Selected quad for the lemma: soul_n
Text snippets containing the quad
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A34930
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Steps to the temple sacred poems, with other delights of the muses / by Richard Crashaw ...
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Crashaw, Richard, 1613?-1649.
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1646
(1646)
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Wing C6836; ESTC R13298
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53,140
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154
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Bee posed with the maturest feares Man trembles at wee straight shall find Love knowes no nonage nor the mind T is love not yeares or Limbes that can Make the martyr or the man Love toucht her heart and loe it beats High and burnes with such brave heats Such thirst to dye as dare drinke up A thousand coled deaths in one cup. Good reason for shee breaths all fire Her weake breast heaves with strong desire Of what shee may with fruitlesse wishes Seeke for amongst her mothers kisses Since t is not to bee had at home Shee l travell to a martyrdome No home for her confesses shee But where shee may A martyr bee Shee l to the Moores and trade with them For this unvalued Diadem Shee offers them her dearest breath With Christs name â—nt in change for death Shee l bargain with them and will give Them God and teach them how to live In him or if they this denye For him shee l teach them how to dye So shall shee leave amongst them sowne Her Lords blood or at lest her owne Farewell then all the world adeiu Teresa is no more for you Farewell all pleasures sports and joyes Never till now esteemed toyes Farewell what ever deare may bee Mothers armes or fathers knee Farewell house and farwell home Shee s for the Moores and Martyrdome Sweet not so fast Loe thy faire spouse Whom thou seek'st with so swift vowes Calls thee back and biâ—s thee como T' embrace a milder Martyrdome Blest powers forbid thy tender life Should bleed upon a barbarous knife Or some base hand have power to race Thy Breasts chast cabinet and uncase A soule kept there so sweet O no Wise heaven will never have it so Thou art Loves victim and must dye A death more misticall and high Into Loves hand thou shalt let fall A still surviving funerall His is the dart must make the death Whose stroake shall taste thy hallowed breath A dart thrice dipt in that rich Hame Which writes thy spowses radiant name Vpon the roofe of heaven where ay It shines and with a soveraigne ray Beats bright upon the burning faces Of soules which in that names sweet graces Find everlasting smiles So rare So spirituall pure and faire Must be the immortall instrument Vpon whose choice point shall be spent A life so loved and that there bee Fit executioners for thee The fairest and the first borne Loves of fire Blest Seraphims shall leave their quire And turne Loves souldiers upon thee To exercise their Archerie O how oft shalt thou complaine Of a sweet and subtile paine Of intollerable joyes Of a death in which who dyes Loves his death and dyes againe And would for ever so be slaine And lives and dyes and knowes not why To live but that he still may dy How kindly will thy gentle heart Kisse the sweetly killing dart And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds that weep Balsome to heale themselves with thus When these thy deaths so numerous Shall all at last dye into one And melt thy soules sweet mansion Like a soft lumpe of Incense hasted By too hot a fire and wasted Into perfuming cloudes So fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a disolving sigh and then O what aske not the tongues of men Angells cannot tell suffice Thy selfe that feel thine owne full joyes And hold them fast for ever there So soone as thou shalt first appeare The moone of maiden starres thy white Mistresse attended by such bright Soules as thy shining selfe shall come And in her first rankes make thee roome Where mongst her snowy family Immortall wellcomes wait on thee O what delight when shee shall stand And teach thy Lipps heaven wâ—th her hand On which thou now maist to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses What joy shall seize thy soule when shee Bending her blessed eyes on thee Those second smiles of heaven shall dart Her mild rayes through thy melting heart Angeâ—ls thy old friends there shall greet thee Glad at their owne home now to meet thee All thy good workes which went before And waited for thee at the doore Shall owne thee there and all in one Weave a Constellation Of Crownes with which the King thy spouse Shall build up thy triumphant browes All thy old woes shall now smile on thee And thy pains set bright upon thee All thy sorrows here shall shine And thy sufferings bee devine Teares shall take comfort and turne Gems And wrongs repent to diadems Even thy deaths shall live and new Drosse the soule which late they slew Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarres As keep account of the Lambes warres Those rare workes where thou shalt leave witt Loves noble history with witt Taught thee by none but him while here They feed our soules shall cloath thine there Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire the same Shall flourish on thy browes and bee Both fire to us and flame to thee Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory in our hearts by grace Thou shalt looke round about and see Thousand of crownd soules throng to bee Themselves thy crowne sonnes of thy nowes The Virgin births with which thy spowse Made fruitfull thy faire soule Goe now And with them all about thee bow To him put on heel say put on My Rosy Love that thy rich Zone Sparkeling with the sacred Hames Of thousand soules whose happy names Heaven keeps upon thy score thy bright Life brought them first to kisse the light That kindled them to starres and so Thou with the Lambe thy Lord shall goe And where so e're hee sitts his white Steps walke with him those wayes of Light Which who in death would live to see Must learne in life to dye like thee An Apologie for the precedent Hymne THus have I back againe to thy bright name Faire sea of holy fires transfused the flame I tooke from reading thee 't is to thy wrong I know that in my weak and worthlesse song Thou here art set to shine where thy full day Scarce dawnes ô pardon if I dare to say Thine own deare books are guilty for from thence I learnt to know that Love is eloquence That heavenly maxim gave me heart to try If what to other tongues is tun'd so high Thy praise might not speak English too forbid by all thy mysteries that there lye hid Forbid it mighty Love let no fond hate Of names and words so farre prejudicate Soules are not Spaniards too one frendly flood Of Baptisme blends them all into one blood Christs Faith makes but one body of all soules And loves that bodies soule no Law controules Our free trafick for heaven we may maintaine Peace sure with piety though it dwell in Spaine What soule soever in any Language can Speake heaven like hers is my soules country-man O 't is not Spanish but 't is heaven she speakes 'T is heaven that lies in ambush there and
shall the Morning see Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of Day But all his Counsellours must summon'd bee To meet their troubled Lord without delay Heralds and Messengers immediately Are sent about who poasting every way To th' heads and Officers of every band Declare who sends and what is his command 65. Why art thou troubled Herod what vaine feare Thy blood-revolving Brest to rage doth move Heavens King who doffs himselfe weake flesh to weare Comes not to rule in wrath but serve in love Nor would he this thy fear'd Crown from thee Teare But give thee a better with himselfe above Poore jealousie why should he wish to prey Vpon thy Crowne who gives his owne away 66 Make to thy reason man and mocke thy doubts Looke how below thy feares their causes are Thou art a Souldier Herod send thy Scouts See how hee 's furnish't for so fear'd a warre What armour does he weare A few thin clouts His Trumpets tender cryes his men to dare So much rude Shepheards What his steeds alas Poore Beasts a slow Oxe and a simple Asse Il fine del libro primo On a prayer booke sent to Mrs. M. R. LOe here a little volume but large booke Feare it not sweet It is not hipocrit Much larger in it selfe then in its looke It is in one rich handfull heaven and all Heavens royall Hoasts incampt thus small To prove that true schooles use to tell A thousand Angells in one point can dwell It is loves great Artillery Which here contracts it selfe and comes to lye Close coucht in your white bosome and from thence As from a snowy fortresse of defence Against the ghostly foe to take your part And fortifie the hold of your chast heart It is the Armory of light Let constant use but keep it bright You l find it yeelds To holy hand and humble hearts More swords and sheilds Then sinne hath snares or hell hath darts Onely bee sure The hands bee pure That hold these weapons and the eyes Those of turtles chast and true Wakefull and wise Here is a friend shall fight for you Hold but this booke before your heart Let prayer alone to play his part But o' the heart That studyes this high art Must bee a sure house keeper And yet no sleeper Deare soule bee strong Mercy will come ere long And bring her bosome full of blessings Flowers of never fading graces To make immortall dressings For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for him who is alone The spouse of Virgins and the Virgins son But if the noble Bridegrome when hee comes Shall find the wandring heart from home Leaving her chast abode To gad abroad Amongst the gay mates of the god of flyes To take her pleasures and to play And keep the divells holy day To dance in the Sunneshine of some smiling but beguiling Spheare of sweet and sugred lies Some slippery paire Of false perhaps as faire Flattering but forswearing eyes Doubtles some other heart Will git the start And stepping in before Will take possession of the sacred store Of hidden sweets and holy joyes Words which are not heard with eares These tumultous shops of noise Effeactuall whispers whose stâ—â—l voyce The soule it selfe more feeles then heares Amorous Languishments Luminous trances Sights which are not seen with eyes Spirituall and soule peircing glances Whose pure and subtle lightning â—lies Home to the heart and setts the house on fire And melts it downe in sweet desire Yet doth not stay To aske the windowes leave to passe that way Delicious deaths soft exhalations Of soule deare and divine annihilations A thousand unknowne rites Of joyes and rarifyed delights An hundred thousand loves and graces And many a misticke thing Which the divine embraces Of the deare spowse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name Of all this hidden store Of blessing and ten thousand more If when hee come Hee find the heart from home Doubtles hee will unload Himselfe some other where And powre abroad His precious sweets On the faire soule whom first hee meets O faire ô fortunate ô rich ô deare O happy and thrice happy shee Deare silver breasted dove Who ere shee bee Whose early Love With winged vowes Makes haste to meet her morning spowse And close with his immortall kisses Happy soule who never misses To improve that precious houre And every day Seize her sweet prey All fresh and fragrant as hee rises Dropping with a balmy showre A delicious dew of spices O let that happy soule hold fast Her heavenly armefull shee shall tast At once ten thousand paradises Shee shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and rosâ—all spring of those rare sweets Which with a swelling bosome there shee meets Boundlesse and infinite bottomlesse treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures Happy soule shee shall discover What joy what blisse How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover On Mr. G. Herberts booke intituled the Temple of Sacred Poem sent to a Gentlewoman KNow you faire on what you looke Divinest love lyes in this booke Expecting fire from your eyes To kindle this his sacrifice When your hands unty these strings Thinke you have an Angell by th' wings One that gladly will bee nigh To wait upon each morning figh To flutter in the balmy aire Of your well prefumed prayer These white plumes of his heele lend you Which every day to heaven will send you To take acquaintance of the spheare And all the smooth faced kindred there And though Herberts name doe owe These devotions fairest know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand they are mine In memory of the Vertuous and Learned Lady Madre de Teresa that sought an early Martyrdome LOve thou art absolute sole Lord Of life and death To prove the word Wee need to goe to none of all Those thy old souldiers stout and tall Ripe and full growne that could reach downe With strong armes their triumphant crowne Such as could with lusty breath Speake lowd unto the face of death Their great Lords glorious name to none Of those whose large breasts built a throne For love their Lord glorious and great Wee ll see him take a private seat And make his mansion in the milde And milky soule of a soft childe Scarce had shee learnt to lisp a name Of Martyr yet shee thinkes it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can buy so brave a death Shee never undertooke to know What death with love should have to doe Nor hath shee ere yet understood Why to show love shee should shed blood Yet though shee cannot tell you why Shee can love and shee can dye Scarce had shee blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake Yet has shee a heart dares hope to prove How much lesse strong is death then love Bee love but there let poore sixe yeares