With shame methinks, great Italy must see
Her conquerors raised to life again by thee;
Raised by such powerful arts, that ancient Rome
May blush no less to see her wit o'ercome.
Some men their fancies like their faith derive,
And count all ill but that which Rome doth give;
The marks of Old and Catholic would find;
To the same chair would Truth and Fiction bind.
Thou in those beaten paths disdain'st to tread,
And scorn'st to live by robbing of the dead.
Since Time does all things change, thou think'st
not fit
This latter age should see all new but wit.
Thy fancy, like a flame, her way does make,
And leaves bright tracks for following pens to take.
Sure 'twas this noble boldness of the Muse
Did thy desire to seek new worlds infuse;
And ne'er did heaven so much a voyage bless,
If thou canst plant but there with like success.
On the Death of Mr. Crashaw. [1650
POET and Saint! to thee alone are given
The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven.
The hard and rarest union which can be,
Next that of Godhead with Humanity.
Long did the Muses banish'd slaves abide,
And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;
Like Moses, thou, though spells and charms with
Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.
Ah wretched we, poets of earth! but thou
Wert living the same poet thou art now.
Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine.
Equal society with them to hold,
Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old.
And they, kind spirits! shall all rejoice to see
How little less than they, exalted man may be.
Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell,
The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell.
Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land;
Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand.
And though Pan's death long since all oracles
broke,
Yet still in rime the fiend Apollo spoke :
Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage we,
(Vain men !) the monster woman deify;
Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus ?
Wanton as girls, as old wives, fabulous
Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal verse employ'd should be
On a less subject than Eternity;
And for a sacred mistress scorn to take,
But her whom God himself scorn'd not his spouse
It, (in a kind,) her miracle did do;
A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.
How well, blest Swan, did fate contrive thy death,
And made thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great mistress' arms? thou most divine,
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine !
Where like some holy sacrifice to expire,
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels, they say, brought the famed Chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the
'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way
Pardon, my mother Church, if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in error sure no danger is
When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak 't, and gri
Ah that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were even weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.
His faith perhaps in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far, at least, great Saint, to pray to thee.
Hail bard triumphant ! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below!
Opposed by our old enemy, adverse Chance,
Attack'd by Envy, and by Ignorance,
Enchain'd by Beauty, tortured by Desires,
Exposed by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fir
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness, and my littleness)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to Esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy Spirit might on me doubled be,
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine !
Where like some holy sacrifice to expire,
A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.
Angels, they say, brought the famed Chapel there,
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the
'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they,
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.
Pardon, my mother Church, if I consent
That angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in error sure no danger is
When join'd with so much piety as his.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak 't, and grief,
Ah that our greatest faults were in belief!
And our weak reason were even weaker yet,
Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.
His faith perhaps in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
And I myself a Catholic will be,
So far, at least, great Saint, to pray to thee.
Hail bard triumphant ! and some care bestow
On us, the poets militant below!
Opposed by our old enemy, adverse Chance,
Attack'd by Envy, and by Ignorance,
Enchain'd by Beauty, tortured by Desires,
Exposed by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy greatness, and my littleness)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to Esteem, so good to love)
Not that thy Spirit might on me doubled be,
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