The Vigil Of Death

LET them bestow on every airth a limb, Then open all my veins, that I may swim To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake. Then place my parboiled head upon a stake— Scatter my ashes—strew them in the air: Lord! since thou know’st where all these atoms are, I’m hopeful thou’lt recover once my dust, And confident thou’lt raise me with the just.

RICHARD CRASHAW 1615(?)–1652

ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.

LO, here a little volume, but great book! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native pages, ’sdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast!

It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all Heaven’s royal hosts encamped, thus small To prove that true schools use to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love’s great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You’ll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.

Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful, and wise. Here’s a friend shall fight for you; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part.

But, O! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong; Mercy will come ere 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 alone The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin’s Son.

But if the noble Bridegroom when He comes Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad, Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies To take her pleasure, and to play And keep the Devil’s holy day; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, But beguiling Spheres of sweet and sugared lies, Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps, as fair, Flattering, but forswearing, eyes;

Doubtless some other heart Will get the start Meanwhile, and, stepping in before, Will take possession of that 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 itself 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 does not stay To ask the window’s leave to pass that way;

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul; dear and divine annihilations; A thousand unknown rites Of joys, and rarefied delights;

A hundred thousand goods, glories, 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 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, Whoe’er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse, And close with His immortal kisses! Happy, indeed, who never misses To improve that precious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as He rises, Dropping, with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices.

O, let the blessful heart hold fast Her heavenly armful, she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises! She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets; Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures; Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover!