And bow their flaming heads before thee, Still thrones and dominations would adore thee,

And from the nails and spear
Turn'd the steel point of fear,

Their use is chang'd, not lost; and now they move
Not stings of wrath, but wounds of love.

Tall tree of life! thy truth makes good
What was till now ne'er understood,

Though the prophetic king
Struck loud his faithful string.

It was thy wood he meant should make the throne
For a more than Solomon.

Large throne of love! royally spread With purple of too rich a red.

Thy crime is too much duty;

Thy burthen too much beauty; Glorious or grievous more? thus to make good Thy costly excellence with thy king's own blood.

Even balance of both worlds! our world of sin, And that of grace Heav'n weigh'd in him,

Us with our price thou weighedst;
Our price for us thou payedst;
Soon as the right-hand scale rejoyc'd to prove
How much death weigh'd more light than love.

Hail our alone hope! let thy fair head shoot
Aloft; and fill the nations with thy noble fruit.
The while our hearts and we

Thus graft ourselves on thee;
Grow thou and they; and be thy fair increase
The sinner's pardon and the just man's peace.

Live, O for ever live and reign

The Lamb whom his own love has slain!
And let thy lost sheep live t' inherit

Keep warm thy praise,

Both nights and days,

And teach thy lov'd name to their noble lyre.

Let froward dust then do its kind; And give it self for sport to the proud wind. Why should a piece of peevish clay plead shares In the eternity of thy old cares?

Why shouldst thou bow thy awful breast to see What mine own madnesses have done with me!

Should not the king still keep his throne
Because some desperate fool's undone ?
Or will the world's illustrious eyes
Weep for every worm that dies;

Will the gallant Sun
E'er the less glorious run?
Will he hang down his golden head
Or e'er the sooner seek his western bed,
Because some foolish fly

Grows wanton, and will die?

If I were lost in misery,
What was it to thy Heav'n and thee?
What was it to thy precious blood
If my foul heart call'd for a flood?

What if my faithless soul and I

Would needs fall in

With guilt and sin, What did the Lamb that he should die? What did the Lamb that he should need, When the wolf sins, himself to blced?

If my base lust

CHARITAS NIMIA.

OR THE DEAR BARGAIN.

LORD, what is man? why should he cost thee
So dear? what had his ruin lost thee?
Lord, what is man? that thou hast over-bought
So much a thing of nought?

Love is too kind, I see, and can
Make but a simple merchant man.
'Twas for such sorry merchandise,
Bold painters have put out his eyes.

VOL. VL

Why should the white Lamb's bosom write

The purple name

Of my sin's shame?

Why should bis unstain'd breast make good My blushes with his own heart-blood?

O my Saviour make me see How dearly thou hast paid for me

That lost again, my life may prove As then in death, so now in love.

SANCTA MARIA DOLORUM,

OR THE MOTHER OF SORROWS; A PATHETICAL DESCANT UPON THE DEVOUT PLAIN SONG OF STABAT MATER DOLOROSA.

In shade of death's sad tree

Stood doleful she,

Ah she! now by no other

Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's mother.
Before her eyes

Her's and the whole world's joys
Hanging all torn she sees; and in his woes
And pains, her pangs and throes.
Each wound of his, from every part,
Are, more at home in her own heart.

What kind of marble then

Is that cold man

Who can look on and see,

Nor keep such noble sorrow's company?
Sure even from you

(My flints) some drops are due,
To see so many unkind swords contest
So fast for one soft breast.

While with a faithful, mutual, flood
Her eyes bleed tears, his wounds weep blood.

O costly intercourse

Of deaths, and worse

Divided loves: while son and mother

Discourse alternate wounds to one another;

Quick deaths that grow

And gather, as they come and go:

His nails write swords in her; which soon her heart

(Dear wounds) and only now In sorrows draw no dividend with you! O be more wise,

If not more soft, mine eyes! Flow, tardy founts! and into decent show'rs Dissolve my days and hours.

And if thou yet (faint soul!) defer

To bleed with him, fail not to weep with her. Rich queen, lend some relief,

At least an alms of grief,

To a heart who by sad right of sin

Her swords, still growing with his pain,

Turn spears, and straight come home again;

She sees her Son, her God,

Bow with a load

Of borrow'd sins; and swim

In woes that were not made for him.

Ab, hard command

Of love! here must she stand

Charg'd to look on, and with a stedfast eye

See her life die :

Leaving her only so much breath As serves to keep alive her death.

O mother turtle-dove!

Soft source of love,

That these dry lids might borrow
Something from thy full seas of sorrow!
O in that breast

Of thine (the noblest nest

Both of love's fires an foods) might I recline
This hard, cold heart of mine!

The chill Jump would relent, and prove
Soft subject for the siege of love.

O teach those wounds to bleed
In me; me, so to read
This book of loves, thus writ

In lines of death, my life may copy it
With Joyal cares.

O let me here claim shares ;
Yield something in thy sad prerogative
(Great queen of griefs) and give
Me to my tears; who, though all stone,
Think much that thou should'st mourn alone,

By all those stings,

Of love, sweet bitter things,

Which these torn hands transcrib'd on thy true heart;
O teach mine too, the art

To study him so, till we mix
Wounds, and become one crucifix.

Olet me suck the wine

So long of this chaste vine,

Till, drunk of the dear wounds, I be

A lost thing to the world, as it to me.
O faithful friend

Of me and of my end!

Fold up my life in love; and lay't beneath
My dear Lord's vital death.

[breath

Lo, heart, thy hope's whole plea! her precious Pour'd out in prayers for thee; thy Lord's in death.

THE HYMN OF ST. THOMAS,

IN ADORATION OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT.

WITH all the powers my poor heart hath
Of humble love and loyal faith,
Thus low (my hidden life!) I bow to thee
Whom too much love hath bow'd more low for me.
Down, down, proud sense! discourses die,
Keep close, my soul's inquiring cye!
Nor touch nor taste must look for more,
But each sit still in his own door.

Your ports are all superfluous here,
Save that which lets in faith, the ear.
Faith is my skill; faith can believe
As fast as love new laws can give.

Faith is my force; faith strength affords
To keep pace with those powerful words:
And words more sure, more sweet than they
Love could not think, truth could not say.

O let thy wretch find that relief
Thou didst afford the faithful thief!
Plead for me, love! alledge and show
That faith has farther, here, to go,

And less to lean on; because then
Though hid as God, wounds writ thee man,
Thomas might touch; none but might see
At least the suff'ring side of thee;

And that too was thyself which thee did cover,

But here ev'n that's hid too which hides the other.

Sweet, consider then, that I

Though allow'd not hand nor eye
To reach at thy lov'd face; nor can
Taste thee God, or touch thee man;
Both yet believe and witness thee

My Lord too, and my God, as loud as he.

Help, Lord, my hope increase;
And fill my portion in thy peace.
Give love for life, nor let my days

Grow, but in new pow'rs to name thy praise.
O dear memorial of that death

Which lives still, and allows us breath!
Rich, royal food! bountiful bread!
Whose use denies us to the dead;

Whose vital gust alone can give

The same leave both to eat and live;
Live ever bread of loves, and be

My life, my soul, my surer self to me.
O soft self-wounding pelican!
Whose breast weeps balm for wounded man:
Ah, this way bend thy benign flood
To a bleeding heart that gasps for blood;
That blood, whose least drops sovereign be
To wash my worlds of sins from me.
Come, love! come, Lord! and that long day
For which I languish, come away.
When this dry soul those eyes shall see,
And drink the unseal'd source of thee.
When glory's sun faith's shade shall chase,
Then for thy veil give me thy face. Amen.

THE

HYMN FOR THE BLESSED SACRAMENT.

LAUDA SION SALVATOREM.

RISE, royal Sion! rise and sing

Thy soul's kind Shepherd, thy heart's King.
Stretch all thy powers, call if you can
Harps of Heav'n to hands of man,
This sovereign subject sits above

The best ambition of thy love.

Lo, the bread of life, this day's
Triumphant text, provokes thy praise,
The living and life-giving bread,
To the great twelve distributed,
When Life himself at point to die,
Of love, was his own legacy.

Come, love! and let us work a song
Loud and pleasant, sweet and long;
Let lips and hearts lift high the noise
Of so just and solemn joys,

Which on his white brows this bright day
Shall bence for ever bear away.

Lo, the new law of a new Lord,
With a new Lamb, blesses the board.
The aged Pascha pleads not years,
But spies love's dawn, and disappears.
Types yield to truths; shades shrink away;
And their night dies into our day.

But lest that die too, we are bid,
Ever to do what he once did.
And by a mindful, mystic breath,
That we may live, revive his death;
With a well-blest bread and wine
Transum'd, and taught to turn divine.

The Heav'n instructed house of faith
Here a holy dictate hath,

That they but lend their form and face,
Themselves with reverence leave their place,
Nature and name, to be made good
By a nobler bread, more needful blood.

Where Nature's laws no leave will give,
Bold faith takes heart, and dares believe
In different species, name not things,
Himself to me my Saviour brings.
As meat in that, as drink in this;
But still in both one Christ he is.

The receiving mouth here makes
Nor wound nor breach in what he takes.
Let one, or one thousand be

Here dividers, single he

Bears home no less, all they no more,
Nor leave they both less than before.

Though in itself this sovereign feast
Be all the same to every guest,
Yet on the same (life-meaning) bread
The child of death eats himself dead.
Nor is't love's fault. but sin's dire skill,
That thus from life can death distil.

When the blest signs thou broke shalt see,
Hold but thy faith entire as he,
Who, howsoe'er clad, cannot come
Less than whole Christ in every crumb.
In broken forms a stable faith
Untouch'd her precious total hath.

Lo, the life-food of angels then
Bow'd to the lowly mouths of men!
The children's bread, the bridegroom's wine,
Not to be cast to dogs or swine.

Lo, the full, final, sacrifice
On which all figures fiz'd their eyes,
The ransom'd Isaac, and his ram;
The manna, and the paschal Lamb.

Jesu, Master, just and true!
Our food and faithful shepherd too!
O by thy self vouchsafe to keep,
As with thy self thou feed'st thy sheep.

O let that love, which thus makes thee
Mix with our low mortality,
Lift our lean souls, and set us up
Convictors of thine own full cup,
Coleirs of saints, that so all may
Drink the same wine, and the same way.
Nor change the pasture, but the place,
To feed of thee in thine own face. Amen.

THE HYMN.

DIES IRE DIES ILLA.

IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

HEAR'ST thou, my soul, what serious things Both the Psalm and Sybil sings

Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray
The world in flames shall fly away.

O that fire! before whose face
Heav'n and Earth shall find no place:
O these eyes! whose angry light
Must be the day of that dread night.

O that trump! whose blast shall run
An even round with th' circling Sun,
And urge the murmuring graves to bring
Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

Forrour of Nature, Hell and Death!
When a deep groan from beneath
Shall cry, "We come, we conie," and all
The caves of night answer one call.

O that book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the world in severe light.
O that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can indure; yet none can fly.

Ab, then, poor soul, what wilt thou say?
And to what patron choose to pray?
When stars themselves shall stagger, and
The most firm foot no more then stand.

But thou giv'st leave (dread Lord) that we Take shelter from thyself in thee; And with the wings of thine own dove Fly to thy sceptre of soft love.

Dear, remember in that day
Who was the cause thou cam'st this way.
Thy sheep was stray'd: and thou would'st be
Even lost thy self in seeking me.

Shall all that labour, all that cost
Of love, and even that loss, be lost?
And this lov'd soul, judg'd worth no less
Than all that way and weariness?

Just mercy, then, thy reck'ning be
With my price, and not with me;
'Twas paid at first with too much pain,
To be paid twice, or once in vain.

Mercy, (my Judge) mercy, I cry,
With blushing cheek and bleeding eye,
The conscious colours of my sin
Are red without and pale within.

O let thine own soft bowels pay
Thy self; and so discharge that day.
If sin can sigh, love can forgive.
O say the word, my soul shall live.

Those mercies which thy Mary found,
Or who thy cross confess'd and crown'd,
Hope tells my heart, the same loves be
Still alive, and still for me.

Though both my pray'rs and tears combine, Both worthless are; for they are mine. But thou thy bounteous self still be; And show thou art, by saving me.

O when thy last frown shall proclaim The flocks of goats to folds of flame, And all thy lost sheep found shall be, Let "Come ye blessed" then call me.

When the dread Ite shall divide Those limbs of death from thy left side, Let those life-speaking lips command That I inherit thy right hand.

O hear a suppliant heart; all crush'd Aud crumbled into contrite dust. My hope, my fear! my judge, my friend Take charge of me, and of my end.

THE HYMN.

O GLORIOSA DOMINA.

HAIL, most high, most humble one!
Above the world, below thy Son,
Whose blush the Moon beauteously mars
And stains the timorous light of stars.
He that made all things had not done
Till he had made himself thy Son.

The whole world's host would be thy guest,
And board himself at thy rich breast:
O boundless hospitality!

The feast of all things feeds on thee.

The first Eve, mother of our fall,
E'r she bore any one, slew all.
Of her unkind gift might we have
The inheritance of a hasty grave;
Quick buried in the wanton tomb
Of one forbidden bit;
Had not a better fruit forbidden it.

Had not thy healthful womb
The world's new eastern window been,
And given us Heav'n again in giving him.
Thine was the rosy dawn that sprung the day,
Which renders all the stars she stole away.

Let then the aged world be wise, and all Prove nobly, here, unuatural: 'Tis gratitude to forget that other, And call the maiden Eve their mother. Ye redeem'd nations far and near, Applaud your happy selves in her, (All you to whom this love belongs) And keep't alive with lasting songs.

Let hearts and lips speak loud, and say, "Hail, door of life, and source of day! The door was shut, the fountain seal'd; Yet light was seen and life reveal'd; The fountain seal'd, yet life found way. Glory to thee, great Virgin's Son In bosom of thy Father's bliss.

The same to thee, sweet Spirit be done; As ever shall be, was, and is, Amen."

Readers, be rul'd by me, and make Here a well-plac'd and wise mistake; You must transpose the picture quite, And spell it wrong to read it right; Read him for her, and her for hin; And call the saint the seraphim.

Painter, what did'st 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 be
Her bappy fire-works, here, comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men!

Had thy cold rencil kiss'd her pen,
Thou could'st not so unkindly err
To show us this faint shade for her.

Why inan, 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-fac'd purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book,
Thou would'st on her have heap'd up all
That could be found seraphical;
What e'er this youth of fire wears fair,
Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheek, and glistring wings,
All those fair and flagrant 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 cheeks of a rivall'd lover; Asham'd that cur 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-pierc'd hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,
What is't your taste ful 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!
Heav'n's great artillery in each love-span 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 worst faults to be fortunate;

If all's prescription; and proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song;

For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suff' ing seraphim.

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

Leave her alone the flaming heart.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her
Not one loose shaft, but love's whole quiver.
For in love's field was never found

A nobler weapon than a wound.
Love's passives are his activ'st part;
The wounded is the wounding heart.

O heart! the equal poise of love's both parts,
Big alike with wounds and darts,

Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same;
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame;
Live here, great heart; and love, and die, and kill;
And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still.
Let this immortal life where e'er it comes
Walk in a croud of loves and martyrdoms.
Let mystic deaths wait on't; and wise souls be
The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! show here thy art,
Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart;
Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy large books of day,
Combin'd against this breast at once break in,
And take away from me my self and sin;
This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be,
And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.
O thou undaunted daughter of desires!
By all thy pow'r of lights and fires;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;
By thy large draughts of intellectual day;
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;
By all thy brim-fill'd bowls of fierce desire;
By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire;
By the full kingdom of that final kiss
That seiz'd thy parting soul, and seal'd thee his;
By all the heav'ns thou hast in him
(Fair sister of the seraphim);
By all of him we have in thee;
Leave nothing of my self in me.
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die.