubt

Of dallying sweetness, hovers o"er her skillk,

And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill,

The pliant Series of her slippery song.

Then starts she suddenly into a Throng

Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys float,

And roll themselves over her lubrick throat.

In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her Breast

That ever-bubbling spring; the sugar'd Nest

Of her delicious soul, that there does lie

Bathing in streams of liquid Melody;

Music's best seed-plot, whenced in ripen'd Aires

A Golden-headed Harvest fairly rears

His Honey-dripping tops, plow'd by her breath

Which there reciprocally laboreth

In that sweet soil. It seems a holy choir

Founded to th' Name of great Apollo's lyre.

Whose silver-roof rings with the sprightly notes

Of sweet-lipp'd Angel-Imps, that swill their throats

In cream of Morning Helicon, and then

Prefer soft Anthems to the Ears of men,

To woo them from their Beds, still murmuring

That men can sleep while they their Matins sing:

(Most divine service) whose so early lay

Prevents the Eye-lids of the blushing Day.

There might you hear her kindle her soft voice,

In the close murmur of a sparkling noise.

And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song,

Still keeping in the forward stream, so long

Till a sweet whirl-wind (striving to get out)

Heaves her soft Bosom, wanders round about,

And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast,

Till the fledg'd Notes at length forsake their Nest;

Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the Sky

Wing'd with their own wild Echo's prattling fly.

She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a Tide

Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride

On the wav'd back of every swelling strain,

Rising and falling in a pompous train.

And while she thus discharges a shrill peal

Of flashing Aires, she qualifies their zeal

With the cool Epode of a graver Note,

Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat

Would reach the brazen voice of War's hoarse Bird;

Her little soul is ravisht, and so pour'd

Into loose ecstasies, that she is plac't

Above her self, Music's Enthusiast.

Shame now and anger mixt a double stain

In the Musician's face: "Yet once again

(Mistress) I come; now reach a strain my Lute

Above her mock, or be for ever mute.

Or tune a song of victory to me,

Or to thy self, sing thine own Obsequy."

So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,

And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings.

The sweet-lipp'd sisters musically frighted,

Singing their fears are fearfully delighted.

Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs

Are fann'd and frizzled, in the wanton aires

Of his own breath, which married to his Lyre

Doth tune the Spheres, and make Heav'n's self look higher.

>From this to that, from that to this he flies

Feels Music's pulse in all her Arteries,

Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,

His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,

Following those little rills, he sinks into

A Sea of Helicon; his hand does go

Those parts of sweetness which with Nectar drop,

Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.

The humourous strings expound his learned touch,

By various Glosses; now they seem to grutch,

And murmur in a buzzing din, then jingle

In shrill-tongu'd accents, striving to be single.

Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke

Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h'invoke

Sweetness by all her Names; thus, bravely thus

(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

The Lute's light Genius now does proudly rise,

Heav'd on the surges of swoll'n Rhapsodies.

Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curl the air

With flash of high-borne fancies; here and there

Dancing in lofty measures, and anon

Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,

Who trembling murmurs melting in wild aires

Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares

Because those precious mysteries that dwell,

In Music's ravish't soul he dare not tell,

But whisper to the world; thus do they vary

Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry

Their Master's blest soul (snatcht out at his Ears

By a strong Ecstacy) through all the spheres

Of Music's heaven; and seat it there on high

In th'Empyraeum of pure Harmony.

At length (after so long, so loud a strife

Of all the strings, still breathing the best life

Of blest variety attending on

His fingers' fairest revolution

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)

A full-mouth Diapason swallows all.

This done, he list what she would say to this,

And she, although her Breath's late exercise

Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,

Yet summons all her sweet powers for a Note

Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries

To measure all those wild diversities

Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one

Poor simple voice, rais'd in a Natural Tone,

She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies.

She dies, and leaves her life the Victor's prize,

Falling upon his Lute; O fit to have

(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave!

Richard Crashaw