RICHARD CRASHAW.

(1615?-1650.)

CXI. A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY.

SUNG BY THE SHEPHERDS.

From the Steps to the Temple (1646). Crashaw's poems have been edited by Dr. Grosart in the Fullers Worthies Library. I have printed the text of 1646, and added the 7th and 8th stanzas from that of 1652.

COME,

Chorus.

we shepherds, who have seen
Day's king deposèd 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-eyed Boy,
And kiss'd 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 thou'st been,
Tell him, Thyrsis, what thou 'st seen.

Tityrus.

Gloomy night embraced the place
Where the noble Infant lay:
The Babe look'd 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.

Thyrsis.

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 frost, he scatter'd flowers.

Both.

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 bless'd the sight) We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Tityrus.

Poor world (said I), what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry Stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow?

A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth?

Thyrsis.

Proud world, I said, cease your contest
And let the mighty Babe alone.
The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest,
Love's architecture is his own.

The Babe whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed, ere He was born.

Tityrus.

I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow
Come hovering o'er the place's head,

Offering their whitest sheets of snow,
To furnish the fair Infant's bed.
"Forbear," said I, "be not too bold,
Your fleece is white, but 't is too cold."

Thyrsis.1

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,
Your down, though soft, 's not soft enough.

Tityrus.

The Babe no sooner 'gan to seek,
Where to lay His lovely head,
But straight His eyes advised 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.

Chorus.

Welcome to our wondering 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.

1 The 1652 version of this stanza is, on the whole, preferableI saw the obsequious Seraphims

Their rosy fleece of fire bestow;

For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below.

Well done (said I), but are you sure,

Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?

Welcome, though not to gold, nor silk
To more than Cæsar's birth-right 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
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes)

But to poor shepherds, simple things,
That use not 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 the sheep.

To Thee, meek 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.

ANDREW MARVELL.

(1621-1678.)

CXII. CLORINDA AND DAMON.

All five poems are from the posthumous folio of Miscellaneous Poems (1681). An edition of Marvell has recently been published by Mr. G. A. Aitken in the Muses' Library.

Clorinda.

AMON, come drive thy flocks this way.

DAM

Damon. No: 't is too late they went astray. Clorinda. I have a grassy scutcheon spied, Where Flora blazons all her pride;

The grass I aim to feast thy sheep,

The flowers I for thy temple keep.

Damon. Grass withers, and the flowers too fade. Clorinda. Seize the short joys then, ere they vade1. Seest thou that unfrequented cave?

But virtue's grave.

Clorinda. In whose cool bosom we may lie,

Safe from the sun.

Damon.

Not Heaven's eye.

Clorinda. Near this, a fountain's liquid bell Tinkles within the concave shell.

Damon. Might a soul bathe there and be clean, Or slake its drought?

Clorinda.

What is 't you mean?

Damon. These once had been enticing things, Clorinda, pastures, caves, and springs.

Clorinda. And what late change?

1 vade, pass away (the Latin vadere).