THE ATTENDANT SPIRIT, FROM COMUS To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Up in the broad fields of the sky. All amid the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three There eternal Summer dwells, And west winds with musky wing About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia's balmy smells. Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue But far above, in spangled sheen, Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced, James Graham, Marquis of Montrose After her wandering labours long, And from her fair unspotted side But now my task is smoothly done: Quickly to the green earth's end, Heaven itself would stoop to her. JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE 1612-1650 THE VIGIL OF DEATH LET them bestow on every airth a limb, Then place my parboiled head upon a stake Scatter my ashes--strew them in the air: Lord! since thou know'st where all these atoms are, I'm hopeful thou 'lt recover once my dust, And confident thou 'It raise me with the just. RICHARD CRASHAW 1615(?)-1652 ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R. Lo, here a little volume, but great book! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native pages, 'sdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast! It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all A thousand angels in one point can dwell. It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful, and wise. Here's a friend shall fight for you; But, O! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong; Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings, To make immortal dressings For worthy souls, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son. But if the noble Bridegroom when He comes Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad, Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies To take her pleasure, and to play And keep the Devil's holy day; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, But beguiling Spheres of sweet and sugared lies, Of false, perhaps, as fair, Flattering, but forswearing, eyes; Doubtless some other heart Will get the start Meanwhile, and, stepping in before, Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire Yet does not stay To ask the window's leave to pass that way; Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of joys, and rarefied delights; A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name. |