Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
By Richard Crashaw (1613?–1640)A Descant on the Twenty-third Psalm
| HAPPY me, O happy sheep! | |
| Whom my God vouchsafes to keep, | |
| Ev’n my God, ev’n He it is | |
| That points me to these paths of bliss; | |
| On Whose pastures cheerful Spring | 5 |
| All the year doth sit and sing, | |
| And rejoicing, smiles to see | |
| Their green backs wear His livery: | |
| Pleasure sings my soul to rest, | |
| Plenty wears me at her breast, | 10 |
| Whose sweet temper teaches me | |
| Not wanton, nor in want to be. | |
| At my feet the blubbering mountain | |
| Weeping melts into a fountain, | |
| Whose soft silver-sweating streams | 15 |
| Make high-noon forget his beams: | |
| When my wayward breath is flying, | |
| He calls home my soul from dying, | |
| Strokes and tames my rabid grief, | |
| And does woo me into life: | 20 |
| When my simple weakness strays | |
| (Tangled in forbidden ways) | |
| He, my Shepherd, is my Guide; | |
| He’s before me, on my side, | |
| And behind me; He beguiles | 25 |
| Craft in all her knotty wiles: | |
| He expounds the weary wonder | |
| Of my giddy steps, and under | |
| Spreads a path clear as the day | |
| Where no churlish rub says nay | 30 |
| To my joy-conducted feet, | |
| Whilst they gladly go to meet | |
| Grace and Peace, to learn new lays | |
| Tuned to my great Shepherd’s praise. | |
| Come now, all ye terrors, sally, | 35 |
| Muster forth into the valley, | |
| Where triumphant darkness hovers | |
| With a sable wing, that covers | |
| Brooding horror. Come, thou Death, | |
| Let the damps of thy dull breath | 40 |
| Overshadow e’en that shade, | |
| And make Darkness ’self afraid; | |
| There my feet, e’en there, shall find | |
| Way for a resolvèd mind. | |
| Still my Shepherd, still my God | 45 |
| Thou art with me; still Thy rod | |
| And Thy staff, whose influence | |
| Gives direction, gives defence. | |
| At the whisper of Thy word | |
| Crown’d abundance spreads my board; | 50 |
| While I feast, my foes do feed | |
| Their rank malice, not their need, | |
| So that with the self-same bread | |
| They are starved and I am fed. | |
| How my head in ointment swims! | 55 |
| How my cup o’erlooks her brims! | |
| So, e’en so, still may I move | |
| By the line of Thy dear love; | |
| Still may Thy sweet mercy spread | |
| A shady arm above my head, | 60 |
| About my paths; so shall I find | |
| The fair centre of my mind, | |
| Thy temple, and those lovely walls | |
| Bright ever with a beam that falls | |
| Fresh from the pure glance of Thine eye, | 65 |
| Lighting to Eternity. | |
| There I’ll dwell for ever, there | |
| Will I find a purer air | |
| To feed my life with, there I’ll sup | |
| Balm and nectar in my cup; | 70 |
| And thence my ripe soul will I breathe | |
| Warm into the arms of Death. | |