CRASHAW.

THE RECOMMENDATION.

THESE hours, and that which hovers o'er my end,
Into thy hands and heart, Lord, I commend :
Take both to thine account, that I and mine,
In that hour and in these, may be all thine.
That, as I dedicate my devoutest breath
To make a kind of life for my Lord's death,
So from his living and life-giving death

My dying life may draw a new, and never-fleeting breath.

ON THE WATER OF OUR LORD'S BAPTISM.

EACH bless'd drop on each bless'd limb
Is wash'd itself in washing him :

"Tis a gem while it stays here;

When it falls hence, 'tis a tear.

UPON THE SEPULCHRE OF OUR LORD.

HERE, where our Lord once laid his head,
Now the
grave lies buried.

THE WIDOW'S MITES.

Two mites, two drops, (yet all her house and land,)

Falls from a steady heart, though trembling hand: The other's wanton wealth foams high and brave; The other cast away, she only gave.

'But now they have both seen and hated,' &c.—JOHN, xv. 24.
SEEN? and yet hated thee? They did not see,
They saw thee not, that saw and hated thee:
No, no-they saw thee not, O life, O love!
Who saw aught in thee that their hate could move.

"I am ready not only to be bound but to die,' &c.—Acts, xxi. 13. COME death, come bonds, nor do you shrink, my

ears,

At those hard words man's cowardice calls fears.
Save those of fear, no other bonds fear I;
Nor other death than this-the fear to die.

EASTER DAY.

RISE, heir of fresh eternity,

From the virgin tomb :

Rise, mighty Man of Wonders, and thy world with

thee;

Thy tomb, the universal east,

Nature's new womb,

Thy tomb, fair immortality's perfumed nest,

Of all the glories, make noon gay,

This is the morn:

This rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of

day:

In joy's white annals live this hour,

When life was born;

No cloud scowl on his radiant lids, no tempest lower.

Life, by this Light's nativity,

All creatures have.

Death only by this day's just doom is forc'd to die; Nor is death forc'd; for may he lie

Thron'd in thy grave:

Death will on this condition be content to die.

A DIVINE SONG.

LORD, when the sense of thy sweet grace

Sends up my soul to seek thy face,
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire,
I die in love's delicious fire.
O love! I am thy sacrifice;
Be still triumphant! Blessed eyes,
Still shine on me-fair suns! that I
Still may behold, though still I die.

Though still I die, I live again,
Still longing so to be still slain;
So gainful is such loss of breath,
I die even in desire of death.
Still live in me this loving strife
Of living death and dying life;

For while thou sweetly slayest me,
Dead to myself, I live in thee.

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?

Alas, sweet Lord, what wer't to thee
If there were no such worms as we ?
Heav'n ne'ertheless still heav'n would be.
Should mankind dwell

In the deep hell,

What have his woes to do with thee?
Let him go weep

O'er his own wounds:

Seraphims will not sleep,

Nor spheres let fall their faithful rounds;
Still would the youthful spirits sing,
And still thy spacious palace ring.
Still would those beauteous ministers of light
Burn all as bright,

And bow their flaming heads before thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore thee; Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire

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 itself 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 heaven and thee? What was it to thy precious blood, foul heart call'd for a flood?

If

my

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 bleed?
If my base lust,

Bargain'd with death and well-beseeming dust,
Why should the white

Lamb's bosom write

The purple name

Of my sin's shame?

Why should his 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.