Of his forward flower; when lo! * The ripe endowments of his mind Left his years so much behind, The following verses are in a different strain. They are from short a poem on Mr. Stanihurst's death." 6 Come then youth, beauty, blood, all ye soft powers, Into a false eternity; come man, here put on Thyself in this unfeigned reflection. Here gallant ladies, this impartial glass, Through all your painting, shows you your own face. To the proud hopes of poor mortality. These curtained windows, this self-prisoned eye, Pope says O Death, all eloquent! you only prove What dust we doat on, when 'tis man we love. And Juvenal had said long before Mors sola fatetur Quantula sunt hominum corpuscula. The whole invocation quoted from Crashaw may, perhaps, remind one of a passage in Pope's 'Epistle to Mr. Jervas', where after speaking of the power of painting to represent An angel's sweetness, or Bridgewater's eyes: he proceeds: Muse! at that name, thy sacred sorrows shed, The following verses may show how much of good sense was mingled with Crashaw's somewhat erroneous and perverted feelings of religion. ON A TREATISE OF CHARITY. Rise then immortal maid! Religion, rise! Put on thyself in thine own looks: t' our eyes Be what thy beauties, not our blots, have made thee; Heaven set thee down new drest; when thy bright birth * * * * This shall from henceforth be the masculine theme That keeps religion warm. **** A similar character appears in his epitaph on Mr. Ashton. There is great felicity and point in some of its simple turns of expression. The modest front of this small door, Than many a braver marble can: His prayers took their price and strength Peace, which he loved in life, did lend When age and death called for the score Death tore not, therefore, but sans strife, So while these lines can but bequeath His better epitaph shall be His life still kept alive by thee. The beginning of this epitaph is imitated by Pope in that on Mr. Fenton. This modest stone, what few vain marbles can; May truly say; here lies an honest man. There is a magnificence in the commencement of Crashaw's Hymn for Easter-day, which is like the sudden opening of an extensive prospect. Rise heir of fresh eternity! From thy virgin tomb. Rise! mighty man of wonders, and thy world with thee. Thy tomb, fair immortality's perfumed nest. But the peculiar genius of Crashaw is most richly displayed in two poems, from which I shall now give some passages. They are glowing with the dazzling conceptions of mystic devotion. There is, in some parts, a continued play of brilliant coruscations. The first is on a prayer-book sent to Mrs. B.' Among the gay mates of the god of flies ;* And stepping in before, Will take possession of the sacred store Sights which are not seen with eyes, In these selections, I have kept out of view, as much as might be, the allegory running through the piece, under which our Saviour is conceived of as a bridegroom or spouse. Though it is managed with delicacy by Crashaw, it is intrinsically unfit for poetry. It is associated, however, with some beautiful expres. sions in the following lines. A O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! O happy and thrice happy she! Dear silver-breasted dove! *The name Beelzebul, (the final letter in the original being properly not b,) has been derived from two Hebrew words, according to which it would denote god of flies.? The other poem before referred to, is similar in its character to the last quoted. It is in honour of St. Teresa. She, while a child, is said to have had a passionate desire for martyrdom; and to have plotted means for its accomplishment, without attaining this glory. But she died Since 'tis not to be had at home, She'll travel to a martyrdom. But where she may a martyr be, She'll to the Moors, and trade with them For this unvalued diadem: She offers them her dearest breath, With Christ's name in't, in change for death: She'll bargain with them, and will give For him she 'll teach them how to die.* But she was not ordained for martyrdom. Oh no, Wise Heaven will never have it so : She is to die by the dart of love. A dart thrice dipt in that rich flame, * * * * *. Oh how oft shalt thou complain *There taught us how to live; and oh! too high Tickell's verses on the death of Addison. |