UPON THE DEATH OF A FREIND.

Hee's dead! Oh what harsh musick's there Vnto a choyce, and curious eare!

Wee must that Discord surely call, Since sighs doe rise and teares doe fall.

Teares fall too low, sighes rise too high, How then can there be harmony?

But who is he? him may wee know That jarres and spoiles sweet consort soe?

O Death, 'tis thou: you false time keepe, And stretch'st thy dismall voice too deepe.

Long time to quavering Age you giue, But to large Youth, short time to liue.

You take vpon you too too much, In striking where you should not touch.

How out of tune the world now lies, Since youth must fall, when it should rise!

Gone be all consort, since alone He that once bore the best part's gone.

Whose whole life, musick was; wherein Each vertue for a part came in.

And though that musick of his life be still, The musick of his name yett soundeth shrill.

AN ELEGIE ON THE DEATH OF DR. PORTER.[93]

Stay, silver-footed Came, striue not to wed Thy maiden streames soe soone to Neptune's bed; Fixe heere thy wat'ry eyes upon these towers, Vnto whose feet in reuerence of the powers, That there inhabite, thou on euery day With trembling lippes an humble kisse do'st pay.

See all in mourning now; the walles are jett, With pearly papers carelesly besett.

Whose snowy cheekes, least joy should be exprest, The weeping pen with sable teares hath drest.

Their wronged beauties speake a tragoedy, Somewhat more horrid than an elegy.

Pure, & vnmixed cruelty they tell, Wch poseth Mischeife's selfe to parallel.

Justice hath lost her hand, the law her head; Peace is an orphan now; her father's dead.

Honestie's nurse, Vertue's blest guardian, That heauenly mortall, that seraphick man.

Enough is said, now, if thou canst crowd on Thy lazy crawling streames, pri'thee be gone, And murmur forth thy woes to euery flower, That on thy bankes sitts in a uerdant bower, And is instructed by thy gla.s.sy waue To paint its perfum'd face wth colours braue.

In vailes of dust their silken heads they'le hide, As if the oft-departing sunne had dy'd.

Goe learne that fatall quire, soe sprucely dight In downy surplisses, & vestments white, To sing their saddest dirges, such as may Make their scar'd soules take wing, & fly away.

Lett thy swolne breast discharge thy strugling groanes To th' churlish rocks; & teach the stubborne stones To melt in gentle drops, lett them be heard Of all proud Neptune's siluer-sheilded guard; That greife may crack that string, & now vntie Their shackled tongues to chant an elegie.

Whisper thy plaints to th' Ocean's curteous eares, Then weepe thyselfe into a sea of teares.

A thousand Helicons the Muses send In a bright christall tide, to thee they send, Leaving those mines of nectar, their sweet fountaines, They force a lilly path through rosy mountaines.

Feare not to dy with greife; all bubling eyes Are teeming now with store of fresh supplies.

VERSE-LETTER

TO

THE COUNTESS OF DENBIGH

(1652).

NOTE.

To the volume of 1652 ('Carmen Deo Nostro' &c.) was prefixed a Verse-letter to the COUNTESS OF DENBIGH, ill.u.s.trated with an engraving of a 'locked heart,' as reproduced in our quarto edition. In 1653 ('Sept. 23, 1653'), as appears from a contemporary marking in the unique copy in the British Museum, the following was printed: 'A Letter from MR. CRASHAW to the Countess of Denbigh. Against Irresolution and Delay in matters of Religion. London, n.d.'(4to). Collation: t.i.tle-page and 3 pages, page 1st on reverse of t.i.tle-page (British Museum E. 220. 2.).

The Paris copy is very imperfect from some unexplained reason (68 as against 90 lines), and it would seem that some friend of the deceased poet, dissatisfied with it, and having in his (or her) possession a fuller MS., printed, if not published it. We give the enlarged text--never before noticed, having been only named, without taking the trouble to consult and compare it, by TURNBULL; and for the student add the abbreviated form from 1652 'Carmen,' as it, in turn, has lines and words not in the other. See our Essay for more on this most characteristic poem, and relative to the Countess of Denbigh. G.

AGAINST IRRESOLUTION AND DELAY IN MATTERS OF RELIGION.

What Heav'n-besieged heart is this 1 Stands trembling at the Gate of Blisse: Holds fast the door, yet dares not venture Fairly to open and to enter?

Whose definition is, A Doubt 5 'Twixt life and death, 'twixt In and Out.

Ah! linger not, lov'd soul: a slow And late consent was a long No.

Who grants at last, a great while try'de And did his best, to have deny'de 10 What magick-bolts, what mystick barrs Maintain the Will in these strange warrs?

What fatall, yet fantastick, bands Keep the free heart from his own hands?

Say, lingring Fair, why comes the birth 15 Of your brave soul so slowly forth?

Plead your pretences (O you strong In weaknesse!) why you chuse so long In labour of your self to ly, Not daring quite to live nor die. 20 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 cold self-captivity.

Th' astonish'd Nymphs their Floud's strange fate deplore, 25 find themselves their own severer sh.o.a.r.

Love, that lends haste to heaviest things, In you alone hath lost his wings.

Look round and reade the World's wide face, The field of Nature or of Grace; 30 Where can you fix, to find excuse Or pattern for the pace you use?

Mark with what faith fruits answer flowers, And know the call of Heav'n's kind showers: Each mindfull plant hasts to make good 35 The hope and promise of his bud.

Seed-time's not all; there should be harvest too.

Alas! and has the Year no Spring for you?

Both winds and waters urge their way, And murmure if they meet a stay. 40 Mark how the curl'd waves work and wind, All hating to be left behind.

Each bigge with businesse thrusts the other, And seems to say, Make haste, my brother.

The aiery nation of neat doves, _pure_ 45 That draw the chariot of chast Loves, Chide your delay: yea those dull things, Whose wayes have least to doe with wings, Make wings at least of their own weight, And by their love controll their Fate. 50 So lumpish steel, untaught to move, Learn'd first his lightnesse by his love.

What e're Love's matter be, he moves By th' even wings of his own doves, Lives by his own laws, and does hold 55 In grossest metalls his own gold.

All things swear friends to Fair and Good Yea suitours; man alone is wo'ed, Tediously wo'ed, and hardly wone: Only not slow to be undone. 60 As if the bargain had been driven So hardly betwixt Earth and Heaven; Our G.o.d would thrive too fast, and be Too much a gainer by't, should we Our purchas'd selves too soon bestow 65 On Him, who has not lov'd us so.

When love of us call'd Him to see If wee'd vouchsafe His company, He left His Father's Court, and came Lightly as a lambent flame, 70 Leaping upon the hills, to be The humble king of you and me.

Nor can the cares of His whole crown (When one poor sigh sends for Him down) Detain Him, but He leaves behind 75 The late wings of the lazy wind, Spurns the tame laws of Time and Place, And breaks through all ten heav'ns to our embrace.

Yield to His siege, wise soul, and see Your triumph in His victory. 80 Disband dull feares, give Faith the day: To save your life, kill your Delay.

'Tis cowardise that keeps this field; And want of courage not to yield.

Yield then, O yield, that Love may win 85 The Fort at last, and let Life in.

Yield quickly, lest perhaps you prove Death's prey, before the prize of Love.

This fort of your fair self if't be not wone, He is repuls'd indeed, but you'r undone. 90

FINIS.

FROM 'CARMEN DEO NOSTRO' (1652).

_Non vi._

"Tis not the work of force but skill To find the way into man's will.

'Tis loue alone can hearts unlock; Who knowes the Word, he needs not knock.'

To the n.o.blest and best of Ladyes, the Countesse of Denbigh, perswading her to Resolution in Religion, and to render her selfe without further delay into the Communion of the Catholick Church.