Collected English Verse — Richard Crashaw. b. ?1613, d. 1649 (Part 2 of 5)

Sydneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers

Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate’er delight
Can make Day’s forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.

I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish—no more.

Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows.

Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see;
I seek no further, it is She.

’Tis She, and here,
Lo! I unclothe and clear
My Wishes’ cloudy character.

May she enjoy it
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it!

Such worth as this is
Shall fix my flying Wishes,
And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye;
Be ye my fictions—but her story.

346   The Weeper

   HAIL, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
   Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
     Still spending, never spent; I mean
     Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

   Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;
   ’Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow’st whose harvest dares
     Promise the earth to countershine
     Whatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.

   Every morn from hence
A brisk cherub something sips
   Whose soft influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
     Then to his music: and his song
     Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

   When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
   And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their bottles come,
     And draw from these full eyes of thine
     Their Master’s water, their own wine.

   The dew no more will weep
The primrose’s pale cheek to deck;
   The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily’s neck:
     Much rather would it tremble here,
     And leave them both to be thy tear.

   When sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty,
   —For she is a Queen—
Then is she drest by none but thee:
     Then and only then she wears
     Her richest pearls—I mean thy tears.

   Not in the evening’s eyes,
When they red with weeping are
   For the Sun that dies,
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
     Nowhere but here did ever meet
     Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

   Does the night arise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
   Does night lose her eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
     Let day and night do what they will,
     Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

   Not So long she lived
Will thy tomb report of thee;
   But So long she grieved:
Thus must we date thy memory.
     Others by days, by months, by years,
     Measure their ages, thou by tears.

   Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
   Your fruitful mothers,
What make you here? What hopes can ’tice
     You to be born? What cause can borrow
     You from those nests of noble sorrow?