Such the maiden gem

By the wanton spring put on,
Peeps from her parent stem,

And blushes on the wat❜ry sun."

After catching the said tear on a pillow,

"Stuff'd with down of angel's wings;"

and carrying it to be an eye in Heaven, he finishes, by doubting, with ineffable conceit, whether it had

"rather there have shone

An eye of Heav'n, or still shine here,

In the heav'n of Mary's eye, a tear."

The Divine Epigrams follow next in order-and are, to say the least, utterly worthless-we will give a single specimen upon the infant martyrs."

66

"To see both blended in one flood,

The mother's milk, the children's blood,
Makes me doubt if Heav'n will gather
Roses hence, or lillies rather.

During the composition of the greater part of the religious poems, it must be confessed, that the genius of Crashaw suffered an eclipse-the nature of his subject is frequently such, that the poet can show nothing but his piety, and even when the ingenuity of his fancy engrafts life and animation on a most unpromising stock, he dresses up a sacred topic in a painted vest, so gaudy and flowery, as to be disgusting to the simpler taste of a good protestant. No one ought to write poems" on the bleeding wounds of our crucified Lord," or on our Lord, naked and bloody,," much less speak of the lacerations of the crucifixion in terms like these: addressing Mary Magdalen, our converted poet says:

66

"This foot hath got a mouth and lips,

Το pay the sweet sum of thy kisses:
Το pay the tears, an eye that weeps,
Instead of tears, such gems as this is.

The difference only this appears,
Nor can the change offend,
The debt is paid in ruby tears,

Which thou in pearls did lend."

In a poem on the Nativity, which contains some ingenious, though misplaced, verses, we can excuse the following

lines for the sake of their beauty. He is addressing the infant Saviour.

"Welcome

To many a rarely temper'd kiss,

That breathes at once both maid and mother;

*

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."

In the Delights of the Muses, where the poet descends from his lofty contemplations to the humbler topics of the "profane" muse, there are two or three poems on the deaths of some friends, that possess many more charms, and beauties of a higher order, than we expect to meet with in verses of an occasional kind. Though here sometimes the fancy of our author frequently runs wild, and insinuates itself into winding and sequestered paths, forbidden to the dignity of poetry. The following extract, from the verses on the death of Mr. Herrys, may, perhaps, incur the charge of diffuseness; we, however, do not think the poet has weaved "the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument."

"I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud
Of a ruddy rose, that stood
Blushing to behold the ray
Of the new saluted day;

His tender top not fully spread;

The sweet dash of a shower now shed,
Invited him no more to hide
Within himself the purple pride
Of his forward flower, when lo,
While he sweetly 'gan to show
His swelling glories, Auster spied him,
Cruel Auster thither hied him,
And with the rush of one rude blast,
Sham'd not spitefully to waste
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,
And lay them trembling at his feet.
I've seen the morning's lovely ray
Hover o'er the new-born day,
With rosie wings so richly bright,
As if he scorn'd to think of night,
When a ruddy storm, whose scowl
Made Heaven's radiant face look foul,

Call'd for an untimely night,
To blot the newly blossom'd light.
But were the roses' blush so rare,
Were the morning's smile so fair
As is he, nor cloud nor wind

But would be courteous, would be kind."

The lines on Mr. Staninough's death possess great moral beauty, and forcibly remind us of the powerful and enthusiastic preacher, which character belongs to Crashaw as well as that of poet.

"Come then youth, beauty, and blood, all ye soft powers,
Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours

Into a false eternity; come, man,

(Hyperbolized nothing!) know thy span;

Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow

Before thy self in thy idea, thou

Huge emptiness! contract thy bulk, and shrink

All thy wild circle to a point! O sink

Lower and lower yet, till thy small size

Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes;
Lesser and lesser yet, till thou begin

To show a face fit to confess thy kin,

Thy neighbour-hood to nothing! here put on
Thy self in this unfeign'd reflexion;

Here, gallant ladies, this impartial glass

Through all your painting, shows you your own face.
These death-seal'd lips are they dare give the lye
To the proud hopes of poor mortality.

These curtain'd windows, this self-prison'd eye,
Out-stares the lids of large-look'd tyranny :
This posture is the brave one; this that lies
Thus low, stands up (methinks) thus, and defies
The world:-All-daring dust and ashes, onely you

Of all interpreters read nature true."

Crashaw wrote for his own amusement and that of his friends. Careless of fame, he engaged in no long poem, and the subjects of those he has left are generally written on occasions which occur to every man. We cannot regret the "foul morning, the author being then to take a journey," which produced lines so spirited and poetical as these-the poet thus addresses the sun :

"Where art thou, Sol, while thus the blind-fold day
Staggers out of the east, loses her way

Stumbling on night? Rouse thee, illustrious youth,
And let no dull mists choak the light's fair growth.
Point here thy beams.

Say to the sullen morn, thou com'st to court her;
And wilt demand proud Zephirus to sport her
With wanton gales; his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain

On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet harvest, which discloses
To every blushing bed of new-born roses.
He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow
And frisk in curl'd meanders; he will throw
A fragrant breath, suck'd from the spicy nest
O' th' precious phoenix, warm upon her breast:
He, with a dainty and soft hand, will trim
And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'r she'll tread,
Bright clouds like golden fleeces shall be spread.
Rise then, fair blue-ey'd maid, rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight,
Into thy bosome, bath'd with liquid light.
Fly, fly, prophane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing day
With your
dull influence: it is for you,

To sit and scowl upon night's heavy brow;

Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin morn,

Where nought but smiles and ruddy joys are worn.
Fly then, and do not think with her to stay;

Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to day."

His Satisfaction to the Morning for having slept too long, is an exquisite specimen of the playfulness and luxuriance of our poet's fancy, and would excuse a much longer extract.

"O in that morning of my shame; when I

Lay folded up in sleep's captivity;

How, at the sight, didst thou draw back thine eyes

Into thy modest veil? how didst thou rise

Twice dy'd in thine own blushes, and did'st run
To draw the curtains, and awake the Sun?
Who rouzing his illustrious tresses came,
And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shame
His head in thy fair bosome, and still hides
Me from his patronage; I pray,--he chides:

And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My own Apollo, try if I can make

His Lethe be my Helicon; and see

If Morpheus have a muse to wait on me.
Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings,
No nimble rapture starts to Heaven and brings
Enthusiastick flames, such as can give
Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Drest in the glorious madness of a muse,
Whose feet can walk the milky way, and chuse
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The grave, and hold up an exalted arm
To lift me from my lazy urne, and climb
Upon the stooped shoulders of old time;
And trace eternity-But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,
Where mercy cannot find them; but O thou
Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lye
So warm in thy soft brest, it cannot dye:
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise,
O meet the angry god, invade his eyes,
And stroak his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss
Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss.
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew,
Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
At th' oriental gates; and duly mock
The early lark's shrill orizons to be
An anthem at the day's nativity.

And the same rosie-finger'd hand of thine,
That shuts night's dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I

Was ever known to be thy votary.

No more my pillow shall thine altar be,

Nor will I offer any more to thee

My self a melting-sacrifice; I'm born

Again a fresh child of the buxome morn,

Heir of the Sun's first beams,-why threat'st thou so?

Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? go,

Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,

Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
Thy downy finger, dwell upon their eyes,
Shut in their tears; shut out their miseries."