Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Richard Crashaw. 1613?1649337. The Weeper
HAIL, sister springs, | |
Parents of silver-footed rills! | |
Ever bubbling things, | |
Thawing crystal, snowy hills! | |
Still spending, never spent; I mean | 5 |
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 | 10 |
Promise the earth to countershine | |
Whatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine. | |
Every morn from hence | |
A brisk cherub something sips | |
Whose soft influence | 15 |
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, | 20 |
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 | 25 |
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. | 30 |
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 | 35 |
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. | 40 |
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? | 45 |
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; | 50 |
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, | 55 |
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? | 60 |
Whither away so fast | |
For sure the sordid earth | |
Your sweetness cannot taste, | |
Nor does the dust deserve your birth. | |
Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, | 65 |
Why you trip so fast away? | |
We go not to seek | |
The darlings of Aurora’s bed, | |
The rose’s modest cheek, | |
Nor the violet’s humble head. | 70 |
No such thing: we go to meet | |
A worthier object—our Lord’s feet. |