Chapter 6

"Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all night Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, Rain'd on thy bed And harmless head; And now, as fresh and cheerful as the light, Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm Curb'd them, and cloth'd thee well and warm."

How softly the image of the little bird again tempers the thought of death in his ode to the memory of the departed:

"He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown."

But we must leave this fair garden of the poet's fancies. The reader will find there many a flower yet untouched.

* * * * *

Richard Crashaw was the contemporary of the early years of Vaughan; for, alas! he died young--though not till he had transcribed for the world the hopes, the aspirations, the sorrows of his troubled life. He lived but thirty-four years--the volume of his verses is not less nor more than the kindred books of the brother poets with whom we are now associating his memory. A small body of verse will hold much life; for the poet gives us a concentrated essence, an elixir, a skillful confection of humanity, which, diluted with the commonplaces of every-day thought and living, may cover whole shelves of libraries. The secret of the whole of one life may be expressed in a song or a sonnet. The little books of the world are not the least.

Crashaw, also, was a scholar. The son of a clergy-man, he was educated at the famed Charter-house and afterward at Cambridge. The Revolution, too, overtook him. He refused the oath of the covenant, was ejected from his fellowship, became a Roman Catholic, and took refuge in Paris, where he ate the bread of exile with Cowley and others, cheered by the noble sympathy--it could not be much more--of Queen Henrietta Maria. She recommended him to Rome, and the sensitive poet carried his joys and sorrows to the bosom of the church. He lived a few years, and died canon of Loretto, at the age of thirty-four.

Though the son of a zealous opponent of the Roman church, Crashaw was born with an instinct and heart for its service. There runs through all his poetry that sensuousness of feeling which seeks the repose and luxury of faith which Rome always offers to her ardent votaries. It is profitable to compare the sentiment of Crashaw with the more intellectual development of Herbert. What in the former is the paramount, constant exhibition, in the latter is accepted, and holds its place subordinate to other claims. Without a portion of it there could be no deep religious life--with it, in excess, we fear for the weakness of a partial development. There is so much gain, however, to the poet, that we have no disposition to take exception to the single string of Crashaw. The beauty of the Venus was made up from the charms of many models. So, in our libraries, as in life, we must be content with parcel-work, and take one man's wisdom and another's sentiment, looking out that we get something of each to enrich our multifarious life.

Crashaw's poetry is one musical echo and aspiration. He finds his theme and illustration constantly in music. His amorous descant never fails him: his lute is always by his side. Following the "Steps of the Temple," a graceful tribute to Herbert, we have the congenial title, "The Delights of the Muses," opening with that exquisite composition:

"Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony,"

"Music's Duel." It is the story--a favorite one to the ears of our forefathers two centuries ago--of the nightingale and the musician contending with voice and instrument in alternate melodies, till the sweet songstress of the grove falls and dies upon the lute of her rapt rival. It is something more than a pretty tale. Ford, the dramatist, introduced it briefly in happy lines in "The Lover's Melancholy," but Crashaw's verses inspire the very sweetness and lingering pleasure of the contest. It is high noon when the "sweet lute's master" seeks retirement from the heat, "on the scene of a green plat, under protection of an oak," by the bank of the Tiber. The "light-foot lady,"

"The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,"

"entertains the music's soft report," which begins with a flying prelude, to which the lady of the tree "carves out her dainty voice" with "quick volumes of wild notes."

"His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string, A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them sing To their own dance."

She

"Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note Through the sleek passage of her open throat: A clear, unwrinkled song."

The contention invites every art of expression. The highest powers of the lute are evoked in rapid succession closing with a martial strain:

"this lesson, too, She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, And folds in waved 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 vollies float, And roll themselves over her lubric 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; when in ripen'd airs A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath, Which there reciprocally laboreth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire, 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."

What wealth of imagery and proud association of ideas--the bubbling spring, the golden, waving harvest, "ploughed by her breath"--the fane of Apollo suggesting in a word images of Greek maidens in chorus by the white temple of the God, the dew of Helicon, the soft waking of men from beneficent repose. It is all very well to talk of a bird doing all this: we admire nightingales, but Philomela never enchanted us in this way; it is the sex with which we are charmed. The poet's "light-foot lady" tells us the secret. We are subdued by the loveliest of prima-donnas.

There is more of this, and as good. The little poem is a poet's dictionary of musical expression. Its lines, less than two hundred, deserve to be committed to memory, to rise at times in the mind--the soft assuagement of cares and sorrows.

A famous poem of Crashaw is "On a Prayer-Book sent to Mrs. M.R." It breathes a divine ecstasy of the sacred ode:

"Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of joys, and rarefied delights."

It is human passion sublimated and refined to the uses of heaven, but human passion still--the very luxury of religion--the rapture of earth-born seraphs, as he sings with venturous exultation:

"The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets, Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures: Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover!"

Mrs. M.R., whether maid or widow we know not--in Crashaw's day virgins were called Mistress--has another poem addressed to her--"Counsel concerning her choice." It alludes to some check or hindrance in love, and asks:

"Dear, heav'n-designed soul! Amongst the rest Of suitors that besiege your maiden breast, Why may not I My fortune try, And venture to speak one good word, Not for myself, alas! but for my dearer Lord?

* * * * *

Your first choice fails; oh, when you choose again, May it not be among the sons of men!"

This is the language of devotional rapture common to the extremes of the religious world--Methodism and Roman Catholicism. Every one has heard the ardent hymn by Newton--"The Name of Jesus," and that stirring anthem, "The Coronation of Christ"--few have read the eloquent production of the canon of Loretto, a canticle from the flaming heart of Rome, addressed "To the name above every name, the name of Jesus."

"Pow'rs of my soul, be proud! And speak loud To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name; And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim New smiles to nature.

* * * * *

Sweet name, in thy each syllable A thousand blest Arabias dwell; A thousand hills of frankincense, Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices, 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! How many thousand mercies there In Pity's soft lap lie asleeping!"

Crashaw's invitations to holiness breathe the very gallantry of piety. He addresses "the noblest and best of ladies, the Countess of Denbigh," who had been his patroness in exile, "persuading her to resolution in religion."

"What heaven-entreated heart is this Stands trembling at the gate of bliss.

* * * * *

What magic bolts, what mystic bars Maintain the will in these strange wars! What fatal, what fantastic bands Keep the free heart from its own hands! So, when the year takes cold, we see Poor waters their own prisoners be;

Fetter'd and lock'd up fast, they lie In a sad self-captivity; Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore, To see themselves their own severer shore.

* * * * *

Disband dull fears; give Faith the day; To save your life, kill your delay; It is Love's siege, and sure to be Your triumph, though his victory."

His poem, "The Weeper," shoots the prismatic hues of the rainbow athwart the veil of fast-falling tears:

"Hail sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills! Ever bubbling things! Thawing crystal! snowy hills! Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

* * * * *

"Every morn from hence, A brisk cherub something sips, Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music, and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

"Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the sun that dies, Sits sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

"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.

"The dew no more will weep, The primrose's pale cheek to deck; The dew no more will sleep, Nuzzled in the lily's neck. Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear."

These are some of Crashaw's "Steps to the Temple"--verily he walked thither on velvet.

"Wishes to his supposed Mistress," is more than a pretty enumeration of the good qualities of woman as they rise in the heart of a noble, gallant lover:

"Whoe'er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me:

"Where'er she lie, Locked 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."

We are not reprinting Crashaw, and must forbear further quotation. It is enough if we have presented to the reader a lily or a rose from his pages, and have given a clue to that treasure-house--

"A box where sweets compacted lie."

A generation nurtured in poetic susceptibility by the genius of Keats and Tennyson, should not forget the early muse of Crashaw. His verse is the very soul of tenderness and imaginative luxury: less intellectual, less severe in the formation of a broad, manly character than Herbert; catching up the brighter inspirations of Vaughan, and excelling him in richness--it has a warm, graceful garb of its own. It is tinged with the glowing hues of Spenser's fancy; baptized in the fountains of sacred love, it draws an earthly inspiration from the beautiful in nature and life, as in the devout paintings of the great Italian masters, we find the models of their angels and seraphs on earth.

MISERERE DOMINE.

BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.

Thou who look'st with pitying eye From Thy radiant home on high, On the spirit tempest-tost, Wretched, weary, wandering, lost-- Ever ready help to give, And entreating, "_Look and live!_" By that love, exceeding thought, Which from Heaven the Saviour brought, By that mercy which could dare Death to save us from despair, Lowly bending at Thy feet, We adore, implore, entreat, Lifting heart and voice to Thee-- _Miserere Domine_!

With the vain and giddy throng, FATHER! we have wandered long; Eager from Thy paths to stray, Chosen the forbidden way; Heedless of the light within, Hurried on from sin to sin, And with scoffers madly trod On the mercy of our God! Now to where Thine altars burn, FATHER! sorrowing we return. Though forgotten, Thou hast not To be merciful forgot; Hear us! for we cry to Thee-- _Miserere Domine_!

From the burden of our grief Who, but Thou, can give relief? Who can pour Salvation's light On the darkness of our night? Bowed our load of sin beneath, Who can snatch our souls from death? Vain the help of man!--in dust Vainly do we put our trust! Smitten by Thy chastening rod, Hear us, save us, SON OF GOD! From the perils of our path, From the terrors of thy wrath, Save us, when we look to thee-- _Miserere Domine_!

Where the pastures greenly grow, Where the waters gently flow, And beneath the sheltering ROCK With the shepherd rests the flock. Oh, let us be gathered there Richly of Thy love to share; With the people of Thy choice Live and labor and rejoice, Till the toils of life are done, Till the fight is fought and won, And the crown, with heavenly glow, Sparkles on the victor's brow! Hear the prayer we lift to Thee-- _Miserere Domine_!

THE

KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD:

A SHORT ESSAY ON THE 148TH PSALM.

BY REV. C.A. BARTOL.

Surrounded as we are with the art and handicraft of man--almost everything we see bearing the mark of his finger, the house and the street, the market and exchange, every instrument and utensil--it is well, occasionally, to look forth from this little world of custom and convenience we ourselves have constructed, into that which bears the impress of the Almighty's hand--is still as it was left from His forming strength, and brings us into immediate communion with His Infinite mind. Let us, at least, listen to the notes of David's lyre on the creative Majesty.

After an invocation to the heavenly host, the Psalmist calls first on the forms of inanimate and inorganic existence. These things, of which he enumerates a few, praise the power of God. The crags and headlands, jarred and worn by the billows they breast; the granite peaks, bald and grey, under light and tempest, with the silent host of rocky boulders, swept, we know not by what convulsions, from their native seat, stand up as the first rank in the choir of the Maker's worship; and infidelity and atheism are hushed and abashed by their lofty praise.

Organized, but still unconscious existence takes the next station in this universal chorus. The solemn grove lifting its green top into the heavens, beside that motionless army of ancient stones, adds a sweeter note than they can give to the great harmony. It is a note, speaking not alone of the Creator's power, but of His wisdom too. Here is life and growth. Here are adaptations and stages of progress. From the minutest germination, from the slenderest stem, from the smallest trembling leaf to the hugest trunks and the highest overshadowing branches, this vegetable organization, verdant, pale, crimson, in changeable colors, runs; stopping short only with Alpine summits or polar posts, swiftly and softly clothing again the rents and gashes in the ground made by the stroke of labor or the wheels of war--blooming into the golden and ruddy harvest on the stalk and the bough, even overpassing the salt shore, to line the dismal and unvisited caves of the deep with peculiar varieties of growth; and forth into our hands from the foaming brine delicate and strangely beautiful leaves and slight ramifications of matchless tints and proportions.

But the Psalmist summons a third order of beings to contribute its melodious share to this hallelujah; and that is the living and conscious, though irrational tribes. This sings not of power and wisdom alone, but more complex and rich in adoration, sings of goodness also. God has not made the world for a dead spectacle and mere picture for His own eye. How full and crowded with life, and happy life, His creation is! Go forth from inclosing city walls, and, in the summer noontide, stop in solitude and apparent silence and listen; and soon the sounds of this joyous life shall come to your ear: the chirp of the insects--the rustle of wings--the crackling of the leaves, as the blithesome airy creatures pass--the short, thick warble of the bird by your side, or its varied tune, clearer than viol or organ, from the thicket beyond--while, from time to time, the deep low of cattle reverberates from afar. Or if you are where the still and speechless creatures inhabit, open your eye to gaze and examine, and it shall be filled with the visible, as the ear with the vocal signs of living enjoyment. Walking at the edge of the ebbing tide, you tread on life at every step--shelly tribe on tribe of fish pressing together, while in the clear water, other tribes noiselessly swim and glide away. Every vital motion speaks of pleasure, whether in that restless current below, or in the air above, as the feathered songster passes, darting up and down his element, delight gushing from his throat at every buoyant spring--silence and sound, with double demonstration, declaring to the Creator's praise the great and limitless boon of life.

But there is one accent more, that of love, without which the hymn is not complete; and there is another human order of Being to speak that accent. Man includes in himself all the preceding orders of Being, with all the notes of their praise: the material clod, for is he not made of dust; the plant, for he has an outward growth and circulation--the animal, for he has instinct and feeling; while reason and conscience and spiritual affection he has peculiarly and alone; so that Power, Wisdom, Goodness and Love, all concentrated in him, complete the ground of his praise.

Yet, as we look out upon this mighty sum of things in the external universe, the level earth stretching off to some ascending ridge in the horizon's blue distance--the boundless deep spread afar, till, at the misty edge of vision it bends, in mingling threefold circles, to embrace the globe, the impenetrable below and the infinite above him, how slight and insignificant a creature he seems! like a fly that clings to the ceiling, or a mote that swims in the sunbeam, one of the mere mites of nature, easily lost by the way or a frail figure ready to be crushed by any stroke of the ponderous machinery mid which he moves. When he reflects on his condition--his brief date, his speedy doom--how inconsiderable his existence appears! Or when he regards himself as not a compound of matter merely, but as a living soul, how easy it seems, as his contemplation runs out absorbed into the wondrous glory of the world, for all the vital energy which is for a moment insulated in his frame, when his frame dissolves, to pass into the general substance from which it came, the thinking creature ending as it began! But a voice from heaven cries to him and says, "Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him. I will set him on high because he hath known my name; with long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation."

This love of God makes the society of all human affection. "God made the country, and man made the town," is an oft quoted line; and not seldom it is implied that the open or thinly-peopled landscape is somehow a better and holier place for the soul than the thronged city. But let it not be forgotten that man himself is God's work and His highest work on earth. Would we sing our psalm now or hereafter with the sweetest relish, we must go forth from any little circle we may have drawn around us, of private ease and personal comfort, in friendly intercourse to hear the cry of the unfortunate, the sighing of the prisoner, the sob of the mourner, the groan of the sick, the appeal of the injured and oppressed. By our aid, consolation and succor, we must gather their voices into the chorus, before, with perfect satisfaction, we can mingle in it our own.