Joseph the king's dead brother's shape she takes, What he by nature was, is she by art.

She comes to th' king, and with her cold hand slakes

His spirits, the sparks of life, and chills his heart, Life's forge: feign'd is her voice, and false too be Her words, Sleep'st thou, fond man? sleep'st

He his own fancy-framed foes defies:
In rage, "My arms, give me my arms," he cries.
As when a pile of food-preparing fire
The breath of artificial lungs embraves,
The caldron-prison'd waters straight conspire,

And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves?
He murmurs and rebukes their bold desire;
Th' impatient liquor, frets, and foams, and raves;
Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame,
Whence all his high spirits, and hot courage came.
So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoln brest,
Not to be slak'd but by a sea of blood.
His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest,
Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood.
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,
To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light,
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing night.
A thousand prophecies that talk strange things,
Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast;
And now of late came tributary kings,
Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East,
More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings.
With which his fev'rous cares their cold increas'd
And now his dream (Hell's firebrand) still more
bright,
[sight.
Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the
No sooner therefore shall the morning see
(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day)
But all his counsellors must summon'd be,
To meet their troubled lord: without delay
Heralds and messengers immediately
Are sent about, who posting every way

To th' heads and officers of every band;
Declare who sends, and what is his command.
Why art thou troubled Herod? what vain fear
Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move?'
Heav'n's King, who doffs himself weak flesh to wear,
Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love:
Nor would he this thy fear'd crown from thee tear,
But give thee a better with himself above.

Poor jealousie! why should he wish to prey
Upon thy crown, who gives his own away.
Make to thy reason man; and mock thy doubts,
Look how below thy fears their causes are;
Thou art a soldier Herod; send thy scouts;
See how he's furnish'd for so fear'd a war.
What armour does he wear? a few thin clouts.
His trumpets? tender cries. His men to dare
So much? rude shepherds. What his steeds?
alas

Poor beasts! a slow ox, and a simple ass
Il fine del libro primo.

But O! the heart

That studies this high art,
Must be a sure house-keeper,

And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come e'er long,

And bring her bosom full of blessings,
Flowers of never fading graces;
To make immortal dressings

For worthy souls, whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for him, who is aloue
The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.
But if the noble Bridegroom, when he comes,
Shall find the wand'ring heart from home,
Leaving her chaste abode,
'To gad abroad:

Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies
To take her pleasures, and to play
And keep the Devil's holy day;

To dance in the sun-shine of some smiling
But beguiling

Spear of sweet and sugared lies,
Some slipery pair,

Of false, perhaps as fair,
Flattering but forswearing eyes.

Doubtless some other heart

Will get the start,

And stepping in before,

Will take possession of the sacred store
Of hidden sweets and holy joys,
Words which are not heard with ears,
(These tumultuous shops of noise)

Effectual whispers, whose still voice
The soul it self more feels than hears.
Amorous languishments, luminous trances,

Sights which are not seen with eyes, Spiritual and soul piercing glances:

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies

Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire; And melts it down in sweet desire:

Yet doth not stay

To ask the windows leave to pass that way.

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
Of soul! dear and divine annihilations!
A thousand unknown rites

Of joys, and rarified delights.

An hundred thousand loves and graces,
And many a mystic thing,
-Which the divine embraces

Of the dear Spouse of Spirits with them will bring; For which it is no shame,

That dull mortality must not know a name.

Of all this hidden store

Of blessings, and ten thousand more ;-
If, when he come,

He find the heart from home,
Doubtless he will unload
Himself some otherwhere,

And pour abroad

His precious sweets

On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!
O happy and thrice happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove,

ON MR. G. HERBERT'S BOOK, ENTITULED, THE TEMPLE OF SACRED POEMS, SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN.

KNOW, you fair, on what you look ?
Divinest love lies in this book:
Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings.
One that gladly will be nigh,
To wait upon each morning sigh.
To flutter in the balny air

Of your well perfumed prayer.

These white plumes of his he'll lend you,
Which every day to Heaven will send you:
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-fac'd kindred there.
And though Herbert's name do owe
These devotions, fairest; know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.

A HYMN TO THE NAME AND HONOUR OF THE ADMIRABLE

SAINT TERESA,

FOR MORE

FOUNDRESS OF THE REFORMATION OF THE DISCALCED
CARMELITES, BOTH MEN AND WOMEN; A WOMAN
FOR ANGELICAL HEIGHT OF SPECULATION,
MASCULINE COURAGE OF PERFORMANCE,
THAN A WOMAN; WHO, YET A CHILD, OUT RAN
MATURITY, AND DURST PLOT A MARTYRDOM.

LOVE, thou art absolute, sole lord

Of life and death!-To prove the word,
We need to go to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, stout and tall,
Ripe and full grown, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown:
Such as could, with lusty breath,
Speak loud unto the face of Death
Their great lord's glorious name; to none
Of those whose large breasts built a throne
For Love, their lord, glorious and great;
We'll see him take a private seat,
And make his mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarce had she learnt to lisp a name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath,
Which spent can buy so brave a death.

She never undertook to know,

What Death with Love should have to doe.
Nor hath she e'er yet understood,
Why, to show love, she should shed blood;
Yet though she cannot tell you why
She can love, and she can die.

Scarce had she blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake;
Yet has she a heart dares hope to prove,
How much less strong is Death than Love.

Be Love but there, let poor six years
Be pos'd with the maturest fears
Man trembles at, we straight shall find
Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.
'Tis love, not years, or limbs, that can
Make the martyr or the man.

Love toucht her heart, and lo it beats
High, and burns with such brave heats:
Such thirst to die, as dare drink up
A thousand cold deaths in one cup :
Good reason, for she breathes all fire,
Her weak breast heaves with strong desire,
Of what she may with fruitless wishes
Seek for, amongst her mother's kisses.

Since 'tis not to be had at home,
She'll travel to a martyrdom.
No home for her confesses she,

But where she may a martyr be.

She'll to the Moors, and trade with them,
For this unvalued diadem ;

She offers them her dearest breath,
With Christ's name in't in change for death:
She'll bargain with them, and will give
Them God, and teach them how to live
In him, or if they this deny,
For him, she'll teach them how to die.
So shall she leave amongst them sown,
Her Lord's blood, or at least her own.

Farewel then all the world, adieu,
Teresa is no more for you:
Farewel all pleasures, sports, and joys,
Never till now esteemed toys:
Farewel, whatever dear may be,
Mother's arms, or father's knee:
Farewel house, and farewel home;
She's for the Moors and martyrdom.

Sweet not so fast, lo thy fair spouse,
Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows
Calls thee back, and bids thee come,
T'embrace a milder martyrdom.

Blest pow'rs forbid, thy tender life
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife.
Or some base hand have power te rase
Thy breast's chaste cabinet; and uncase
A soul kept there so sweet; O no,
Wise Heaven will never have it so:
Thou art love's victim. and must die
A death more mystical and high:
Into love's hand thou shalt let fall,
A still surviving funeral.

He is the dart must make the death,
Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath;
A dart thrice dipt in that rich flame,
Which writes thy spouse's radiant name:
Upon the roof of Heaven, where ay,

It shines, and with a sovereign ray,
Beats bright upon the burning faces

Of souls, which in that name's sweet graces

Find everlasting smiles: so rare,

So spiritual, pure and fair,

Must be the immortal instrument,

Upon whose choice point shall be spent

A life so lov'd, and that there be

Fit executioners for thee.

The fairest, and the first-born loves of fire,
Blest seraphims shall leave their quire,
And turn love's soldiers upon thee,
To exercise their archery.

O how oft shalt thou complain
Of a sweet and subtile pain?
Of intollerable joys?

Of a death in which who dies
Loves his death, and dies again,
And would for ever so be slain !
And lives and dies, and knows not why
To live, but that he still may die.

How kindly will thy gentle heart,
Kisse the sweetly
killing dart:

And close in his embraces keep,
Those delicious wounds that weep
Balsam, to heal themselves with thus ;
When these thy deaths so numerous,
Shall all at once die into one,
And melt thy soul's sweet mansion:
Like a soft lump of incense, hasted
By too hot a fire, and wasted
Into perfuming clouds, so fast
Shalt thou exhale to Heaven at last,
In a dissolving sigh, and then,

O what! ask not the tongues of men!

The Moon of maiden stars; thy white
Mistress attended by such bright
Souls as thy shining self shall come,
And in her first ranks make thee room.
Where 'mongst her snowy family,
Immortal welcomes wait on thee.
O what delight when she shall stand,
And teach thy lips Heaven, with her hand,
On which thou now may'st to thy wishes
Heap up thy consecrated kisses!
What joy shall seize thy soul when she,
Bending her blessed eyes on thee,
Those second smiles of Heaven, shall dart
Her mild rays through thy melting heart:

Angels thy old friends there shall greet thee,
Glad at their own home now to meet thee.
All thy good works which went before
And waited for thee at the door
Shall own thee there: and all in one
Weave a constellation

Of crowns, with which the king thy spouse,
Shall build up thy triumphant b:ows.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,
And thy pains set bright upon thee:
All thy sorrows here shall shine,
And thy sufferings be divine.

Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,
And wrongs repent to diadems.
Even thy deaths shall live, and new
Dress the soul, which late they slew.
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars,
As keep account of the Lamb's wars.

Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ,
Love's noble history, with wit

Taught thee by none but him, while here
They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.
Each heavenly word, by whose hid flame
Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same
Shall flourish on thy brows; and be
Both fire to us, and flame to thee:
Whose light shall live bright, in thy face
By glory, in our hearts by grace.
Thou shalt look round about, and see
Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be
Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows:
The virgin births with which thy spouse
Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now
And with them all about thee, bow
To him, "Put on" (he'll say)" put on,
My rosy love, that thy rich zone,
Sparkling with the sacred flames,
Of thousand souls whose happy names,
Heaven keeps upon thy score, thy bright
Life brought them first to kiss the light."
That kindled them to stars." And so
Thou with the Lamb thy lord shall 't go,
And where soe'er he sets his white
Steps, walk with him those ways of light.
Which who in death would live to see,
Must learn in life to dye like thee.

AN APOLOGY FOR THE PRECEDENT HYMN,

AS HAVING BEEN WRIT WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS YET A PROTESTANT.

THUS have I back again to thy bright name, Fair sea of holy fires, transfus'd the flame

Under so sweet a burden: go,
Since thy great Son will have it so:
And while thou goest, 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
Thy self to us, and we
With holy cares will keep it by us,
We to the last

Will hold it fast,

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 may the bright
Crown of a most incomparable light
Embrace thy radiant brows! O 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 LORD

RISE, thou best and brightest morning,
With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning,
Rosy with a double red;
And the dear drops this day were shed.
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.

Of all the fair-cheek'd flowers that fill thee, None so fair thy bosom strows,

As this modest maiden lilly

Our sins have sham'd into a rose.

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.
Let him make poor the purple East,

Rob the rich store her cabinets keep, The pure birth of each sparkling nest, That flaming in their fair bed sleep.