THE FLAMING HEART Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa, as she is usually expressed with a Seraphim beside her WELL-MEANING readers! you that come as friends Readers, be ruled by me, and make Painter, what didst thou understand To put her dart into his hand? Shows this the mother seraphim. This is the mistress flame, and duteous he Her happy fireworks, here, comes down to see: Had thy cold pencil kissed her pen, To show us this faint shade for her. Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame, And mocks with female frost love's manly flame; One would suspect thou meant'st to paint Some weak, inferior woman Saint. But, had thy pale-faced purple took Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book, Thou wouldst on her have heaped up all Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair, Glowing cheek, and glist'ring wings, Had filled the hand of this great heart. Do, then, as equal right requires, Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires, Give him the veil, give her the dart. The red cheeks of a rivalled lover, Give her the dart, for it is she, Fair youth, shoots both thy shaft and thee; What magazines of immortal arms there shine Of worst faults to be fortunate, If all's prescription, and proud wrong For all the gallantry of him, Give me the suff'ring seraphim. His be the bravery of those bright things, Leave her alone the flaming heart. Leave her that, and thou shalt leave her O, heart! the equal poise of Love's both parts, Live in these conquering leaves, live all the same, By all thy dower of lights and fires, By all the eagle in thee, all the dove, By thy large draughts of intellectual day, And by thy thirst of love more large than they; By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire, By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His; By all the heav'ns thou hast in Him, Fair sister of the seraphim! By all of Him we have in thee, ABRAHAM COWLEY 1618-1667 ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW POET and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead with humanity. Long did the muses banished slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride: Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly back home 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 airs divine, And join in an applause so great as thine, Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old. And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, And though Pan's death long since all oracles broke, Thy spotless muse, like Mary, did contain And for a sacred mistress scorned to take But her whom God Himself scorned 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 A fever burns thee, and love lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the famed chapel 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. |