Her that dares be,

What these Lines wish to see:

I seek no further, it is she.

'Tis she, and here

Lo I uncloath and clear

My wishes cloudy Character.

May she enjoy it,

Whose Merit dare apply it,

But Modestly dares still deny it.

Such Worth as this is,

Shall fix my flying wishes,

And determine them to kisses.

Let her full Glory,

My Fancies, fly before ye,

Be ye my fictions; but her story.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

ON THE ASSUMPTION

HARK! she is call'd, the parting houre is come. Take thy farewell, poore world! Heav'n must goe home.

A peece of Heav'nly Earth, purer and brighter Than the chast stars, whose choice lamps come to

light her,

While through the Christall orbes, clearer than they, She climbs; and makes a farre more milky way; She's call'd. Harke how the deare immortall Dove Sighes to his silver mate. Rise up my Love,

Rise up my faire, my spotlesse one,
The winter's past, the Rain is gone:
The spring is come, the Flowers appeare,
No sweets but thou are wanting here.
Come away my love,

Come away my dove

Cast off delay:

The Court of Heav'n is come,
To waite upon thee home;
Come, come away.

-The Flowers appeare,

Or quickly would, were thou once here.
The spring is come; or if it stay,
'Tis to keepe time with thy delay.

The raine is gone, Except as much as wee, Detain in needfull Teares, to weep the want of thee.

-The winters past,

Or if he make lesse haste,

His answer is, why she does so,

If summer come not, how can winter go?
Come away, come away,

The shrill winds chide, the waters weep thy stay, The fountaines murmure; and each loftiest Tree, Bowes lowest his leavy top, to looke for thee. Come away my love,

Come away my dove, etc.

She's call'd again; And will she goe?
When Heav'n bids come, who can say No?
Heav'n calls her, and she must away,
Heav'n will not, and she cannot stay.
Goe then, goe (glorious) on the golden wings
Of the bright youth of Heav'n that sings

Under so great a burden, Goe,

Since thy dread Son will have it so,
And while thou goest, our Song and wee,
Will as wee may reach after thee.

Haile, holy Queen, of humble Hearts!

We in thy praise wil have our parts.

And though thy dearest lookes must now be light To none but the blest heavens, whose bright Beholders lost in sweet delight,

Feed for ever their faire sight

With those divinest eyes, which wee
And our darke world no more shall see;
Though our poore joyes are parted so,
Yet shall our lips never let goe
Thy gracious name, but to the last
Our loving song shall hold it fast.
Thy precious Name shall bee
Thy self to us, and wee

With holy care will keep it by us.
Wee to the last

Will hold it fast;

And no Assumption shall deny us.

All the sweetest showers

Of our fairest flowers,

Will wee strow upon it;

Though our sweets cannot make
It sweeter, they can take
Themselves new sweetnesse from it.
Maria, Men and Angels sing,
Maria, Mother of our King.

Live, Rosie Princesse, live, and may the bright
Crowne of a most incomparable light

Embrace thy radiant browes: O may the best

Of everlasting joyes bath thy white brest.
Live our chaste love. The holy mirth
Of heav'n, the Humble pride of Earth.
Live, crowne of women, Queen of men;
Live Mistrisse of our Song; And when
Our weake desires have done their best,
Sweet Angels come, and sing the Rest.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW

POET and Saint! to thee alone are given

The two most sacred Names of Earth and Heav'n,
The hard and rarest Union which can be
Next that of Godhead with Humanitie.
Long did the Muses banisht Slaves abide,
And built vain Pyramids to mortal pride;

Like Moses Thou (though 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 needst not make new Songs, but say the Old.
And they (kind Spirits!) shall all rejoyce to see
How little less then They, Exalted Man may be.
Still the old Heathen Gods in Numbers dwell,
The Heav'enliest 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 though Pans Death long since all Oracles 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 tye our Fates there in a Face
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus?
Wanton as Girles, 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 Eternitie;

And for a sacred Mistress scorn'd to take,

By 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 make thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great Mistress Arms? thou most divine
And richest Offe'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'ed Chappel there,
And bore the sacred Load in Triumph through 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 even in Error sure no Danger is

When joyn'd with so much Piety as His.