Part 3

Our Worthy did not long remain in England. He retired to France; and his little genial poem on sending 'two green apricocks' to COWLEY sheds a gleam of light on his residence in Paris. COWLEY was in the 'gay city' in 1646 as Secretary to LORD JERMYN; and inasmuch as the volume of that year contained his own alternate-poem on 'Hope,' I like to imagine that he carried over a copy of it to CRASHAW, and renewed their old friendship. COWLEY, it is told, found our Poet in great poverty: but CAR'S verses somewhat lighten the gloom. The 'Secretary' of LORD JERMYN introduced his friend to the Queen of Charles I., who was then a fugitive in Paris. So it usually runs: but CRASHAW had previously 'sung' of and to her Majesty. From the Queen the Poet obtained letters of recommendation to Italy; and from a contemporary notice, hereafter to be used, we learn he became 'Secretary' at Rome to CARDINAL PALOTTA. He appears to have remained in Rome until 1649-50, and by very 'plain speech' on the moralities, that is immoralities, of certain ecclesiastics, to have drawn down on himself Italian jealousy and threats. His 'good' Cardinal provided a place of shelter in the Lady-chapel of LORETTO, of which he was made a Canon. But his abode there was very brief; for, by a document sent me from Loretto, I ascertained that he died of fever after a few weeks' residence only, and was buried within the chapel there, in 1650.[8] COWLEY shed 'melodious tears' over his dear friend, in which he turns to fine account his '_fever_' end: and with his priceless tribute, of which DR. JOHNSON said, 'In these verses there are beauties which common authors may justly think not only above their attainment, but above their ambition,'[9]--I close for the present our Memoir:

ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW.

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are giv'n The two most sacred names of Earth and Heav'n, The hardest, rarest union which can be Next that of godhead with humanity. Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride; Like Moses thou (tho' spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly home, back to their Holy Land.

Ah, wretched we, Poets of Earth! but thou Wert living, the same Poet which thou'rt now; Whilst angels sing to thee their ayres divine, And joy in an applause so great as thine. Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old; And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see, How little less than they, exalted man may be.

Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, The heav'nliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell: Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian land; Still idols here, like calves at Bethel stand. And tho' Pan's death long since all or'cles broke, Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke; Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage, we (Vain men!) the monster woman deifie; Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face, And Paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place. What diff'rent faults corrupt our Muses thus? Wanton as girls, as old wives, fabulous.

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain That her eternal verse employ'd should be On a less subject than eternity; And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take But her whom God Himself scorn'd not His spouse to make: It (in a kind) her miracle did do, A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.

How well (blest Swan) did Fate contrive thy death, And made thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great mistress's arms! Thou most divine, And richest off'ring of Loretto's shrine! Where, like some holy sacrifice t' expire, A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chappel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph thro' the air: 'Tis surer much they brought thee there; and they, And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Pardon, my Mother-Church, if I consent That angels led him, when from thee he went; For ev'n in error, sure no danger is, When join'd with so much piety as his. Ah! mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief; Ah! that our greatest faults were in belief! And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet, Rather than thus, our wills too strong for it. His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right: And I, myself, a Catholick will be; So far at least, great Saint! to pray to thee.

Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below: Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse Chance, Attack'd by Envy and by Ignorance; Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by desires, Expos'd by tyrant-love, to savage beasts and fires. Thou from low Earth in nobler flames didst rise, And like Elijah, mount alive the skies. Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, More fit thy greatness and my littleness;) Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove So humble to esteem, so good to love) Not that thy sp'rit might on me doubled be, I ask but half thy mighty sp'rit for me: And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing, 'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.[10]

ALEXANDER B. GROSART.

THE

WORKS OF RICHARD CRASHAW.

VOL. I.

ENGLISH POETRY.

NOTE.

The title-pages, with collation, of the original and early editions of 'Steps to the Temple' and 'The Delights of the Muses' (1646 to 1670) are here given successively:

_1st edition_, 1646. (1)

STEPS

TO THE

TEMPLE.

Sacred Poems,

With other Delights of the MUSES.

By RICHARD CRASHAW, _sometimes of_ PEMBROKE _Hall, and late Fellow of_ S. Peters _Coll._ in Cambridge.

_Printed and Published according to Order._

LONDON, Printed by T.W. for _Humphrey Moseley_, and are to be sold at his shop at the Princes Armes in St _Pauls_ Church-yard. 1646.

(2)

THE

DELIGHTS

OF THE

MUSES.

OR,

Other Poems written on severall occasions.

By RICHARD CRASHAW, _sometimes of_ Pembroke _Hall, and late Fellow of_ St. Peters _Colledge in_ Cambridge.

Mart. Dic mihi quid melius desidiosus agas.

London,

Printed by T.W. for _H. Moseley_, at the Princes Armes in S. _Pauls_ Churchyard, 1646. [12o]

Collation: Title-page; the Preface to the Reader, pp. 6; the Author's Motto and short Note to Reader, pp. 2 [all unpaged]; 'Steps to the Temple,' pp. 99; title-page of 'Delights,' as _supra_, and pp. 103-138; the Table, pp. 4.

_2d edition, 1648._

STEPS

TO THE

TEMPLE,

Sacred Poems.

With

The Delights of the Muses.

By RICHARD CRASHAW, _sometimes of_ Pembroke Hall, _and late fellow of_ S. Peters _Coll._ in Cambridge.

_The second Edition wherein are added divers pieces not before extant._

LONDON,

Printed for _Humphrey Moseley_, and are to be sold at his Shop at the Princes Armes in St. _Pauls_ Church-yard. 1648. [12o]

The title-page to the 'Delights of the Muses' is exactly the same with that of 1646, except the date '1648.' Collation: Engraved title-page; title-page (printed); the Preface to the Reader and the Author's Motto, pp. 6; 'Steps,' pp. 110; the Table, pp. 4; the 'Delights;' title-page; the Table, pp. 3; Poems, pp. 71.

_3d edition, 1652._

CARMEN

DEO NOSTRO,

TE DECET HYMNVS

SACRED POEMS,

Collected, Corrected, Avgmented, Most humbly Presented. To My Lady The Covntesse of DENBIGH By Her most deuoted Seruant. R.C.

In heaty [_sic_] acknowledgment of his immortall obligation to her Goodnes & Charity.

AT PARIS

By PETER TARGA, Printer to the Archbishope ef [_sic_] Paris, in S. Victors streete at the golden sunne.

M.DC.LII. [8vo]

Collation: Title-page; Verses by CAR, pp. 3; Verse-Letter to Countess of Denbigh, pp. 3 [all unpaged]; the Poems, pp. 131. (See our Preface for more on this and preceding and succeeding volumes, and for notice of a separate edition of the Verse-Letter to the Countess of Denbigh.)

_4th edition, erroneously designated 2d edition_, 1670.

STEPS

TO THE

TEMPLE,

THE DELIGHTS Of The Muses, and Carmen Deo Nostro.

By _Ric. Crashaw_, sometimes Fellow of _Pembroke Hall_, and late Fellow of _St. Peters Colledge_ in _Cambridge_.

_The 2d. Edition._

In the Savoy,

Printed by T.N. for _Henry Herringham_ at the _Blew Anchor_ in the _Lower Walk_ of the _New Exchange_. 1670. [8vo]

Collation: Engraving of a 'Temple;' title-page; the Preface to the Reader and the Author's Motto, pp. 8; the Table, pp. 6 [all unpaged]; 'Steps,' pp. 77; 'Delights,' pp. 81-137; 'Carmen Deo Nostro, Te Decet Hymnvs,' pp. 141-208. For later editions see our Preface, as before, and for details on all, early and recent, and Manuscripts; and also our Memorial-Introduction and Essay. The 'Preface' of 1646 was reprinted in 1648 without change, save a few slight orthographical differences, and these: p. xlvi. line 3, 'their' for 'its dearest:' p. xlvii. line 1, 'subburd' for 'suburb:' and ibid, line 19, 'then' for 'than:' 1648 our text. It follows this Note in its own place. G.

STEPS TO THE TEMPLE, &c.

THE PREFACE TO THE READER.

LEARNED READER,

The Author's friend will not usurpe much upon thy eye: This is onely for those whom the name of our divine Poet hath not yet seized[11] into admiration. I dare undertake that what JAMBLICUS[12] (_in vita Pythagoræ_) affirmeth of his Master, at his contemplations, these Poems can, viz. They shall lift thee, Reader, some yards above the ground: and, as in _Pythagoras_ Schoole, every temper was first tuned into a height by severall proportions of Musick, and spiritualiz'd for one of his weighty lectures; so maist thou take a poem hence, and tune thy soule by it, into a heavenly pitch;[13] and thus refined and borne up upon the wings of meditation, in these Poems thou maist talke freely of God, and of that other state.

Here's _Herbert's_[14] second, but equall, who hath retriv'd Poetry of late, and return'd it up to its primitive use; let it bound back to heaven gates, whence it came. Thinke yee ST. AUGUSTINE would have steyned his graver learning with a booke of Poetry, had he fancied its dearest end to be the vanity of love-sonnets and epithalamiums? No, no, he thought with this our Poet, that every foot in a high-borne verse, might helpe to measure the soule into that better world. Divine Poetry, I dare hold it in position, against SUAREZ on the subject, to be the language of the angels; it is the quintessence of phantasie and discourse center'd in Heaven; 'tis the very out-goings of the soule; 'tis what alone our Author is able to tell you, and that in his owne verse.

It were prophane but to mention here in the Preface those under-headed Poets, retainers to seven shares and a halfe;[15] madrigall fellowes, whose onely businesse in verse, is to rime a poore six-penny soule, a suburb-sinner[16] into Hell:--May such arrogant pretenders to Poetry vanish, with their prodigious issue of tumorous[17] heats and flashes of their adulterate braines, and for ever after, may this our Poet fill up the better roome of man. Oh! when the generall arraignment of Poets shall be, to give an accompt of their higher soules, with what a triumphant brow shall our divine Poet sit above, and looke downe upon poore HOMER, VIRGIL, HORACE, CLAUDIAN, &c.? who had amongst them the ill lucke to talke out a great part of their gallant genius, upon bees, dung, froggs, and gnats, &c., and not as himself here, upon Scriptures, divine graces, martyrs and angels.

Reader, we stile his Sacred Poems, Steps to the Temple, and aptly, for in the Temple of God, under His wing, he led his life, in St. Marie's Church neere St. Peter's Colledge: there he lodged under TERTULLIAN'S roofe of angels; there he made his nest more gladly than David's swallow neere 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 soules to climbe heaven by. And those other of his pieces, intituled The Delights of the Muses, (though of a more humane mixture) are as sweet as they are innocent.

The praises that follow, are but few of many that might be conferr'd on him: he was excellent in five languages (besides his mother tongue), vid. Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, the two last whereof he had little helpe in, they were of his own acquisition.

Amongst his other accomplishments in accademick (as well pious as harmlesse arts) he made his skill in Poetry, Musick, Drawing, Limming, Graving (exercises of his curious invention and sudden fancy) to be but his subservient recreations for vacant houres, not the grand businesse of his soule.

To the former qualifications I might adde that which would crowne them all, his rare moderation in diet (almost Lessian temperance[18]); he never created a Muse out of distempers, nor (with our Canary scribblers[19]) cast any strange mists of surfets before the intellectuall beames of his mind or memory, the latter of which he was so much a master of, that he had there under locke and key in readinesse, the richest treasures of the best Greek and Latine poets, some of which Authors hee had more at his command by heart, than others that onely read their works, to retaine little, and understand lesse.

Enough Reader, I intend not a volume of praises larger than his booke, nor need I longer transport thee to think over his vast perfections: I will conclude all that I have impartially writ of this learned young Gent. (now dead to us) as he himselfe doth, with the last line of his poem upon Bishop Andrews' picture before his Sermons: _Verte paginas_,

'Look on his following leaves, and see him breath.'[20]

THE AUTHOR'S MOTTO.

Live Iesus, live, and let it bee My life, to dye for love of Thee.

Sacred Poetry.

I.

STEPS TO THE TEMPLE

(1648),

AND

CARMEN DEO NOSTRO &c.

(1652).

SAINTE MARY MAGDALENE, OR THE WEEPER.[21]

Loe! where a wounded heart with bleeding eyes conspire. Is she a flaming fountain, or a weeping fire?

* * * * *

THE WEEPER.[22]

I.

Hail, sister springs! 1 Parents of syluer-footed rills! Euer-bubling things! Thawing crystall! snowy hills Still spending, neuer spent! I mean 5 Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene!

II.

Heauens thy fair eyes be; Heauens of euer-falling starres. 'Tis seed-time still with thee; And starres thou sow'st, whose haruest dares 10 Promise the Earth, to counter-shine Whateuer makes heaun's forehead fine.

III.

But we' are deceiuèd all: Starres indeed they are too true; For they but seem to fall, 15 As heaun's other spangles doe: It is not for our Earth and vs To shine in things so pretious.

IV.

Vpwards thou dost weep: Heaun's bosome drinks the gentle stream. 20 Where th' milky riuers creep, Thine floates aboue, and is the cream. Waters aboue th' heauns, what they be We' are taught best by thy teares and thee.

V.

Euery morn from hence, 25 A brisk cherub something sippes, Whose sacred influence Addes sweetnes to his sweetest lippes; Then to his musick; and his song Tasts of this breakfast all day long. 30

VI.

When some new bright guest Takes vp among the starres a room, And Heaun will make a feast: Angels with crystall violls come _phials_ And draw from these full eyes of thine, 35 Their Master's water, their own wine.

VII.

The deaw no more will weep The primrose's pale cheek to deck: The deaw no more will sleep Nuzzel'd in the lilly's neck; 40 Much rather would it be thy tear, And leaue them both to tremble here.

VIII.

Not the soft gold which Steales from the amber-weeping tree, Makes Sorrow halfe so rich 45 As the drops distil'd from thee. Sorrowe's best iewels lye in these Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keyes.

IX.

When Sorrow would be seen In her brightest majesty: 50 (For she is a Queen): Then is she drest by none but thee. Then, and only then, she weares Her proudest pearles: I mean, thy teares.

X.

Not in the Euening's eyes, 55 When they red with weeping are For the Sun that dyes; Sitts Sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetnesse so sad, sadnesse so sweet. 60

XI.

Sadnesse all the while Shee sits in such a throne as this, Can doe nought but smile, Nor beleeves she Sadnesse is: Gladnesse it selfe would be more glad, 65 To bee made soe sweetly sad.

XII.

There's no need at all, That the balsom-sweating bough So coyly should let fall His med'cinable teares; for now 70 Nature hath learnt to' extract a deaw More soueraign and sweet, from you.

XIII.

Yet let the poore drops weep (Weeping is the ease of Woe): Softly let them creep, 75 Sad that they are vanquish't so. They, though to others no releife, Balsom may be for their own greife.

XIV.

Golden though he be, Golden Tagus murmures though. 80 Were his way by thee, Content and quiet he would goe; Soe much more rich would he esteem Thy syluer, then his golden stream.

XV.

Well does the May that lyes 85 Smiling in thy cheeks, confesse The April in thine eyes; Mutuall sweetnesse they expresse. No April ere lent kinder showres, Nor May return'd more faithfull flowres. 90

XVI.

O cheeks! Bedds of chast loues, By your own showres seasonably dash't. Eyes! Nests of milky doues, In your own wells decently washt. O wit of Loue! that thus could place 95 Fountain and garden in one face.

XVII.

O sweet contest! of woes With loues; of teares with smiles disputing! O fair and freindly foes, Each other kissing and confuting! 100 While rain and sunshine, cheekes and eyes Close in kind contrarietyes.

XVIII.

But can these fair flouds be Freinds with the bosom-fires that fill thee! Can so great flames agree 105 Æternal teares should thus distill thee! O flouds! O fires! O suns! O showres! Mixt and made freinds by Loue's sweet powres.

XIX.

'Twas his well-pointed dart That digg'd these wells, and drest this wine; 110 And taught the wounded heart The way into these weeping eyn. Vain loues auant! bold hands forbear! The Lamb hath dipp't His white foot here.

XX.

And now where'ere He strayes, 115 Among the Galilean mountaines, Or more vnwellcome wayes; He's follow'd by two faithfull fountaines; Two walking baths, two weeping motions, Portable, and compendious oceans. 120

XXI.

O thou, thy Lord's fair store! In thy so rich and rare expenses, Euen when He show'd most poor He might prouoke the wealth of princes. What prince's wanton'st pride e'er could 125 Wash with syluer, wipe with gold?

XXII.

Who is that King, but He Who calls 't His crown, to be call'd thine, That thus can boast to be Waited on by a wandring mine, 130 A voluntary mint, that strowes Warm, syluer showres wher're He goes?

XXIII.

O pretious prodigall! Fair spend-thrift of thy-self! thy measure (Mercilesse loue!) is all. 135 Euen to the last pearle in thy threasure: _thesaurus_, Latin. All places, times, and obiects be Thy teares' sweet opportunity.

XXIV.

Does the day-starre rise? Still thy teares doe fall and fall. 140 Does Day close his eyes? Still the fountain weeps for all. Let Night or Day doe what they will, Thou hast thy task: thou weepest still.

XXV.

Does thy song lull the air? 145 Thy falling teares keep faithfull time. Does thy sweet-breath'd praire Vp in clouds of incense climb? Still at each sigh, that is, each stop, A bead, that is, a tear, does drop. 150

XXVI.

At these thy weeping gates (Watching their watry motion), Each wingèd moment waits: Takes his tear, and gets him gone. By thine ey's tinct enobled thus, 155 Time layes him vp; he's pretious.

XXVII.

Time, as by thee He passes, Makes thy ever-watry eyes His hower-glasses. By them His steps He rectifies. 160 The sands He us'd, no longer please, For His owne sands Hee'l use thy seas.

XXVIII.

Not, 'so long she liuèd,' Shall thy tomb report of thee; But, 'so long she grieuèd:' 165 Thus must we date thy memory. Others by moments, months, and yeares Measure their ages; thou, by teares.

XXIX.

So doe perfumes expire, So sigh tormented sweets, opprest 170 With proud vnpittying fire. Such teares the suffring rose, that's vext With vngentle flames, does shed, Sweating in a too warm bed.

XXX.

Say, ye bright brothers, 175 The fugitiue sons of those fair eyes, Your fruitfull mothers! What make you here? what hopes can 'tice You to be born? what cause can borrow You from those nests of noble sorrow? 180

XXXI.

Whither away so fast? For sure the sluttish earth Your sweetnes cannot tast, Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Sweet, whither hast you then? O say 185 Why you trip so fast away?

XXXII.

We goe not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head. 190 Though the feild's eyes too Weepers be, Because they want such teares as we.

XXXIII.

Much lesse mean we to trace The fortune of inferior gemmes, Preferr'd to some proud face, 195 Or pertch't vpon fear'd diadems: Crown'd heads are toyes. We goe to meet A worthy object, our Lord's feet.

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

With some shortcomings--superficial rather than substantive--'The Weeper' is a lovely poem, and well deserves its place of honour at the commencement of the 'Steps to the Temple,' as in editions of 1646, 1648, and 1670. Accordingly we have spent the utmost pains on our text of it, taking for basis that of 1652. The various readings of the different editions and of the SANCROFT MS. are given below for the capable student of the ultimate perfected form. I have not hesitated to correct several misprints of the text of 1652 from the earlier editions.