How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death;

And make thee render up thy tuneful breath

In thy great mistress' arms, thou most divine
And richest offering of Loretto's shrine1
Where like some holy sacrifice t'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 air
'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 tenents 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,
Attacked by envy, and by ignorance,
Enchain'd by beauty, tortured by desires,

Expos'd by tyrant-love to savage beasts and fires.
Thou from low earth in nobl flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount alive the skics.
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,

I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;

And when my muse soars with so strong a wing,

'Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.

1 Crashaw became a Roman Catholic, and died a canon of Loretto, 1650.

3.

[Anacreontiques.]

DRINKING.

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they oerflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By its drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature 's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I,
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

THE SWALLOW.

Foolish prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do

With thy tuneless serenade ?

Well't had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.

In thy undiscovered nest,

Thou dost all the winter rest,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys Free from the stormy season's noise: Free from th' ill thou'st done to me, Who disturbs or seeks out thee?

Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,

All thy art could never pay
What thou'st ta'en from me away;
Cruel bird, thou 'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day,
A dream that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Nothing half so good canst bring,

Though men say, thou bring'st the spring.

4.

[From The Mistress.]

THE SPRING.

Though you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay the birds' rural music too
Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you:

I saw a rose-bud ope this morn; I'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.

How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the sight,

Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.

Where'er you walk'd trees were as reverend made,

As when of old gods dwelt in every shade.

Is 't possible they should not know,
What loss of honour they sustain,

That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain?

Dull creatures! 'tis not without cause that she,
Who fled the god of wit, was made a tree.

In ancient times sure they much wiser were,
When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun,
They call'd their wondering roots away,

And bade them silent to him run.

How would those learned trees have followed you?
You would have drawn them, and their poet too.

But who can blame them now? for, since you're gone, They're here the only fair, and shine alone.

You did their natural rights invade;

Where ever you did walk or sit,

The thickest boughs could make no shade,
Although the Sun had granted it:

The fairest flowers could please no more, near you,
Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do.

When e'er then you come hither, that shall be

The time, which this to others is, to me.

The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear,
When by their sight they let us know
How we depriv'd of greater are.

'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring;
This is for beasts, and that for men the spring.

THE WISH.

Well then; I now do plainly see,
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy

Does of all meats the soonest cloy,
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,

Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!

And since love ne'er will from me flee,

A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian-angels are,

Only belov'd, and loving me!

O fountains, when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood;

Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here,

Only in far-fetched metaphors appear;

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,

And nought but echo flatter.

The gods, when they descended, hither

From heav'n did always choose their way;

And therefore we may boldly say,

That 'tis the way too thither.