And part us, that in peace I may
Unclay

My wearied spirit, and take
My flight to Thy eternal spring;
Where, for His sake

Who is my King,

I may wash all my tears away

That day.

Thou conqueror of Death, Glorious triumpher o're the grave, Whose holy breath

Was spent to save

Lost mankinde, make me to be stil'd

Thy child,

And take me when I die

And go unto the dust; my soul

Above the sky

With saints enroll,

That in Thy arms, for ever, I

May lie.

Amen.

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY

Awake, my soul, and come away!

Put on thy best array;

Least if thou longer stay,

Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day.

Goe run,

And bid good morrow to the sun:
Welcome his safe return

To Capricorn;

And that great morne
Wherein a God was borne,

Whose story none can tell

But He Whose every word's a miracle.
To-day Almightiness grew weak;

The Word itself was mute, and could not speak.

That Jacob's star Which made the sun
To dazzle if he durst look on,

Now mantled o're Bethlem's night,
Borrowed a star to show Him light.
He that begirt each zone,

To Whom both poles are one,
Who grasped the Zodiac in 's hand,
And made it move or stand,

If now by nature MAN,

By stature but a span;
Eternitie is now grown short;

A King is borne without a court;

The water thirsts; the fountain's dry;

And Life, being borne, made apt to dye. Chorus. Then let our prayers emulate and vie With His humility:

Since Hee's exil'd from skeyes

That we might rise

From low estate of men
Let's sing Him up again!

Each man winde up 's heart
To bear a part

In that angelick quire, and show
His glory high as He is low!

Let's sing towards men good will and charity,
Peace upon Earth, glory to God on high.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

RICHARD CRASHAW

THE FLAMING HEART

Upon the book and picture of the seraphical Saint Teresa, as she is usually expressed with a Seraphim beside her.

Well-meaning readers! you that come as friends,
And catch the precious name this piece pretends;
Make not too much haste to admire

That fair-cheek'd fallacy of fire.
That is a seraphim, they say,
And this the great Teresia.

Readers, be ruled by me; and make
Here a well-placed and wise mistake;
You must transpose the picture quite,
And spell it wrong, to read it right;

Read him for her, and her for him,
And call the Saint the seraphim.

Painter, what didst thou understand
To put her dart into his hand?
See, even the years and size of him
Shows this the mother-seraphim.

This is the mistress-flame; and duteous he
Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men!

Had thy cold pencil kiss'd her pen,
Thou couldst not so unkindly err

To show us this faint shade for her.

Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame;

And mocks with female frost Love's manly flame. One would suspect thou mean'st to paint

Some weak, inferior, woman-saint.

But had thy pale-faced purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book,

Thou wouldst on her have heap'd up all

That could be form'd seraphical;

Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair,

Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheeks and glist'ring wings,

All those fair and fragrant things,

But before all, that fiery dart

Had fill'd the hand of this great heart.

Do then, as equal right requires:

Since his the blushes be, and her's the fires,

Resume and rectify thy rude design;
Undress thy seraphim into mine;
Redeem this injury of thy art;

Give him the veil, give her the dart.

Give him the veil, that he may cover
The red cheek of a rivall'd lover;
Ashamed that our world now can show
Nests of new seraphims here below.
Give her the dart, for it is she

(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee;
Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,
What is't your tasteful spirits do prove
In that rare life of her and Love?
Say, and bear witness. Sends she not
A seraphim, at every shot?

What magazines of immortal arms there shine!
Heaven's great artillery in each love-spun line.
Give then the dart to her who gives the
flame;

Give him the veil, who gives the shame.
But if it be the frequent fate

Of worse faults to be fortunate:
If all's prescription; and proud wrong
Harkens not to an humble song;

For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suffering seraphim.

His be the bravery of all those bright things,
The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings;