An Apology For The Fore-Going hymn,

AS HAVING BEEN WRIT WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS YET
AMONG THE PROTESTANTS.

THUS have I back again to thy bright name,
(Fair flood of holy fires !) transfus'd the flame
I took from reading thee; 'tis to thy wrong,
I know, that in my weak and worthless song
Thou here art set to shine, where thy full day
Scarce dawns. O pardon, if I dare to say
Thine own dear books are guilty. For from thence
I learn'd to know that Love is eloquence.
That hopeful maxim gave me heart to try
If, what to other tongues is tuned so high,
Thy praise might not speak English too: forbid
(By all thy mysteries that there lie hid)
Forbid it, mighty Love! let no fond hate
Of names and words so far prejudicate.
Souls are not Spaniards too: one friendly flood
Of baptism blends them all into a blood.
Christ's faith makes but one body of all souls,
And Love's that body's soul; no law controls
Our free traffic for Heaven; we may maintain
Peace, sure, with piety, though it come from Spain.
What soul soe'er in any language, can

Speak Heav'n like her's, is my soul's countryman.
O'tis not Spanish, but 'tis Heav'n she speaks!
'Tis Heav'n that lies in ambush there, and breaks

From thence into the wondering reader's breast;
Who feels his warm heart hatch into a nest
Of little eagles and young loves, whose high
Flights scorn the lazy dust, and things that die.
There are enow whose draughts (as deep as Hell)
Drink up all Spain in sack. Let my soul swell
With the strong wine of Love: let others swim
In puddles; we will pledge this seraphim
Bowls full of richer blood than blush of grape
Was ever guilty of. Change we our shape,
(My soul) some drink from men to beasts, O then
Drink we till we prove more, not less than men,
And turn not beasts, but angels. Let the King
Me ever into these His cellars bring,

Where flows such wine as we can have of none
But Him Who trod the wine-press all alone :
Wine of youth, life, and the sweet deaths of Love ;
Wine of immortal mixture; which can prove

Its tincture from the rosy nectar; wine
That can exalt weak earth; and so refine
Our dust, that, at one draught, Mortality
May drink itself up, and forget to die.

E

The Flaming heart:

UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICAL SAINT
TERESA, AS SHE IS USUALLY EXPRESSED WITH A SERAPHIM
BESIDE HER.

WELL-MEANING readers! you that come as friends,
And catch the precious name this piece pretends;

Make not too much haste to admire

That fair-cheek'd fallacy of fire

That is a seraphim, they say,
And this the great Teresia.

Readers, be ruled by me; and make
Here a well-placed and wise mistake;
You must transpose the picture quite,
And spell it wrong to read it right ;
Read him for her, and her for him,
And call the saint the seraphim.

Painter, what didst thou understand

To put her dart into his hand?

See, even the years and size of him
Shows this the mother-seraphim.

This is the mistress-flame; and duteous he
Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men !

Had thy cold pencil kiss'd her pen,
Thou couldst not so unkindly err

To show us this faint shade for her.

Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame;

And mocks with female frost Love's manly flame. One would suspect thou meant'st to paint

Some weak, inferior, woman-saint.

But had thy pale-faced purple took

Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book,

Thou wouldst on her have heap'd up all

That could be found seraphical;

Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair,

Rosy fingers, radiant hair,

Glowing cheek, and glist'ring wings,
All those fair and fragrant things,
But before all, that fiery dart

Had fill'd the hand of this great heart.
Do then, as equal right requires ;
Since his the blushes be, and her's the fires,
Resume and rectify thy rude design;

Undress thy seraphim into mine;
Redeem this injury of thy art,

Give him the veil, give her the dart.
Give him the veil, that he may cover
The red cheeks of a rivall'd lover;
Ashamed that our world now can show
Nests of new seraphims here below.

Give her the dart, for it is she

(Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee;
Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,

What is't your tasteful spirits do prove

CARMEN DEO NOSTRO.

In that rare life of her, and Love?
Say, and bear witness. Sends she not
A seraphim at every shot?

What magazines of immortal arms there shine!
Heaven's great artillery in each love-spun line.
Give then the dart to her who gives the flame;
Give him the veil, who gives the shame.
But if it be the frequent fate
Of worst faults to be fortunate;
If all's prescription; and proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song ;
For all the gallantry of him,

Give me the suffering seraphim.

His be the bravery of all those bright things,
The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings;
The rosy hand, the radiant dart;

Leave her alone the flaming heart.

Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her

Not one loose shaft, but Love's whole quiver;
For in Love's field was never found

A nobler weapon than a wound.
Love's passives are his activ'st part:
The wounded is the wounding heart.

O heart! the equal poise of Love's both parts,
Big alike with wound and darts.

Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same;
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame.
Live here, great heart; and love, and die, and kill ;