Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/404

 RICHARD CRASHAW

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? 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, Why you trip so fast away? We go not to seek The darlings of Aurora's bed.

The rose y s modest cheek, Nor the violet* s humble head.

No such thing we go to meet

A worthier object our Lord's feet.

A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

thou art absolute, sole Lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none of all Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,

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