RICHARD CRASHAW. (1615?-1650.) CXI. A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. SUNG BY THE SHEPHERDS. From the Steps to the Temple (1646). Crashaw's poems have been edited by Dr. Grosart in the Fullers Worthies Library. I have printed the text of 1646, and added the 7th and 8th stanzas from that of 1652. COME, Chorus. we shepherds, who have seen He, in this our general joy, Slept, and dreamt of no such thing, Tell him we now can show him more Which to be seen needs not his light Tityrus. Gloomy night embraced the place Thyrsis. Winter chid the world, and sent The angry north to wage his wars: The north forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars: By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers, Where he meant frost, he scatter'd flowers. Both. We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Bright dawn of our eternal day; We saw Thine eyes break from the east, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw Thee (and we bless'd the sight) We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. Tityrus. Poor world (said I), what wilt thou do A cold and not too cleanly manger? Contend the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth? Thyrsis. Proud world, I said, cease your contest The Babe whose birth embraves this morn, Tityrus. I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow Offering their whitest sheets of snow, Thyrsis.1 I saw th' officious angels bring The down that their soft breasts did strow; For well they now can spare their wings, When Heaven itself lies here below. Fair youth, (said I,) be not too rough, Tityrus. The Babe no sooner 'gan to seek, Chorus. Welcome to our wondering sight Summer in winter! Day in night! Heaven in earth! and God in man! Great little One, whose glorious birth, Lifts earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to earth. 1 The 1652 version of this stanza is, on the whole, preferableI saw the obsequious Seraphims Their rosy fleece of fire bestow; For well they now can spare their wings, Well done (said I), but are you sure, Your down, so warm, will pass for pure? Welcome, though not to gold, nor silk With many a rarely temper'd kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other. She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips Welcome, (though not to those gay flies But to poor shepherds, simple things, Yet when young April's husband showers To kiss Thy feet, and crown Thy head. To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves, Each his pair of silver doves, ANDREW MARVELL. (1621-1678.) CXII. CLORINDA AND DAMON. All five poems are from the posthumous folio of Miscellaneous Poems (1681). An edition of Marvell has recently been published by Mr. G. A. Aitken in the Muses' Library. Clorinda. AMON, come drive thy flocks this way. DAM Damon. No: 't is too late they went astray. Clorinda. I have a grassy scutcheon spied, Where Flora blazons all her pride; The grass I aim to feast thy sheep, The flowers I for thy temple keep. Damon. Grass withers, and the flowers too fade. Clorinda. Seize the short joys then, ere they vade1. Seest thou that unfrequented cave? But virtue's grave. Clorinda. In whose cool bosom we may lie, Safe from the sun. Damon. Not Heaven's eye. Clorinda. Near this, a fountain's liquid bell Tinkles within the concave shell. Damon. Might a soul bathe there and be clean, Or slake its drought? Clorinda. What is 't you mean? Damon. These once had been enticing things, Clorinda, pastures, caves, and springs. Clorinda. And what late change? 1 vade, pass away (the Latin vadere). |