will probably be wanting: only pretty conceptions, fine metaphors, glittering expressions, and something of a neat cast of verse (which are properly, the dress, gems, or loose ornaments of poetry) may be found in these verses. This is indeed the case of most other poetical writers of miscellanies: nor can it well be otherwise, since no man can be a true poel, who writes for diversion only. These authors should be considered as versifiers and wilty men, rather than as poets: and under this head only will fall the thoughts, the expression, and the numbers. These are only the pleasing part of poetry, which may be judged of at a view, and comprehended all at once. And (to express myself like a painter) their colouring entertains the sight, but the lines and life of the picture are not to be inspected too narrowly." Pope enumerates among Crashaw's best pieces, the paraphrase on Psalm XXIII, the verses on Lessius, Epitaph on Mr. Ashton, Wishes to his supposed Mistress, and the Dies Iræ. Dr. Warton recommends the translation from Moschus and another from Catullus, and amply acknowledges the obligations of Pope and Roscommon to Crashaw, Mr. Hayley, after specifying some of Pope's imitations of our author, conjectures that the Elegies on St. Alexis suggested to him the idea of his Eloisa, but, adds this excellent Biographer, " if Pope borrowed any thing from Crashaw in this article, it was only as the Sun borrows from the Earth, when drawing from thence a mere vapour, he makes it the delight of every eye, by giving it all the tender and gorgeous colouring of Heaven." Some of Crashaw's translations are esteemed superior to his original poetry, and that of the Sospetto d'Herode, from Marino, is executed with Miltonic grace and spirit. It has been regretted that he translated only the first book of a poem by which Milton condescended to profit in his immortal Epic. The whole was, however, afterwards translated and published in 1675, by a writer whose initials only are known, T. R. Of modern critics, Mr. Headley and Mr. Ellis have selected recommendatory specimens from Crashaw. In Mr. Headley's opinion, " he has originality in many parts, and as a translator is entitled to the highest applause." Mr. Ellis, with his accustomed judgment and moderation, pronounces that, “ bis translations bave considerable merit, but that his original poetry is full of conceit. His Latin poems were first printed in 1634, and have been much admired, though liable to the same objections as his English."-Some of these are included in the present collection, but a fuller account, with specimens, was given some years ago by Mr. Nichols, in the Gentleman's Magazine”. • An anonymous correspondent sent an account of this translation, with specimens, to Mr. Maty's Review, vol. 7. 251. C. ? Vol. 63. p. 1001. C. OF POEMS RICHARD CRASHAW. STEPS TO THE TEMPLE. THE WEEPER. HAIL sister springs, Parents of silver-forded rills! Ever bubbling things! Thawing chrystal! snowy hills! Heavens thy fair eyes be, 'Tis seed-time, still with thee, And stars thou sow'st, whose harvest dares Promise the Earth to countershine But we 're deceived all, Stars they're indeed too true, It is not for our Earth and us, Upwards thou dost weep, Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream, Heaven of such fair floods as this, Heaven the chrystal ocean is. Every morn from hence, A brisk cherub something sips, Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips. When some new bright guest And draw from these full eyes of thine, The dew no more will weep, Not the soft gold, which As the drops distill'd from thee. Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys. When sorrow would be seen (For she is a queen) Then is she drest by none but thee. Then, and only then she wears Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears. Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are, For the Sun that dies, Sits sorrow with a face so fair, No where but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. Sadness, all the while She sits in such a throne as this, There is no need at all Yet let the poor drops weep, Weeping is the case of woe, Softly let them creep Sad that they are vanquisht so, Golden though he be, Well does the May that lies Thus dost thou melt the year Each minute waiteth here; Time as by thee he passes, By them his steps he rectifies. Does thy song lull the air? Thy tears' just cadence still keeps time. Does thy sweet breath'd prayer Up in clouds of incense climb? Still at each sigh, that is each stop, A bead, that is a tear, doth drop. Does the night arise? Still thy tears do fall, and fall. Does night lose her eyes? Still the fountain weeps for all. Let night or day do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still. Not, so long she liv'd, Will thy tomb report of thee, But, so long she griev'd, Say, wat'ry brothers, Ye simpering sons of those fair eyes, What hath our world that can entice O whither? for the sluttish Earth Your sweetness cannot taste, Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Whither haste ye then? O say, Why ye trip so fast away? We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed, The rose's modest cheek, Nor the violet's humble head, No such thing; we go to meet A worthier object, our Lord's feet, THE TEAR. WHAT bright soft thing is this? A wat'ry diamond; from whence O'tis not a tear, "Tis a star about to drop From thine eye its sphere; Too true a tear; for no sad eyne, Rain so true a tear as thine; Such a pearl as this is, Such the maiden gem Peeps from her parent stem, This wat'ry blossom of thy eyne, Fair drop, why quak'st thou so! The dust shall never be thy bed: A pillow for thee will I bring, Thus carried up on high, And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe; There thy self shalt be An eye, but not a weeping one, Whither th' hadst rather there have shone DIVINE EPIGRAMS. ON THE WATER OF OUR LORD'S BAPTISME. EACH blest drop on each blest limb, ACT. 8. ON THE BAPTIZED ETHIOPIAN, LET it not longer be a forlorn-hope Te wash an Ethiope: ON THE BLESSED VIRGIN'S BASHFULNESS. THAT on her lap she casts her humble eye, 'Tis the sweet pride of her humility. The fair star is well fix'd, for where, O where Could she have fix'd it on a fairer sphere? [lies, 'Tis Heav'n, 'tis Heav'n she sees, Heav'n's God there She can see Heaven, and ne'er lift up her eyes: This new guest to her eyes new laws hath given, 'Twas once look up, 'tis now look down to Heaven. UNDER MY ROOF. POEMS . Within the lips of love and joy doth dwell 'They both at once thy conquests be, And thy conquests' memory. His master's pride? Waiting on thy victorious hand, Of thy renown, and their own shame : Was a great wonder. To be the life of their owy death. But Q me-thinks 'tis a far greater one 'Twas time to hold their peace when they Yet is their silence unto thee The full sound of thy vietory : Their silence speaks aloud, and is While they speak nothing, they speak all Their share, in thy memorial. Thy humble faith and fear keeps him aloof : While they speak nothing, they proclaim He'll be thy guest, because he may not be, Thee, with the shrillest trump of fame. He'll come into thy house? no, into thee. To hold their peace is all the ways These wretches have to speak thy praise. UPON THE POWDER - DAY. How fit our well-rank'd feasts do follow, U PON OUR SAVIOUR'S TOMB WHEREIN NEVER MAX VA3 All mischief comes after All-hallow. LAID How life and death in thee Agree? Thou hadst a virgin womb Lo! hath unlock'd thee at the very heart : And tomb. He to himself (I fear the worst) A Joseph did betroth Them both. IT IS BETTER TO GO INTO HEAS EN WITH ONE EYŁ, &c. One eye? a thousand rather, and a thousand more, MATT. 10. To fix those full-fac d glories, O he's poor Of eyes that has but Argus' store. THE BLIND CURED BY THE WORD OF OUR SAVIOUR, (thee, Yet if thou'lt fill one poor eye, with thy heaven and Thou speak'st the word (thy word's a law) O grant (sweet goodness) that one eye may be Thou speak'st, and straight the blind man saw. All, and every whit of me. To speak and make the blind man see, “ Was never man Lord spake like thee.” LUKE 11. To speak thus, was to speak (say I) UPON THE DUMB DEVIL CAST OUT, AND THE SLANDER Not to his ear, but to his eye. OUS JEWS PUT TO SILENCE. Two devils at one blow thou hast laid flat, A speaking devil this, a domb one that; Was't thy full victories' fairer increase, (peace? AND HE ANSWERED THEM NOTHING. That th' one spake, or that th' other held his MIGHTY nothing! unto thee, Nothing, we owe all things that be, God spake once when he all things made, LUKE 10 He sav'd all when he nothing said. AND A CERTAIN PRIEST COMING THAT WAY LOOKED ON The world was made of nothing then; 'Tis made by nothing now again. , Why dost thou wound my wounds, O thou that passést by, TO OUR LORD, UPON THE WATER MADE WINE. Handling and turning them with an unfounded eye? Thou water turn'st to wine (fair friend of life) The calm that cools thine eye does shipwreck mine, Thy foe, to cross the sweet arts of thy reign, for 0! Distils from thence the tears of wrath and strife, Unmov'd to see one wretched, is to make him so. And so turns wine to water back again. LUKE 11. BLESSED BE THE PAPE WHICH THOU HAST SUCKED. NEITHER DURST ANY MAN FROM THAT DAY ASK MIM Suppose he had been tabled at thy teats, Thy hunger feels not what he eats : He'll have his teat ere long (a bloody one) The mother then must suck the son. TO PONTIUS WASHING HIS BLOODSTAINED BANDS. Thy quell'd foes are not only now Is murther no sin ? or a sin so cheap, Thy triumphs, but thy trophies too: That thou need st heap HIM AND PASSED BY. |