Girt all thy glories to thee: then sit down,
Open this book, fair queen, and take thy crown,
These learned leaves shall vindicate to thee
Thy holiest, humblest handmaid, Charity;
She'll dress thee like thyself, set thee on high
Where thou shalt reach all hearts, command each eye.
Lo, where I see thy off'rings wake, and rise
From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice
Which they themselves were; each one putting on
A majesty that may beseem thy throne.
The holy youth of Heaven, whose golden rings
Girt round thy awful altars, with bright wings.
Fanning thy fair locks (which the world believes.
As much as sees) shall with these sacred leaves
Trick their tall plumes, and in that garb shall go
If not more glorious, more conspicuous tho'.
By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen,
God's services no longer shall put on
A sluttishness, for pure religion:
No longer shall our churches' frighted stones
Lie scatter'd like the burnt and martyr'd bones
Of dead devotion; nor faint marbles weep
In their sad ruins; nor religion keep
A melancholy mansion in those cold
Urns. Like God's sanctuaries they look'd of old:
Now seem they temples consecrate to none,
Or to a new god Desolation.
No more the hypocrite shall th' upright be
Because he's stiff, and will confess no knee:
While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou,
(Disdainful dust and ashes) bend thy brow;
Nor on God's altar cast two scorching eyes
Baked in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice:
But (for a lamb) thy tame and tender heart
New struck by love, still trembling on his dart;
Or (for two turtle doves) it shall suffice
To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes.
This shall from henceforth be the masc'line theme
Pulpits and pens shall sweat in; to redeem
Virtue to action, that life-feeding flame
That keeps religion warm: not swell a name
Of faith, a mountain-word, made up of air,
With those dear spoils that wont to dress the fair
And fruitful Charity's full breasts (of old),
Turning her out to tremble in the cold.
What can the poor hope from us, when we be
Uncharitable ev'n to Charity?
ON THE GLORIOUS ASSUMPTION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN.
HARK! she is call'd, the parting hour is come,
Take thy farewell, poor world, Heaven must go home.
A piece of heavenly light purer and brighter
Than the chaste stars whose choice lamps come to light her,
While through the crystal orbs clearer then they
She climbs and makes a far more milky way.
She's call'd again! hark how th' immortal Dove
Sighs to his silver mate: Rise up my love,
Rise up my fair, my spotless one,
The winter's past, the rain is gone:
The spring is come, the flowers appear,
No sweets, since thou art wanting here.
Come away, my dove,
Cast off delay:
The court of Heaven is come,
To wait upon thee home;
Come away, come away.'
She's call'd again! and will she go?
When Heaven bids come, who can say no?
Heaven calls her, and she must away,
Heaven will not, and she cannot stay.
Go then, go (glorious) on the golden wings
Of the bright youth of Heaven, that sings
Under so sweet a burden: go,
Since thy great Son will have it so:
And while thou go'st, our song and we
Will, as we may, reach after thee.
Hail, Holy Queen of humble hearts,
We in thy praise will have our parts;
And though thy dearest looks must now be light
To none but the blest Heavens, whose bright
Beholders, lost in sweet delight,
Feed for ever their fair sight
With those divinest eyes, which we
And our dark world no more shall see;
Though our poor joys are parted so,
Yet shall our lips never let go
Thy gracious name, but to the last,
Our loving song shall hold it fast.
Thy sacred name shall be
Thyself to us, and we
With holy cares will keep it by us,
We to the last
And no assumption shall deny us.
All the sweetest showers
Of our fairest flowers
Will we strow upon it:
Though our sweetness cannot make
It sweeter, they may take
Themselves new sweetness from it.
Maria, men and angels sing,
Maria, mother of our King.
Live, rarest princess! and oh, may the bright
Crown of a most incomparable light
Embrace thy radiant brows! Oh, may the best
Of everlasting joys bathe thy white breast!
Live, our chaste love, the holy mirth
Of Heaven, and humble pride of Earth!
Live, crown of women, queen of men;
Live, mistress of our song, and when
Our weak desires have done their best,
Sweet angels, come, and sing the rest.
AN HYMN ON THE CIRCUMCISION OF OUR
1 RISE, thou best and brightest morning,
Rosy with a double red;
With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning,
And the dear drops this day were shed.
2 All the purple pride of laces,
The crimson curtains of thy bed,
Gild thee not with so sweet graces,
Nor sets thee in so rich a red.
3 Of all the fair-cheek'd flowers that fill thee, None so fair thy bosom strows, As this modest maiden lily
Our sins have shamed into a rose.
4 Bid the golden god, the sun,
Burnish'd in his glorious beams,
Put all his red-eyed rubies on,
These rubies shall put out his eyes.
5 Let them make poor the purple east,
Rob the rich store her cab'nets keep,
The pure birth of each sparkling nest,
That flaming in their fair bed sleep.
6 Let him embrace his own bright tresses
With a new morning made of gems;
And wear in them his wealthy dresses,
Another day of diadems.
7 When he hath done all he may,
To make himself rich in his rise,
All will be darkness, to the day
That breaks from one of these fair eyes.
8 And soon the sweet truth shall appear,
Dear babe, ere many days be done:
The moon shall come to meet thee here,
And leave the long adored sun.
9 Thy nobler beauty shall bereave him,
Of all his eastern paramours:
His Persian lovers all shall leave him,
And swear faith to thy sweeter powers.
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