His locks, like raven's plumes, or shining jet,
Fall down in curls along his ivory neck;
Within their circlets hundred graces set,

And with love-knots their comely hangings deck.
His mighty shoulders, like that giant swain,

All heaven and earth, and all in both sustain;
Yet knows no weariness, nor feels oppressing pain.

Her amber hair like to the sunny ray,

With gold enamels fair the silver white; There heavenly loves their pretty sportings play, Firing their darts in that wide flaming light: Her dainty neck, spread with that silver mould, Where double beauty doth itself unfold

In its fair silver shrines, and fairer borrowed gold.

His breast a rock of purest alabaster,

Where Love's self sailing, shipwrecked often sitteth; Hers a twin-rock, unknown but to th' ship-master, Which harbours him alone, all other splitteth. Where better could her love than here have rested? Or he his thoughts than here more sweetly feasted? Than both their love and thoughts in each are ever rested.

Run, now, you shepherd swains, ah! run you thither,
Where this fair bridegroom leads the blessed way;

And haste you lovely maids, haste you together,

With this sweet bride, while yet the sun-shine day Guides your blind steps; while yet loud summons call, That every wood and hill resounds withal:

"Come, Hymen, Hymen, come, drest in thy golden pall."

The sounding echo back the music flung,

While heavenly spheres unto the voices played :

But lo! the day is ended with my song,

And sporting bathes with that fair ocean maid.

Stoop now thy wing, my muse, now stoop thee low;
Hence may'st thou then freely play, and rest thee now;
While here I hang my pipe upon the willow-bough.

RICHARD CRASHAW

WAS born in London, but the year of his birth is uncertain; he was educated at the Charter-House, and took his degree at Cambridge, where he published his sacred poem of Steps to the Temple. He obtained a fellowship, but he was ejected from it for refusing to subscribe the Covenant. Soon after he went abroad, and conformed to the Roman Catholic faith. He died in Italy about 1650.

The Poems of Crashaw are less known than they ought to be; they display delicate fancy, great tenderness, and singular beauty of diction. They have been highly recommended by the best critics; Coleridge considered his verses, On a Prayer-Book, as one of the greatest poems in the language.

A HYMN

IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

HEAR'ST thou, my soul, what serious things
Both the Psalm and Sybil sings,

Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray
The world in flames shall pass away?

O that fire! before whose face,
Heaven and Earth shall find no place;
O these eyes! whose angry light
Must be the day of that dread night.

O that trump! whose blast shall run

An even round with th' circling sun,
And urge the murmuring graves to bring
Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

Horror of nature, hell and death!
When a deep groan from beneath
Shall cry,

"We come! we come!" and all

The caves of night answer one call.

O that book! whose leaves so bright,
Will set the world in severe light:

O that Judge! whose hand, whose eye,
None can endure-yet none can fly.

Ah! thou poor soul, what wilt thou say?
And to what patron choose to pray?
When stars themselves shall stagger, and
The most firm foot no more than stand.

But thou givest leave, dread Lord, that we
Take shelter from Thyself in Thee;

And, with the wings of thine own dove,
Fly to the sceptre of soft love.

Dear Lord, remember in that day

Who was the cause Thou camest this way:

Thy sheep was strayed, and Thou would'st be Even lost Thyself in seeking me.

Shall all that labour, all that cost

Of love, and even that loss, be lost?

And this loved soul, judged worth no less

Than all that way and weariness?

Just mercy, then, thy reckoning be

With my price, and not with me;
'Twas paid at first with too much pain,
To be paid twice, or once in vain.

Mercy, my Judge, mercy I cry,

With blushing cheek, and bleeding eye:
The conscious colours of my sin,
Are red without, and pale within.

Oh! let thine own soft bowels pay
Thyself, and so discharge that day;
If sin can sigh, love can forgive :-
Oh! say the word, my soul shall live.

Those mercies which thy Mary found,
Or who thy cross confessed and crowned,
Hope tells my heart the same loves be
Still alive, and still for me.

Though both my prayers and tears combine,
Both worthless are; for they are mine:
But Thou thy bounteous self still be,
And show thou art by saving me.

Oh! when thy last frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goats to folds of flame,
And all thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let, "Come, ye blessed," then call me.

When the dread "Ite1," shall divide
Those limbs of death from thy left side,
Let those life-speaking lips command
That I inherit thy right hand.

Oh! hear a suppliant heart, all crushed

And crumbled into contrite dust;

My hope! my fear! my Judge! my friend

Take charge of me, and of my end.

CHORUS OF THE SHEPHERDS OF BETHLEHEM.

WELCOME! all wonders in one sight,

Eternity shut in a span;

Summer in winter, day in night,

Heaven in Earth, and God in Man.

Great Little One, whose all-embracing birth
Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

1 "Depart thou."

Welcome! though not to gold nor silk,
To more than Cæsar's birth-right is;
Two sister-seas of virgin-milk,

With many a rarely tempered 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 eyes.

Welcome! though not to these gay flies,
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings;
Slippery souls in smiling eyes,

But to poor shepherds' homespun things;
Whose wealth's their flock, whose wit to be
Well read in their simplicity.

Yet when young April's husband-showers
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed,
We'll bring the firstfruits of her flowers,

To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds more than they their 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;

Till burnt at last in fire of thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.