Fool! All that is, at all,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
What entered into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.
He fixed thee mid this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.
What tho' the earlier grooves
Which ran the laughing loves
Around thy base, no longer pause and press?
What tho' about thy rim,
Scull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
Look not thou down but up!
To uses of a cup
The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,
The new wine's foaming flow,
The Master's lips a-glow!
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?
But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men!
And since, not even while the whirl was worst,
Did I,-to the wheel of life
With shapes and colours rife,
Bound dizzily,-mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:
So take and use thy work.
Amend what flaws may lurk
What strain o' the stuff, what workings hast the aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth and death complete the same!
Translated by H. C. Leonard
The parson of a country town was he
Who knew the straits of humble poverty;
But rich he was in holy thought and work,
Nor less in learning as became a clerk.
The word of Christ most truly did he preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign was he, in labors diligent,
And in adversity was still content—
As proved full oft. To all his flock a friend,
Averse was he to ban or to contend
When tithes were due. Much rather was he fond,
Unto his poor parishioners around,
Of his own substance and his dues to give,
Content on little, for himself to live.
Wide was his parish, scattered far asunder,
Yet none did he neglect, in rain, or thunder.
Sorrow and sickness won his kindly care;
With staff in hand he travelled everywhere.
This good example to his sheep he brought
That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
This parable he joined the Word unto-
That, "If gold rust, what shall iron do?"
For if a priest be foul in whom we trust,
No wonder if a common man should rust!
And shame it were, in those the flock who keep
For shepherds to be foul yet clean the sheep.
Well ought a priest example fair to give,
By his own cleanness, how his sheep should live.
He did not put his benefice to hire,
And leave his sheep encumbered in the mire,
Then haste to St. Pauls in London Town,
To seek a chantry where to settle down,
And there at least to sing the daily mass,
Or with a brotherhood his time to pass.
He dwelt at home, with watchful care to keep
From prowling wolves his well-protected sheep
Though holy in himself and virtuous
He still to sinful men was piteous,
Not sparing of his speech, in vain conceit,
But in his teaching kindly and discreet.
To draw his flock to heaven with noble art,
By good example, was his holy art.
Nor less did he rebuke the obstinate,
Whether they were of high or low estate.
For pomp and worldly show he did not care,
No morbid conscience made his rule severe.
The love of Christ and his apostles twelve
He taught, but first he followed it himself.
Love, 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
Ripe Men of Martyrdom, that could reach down With strong arms, their triumphant crown;
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud into the face of death
Their great Lord's glorious name, to none
Of those whose spatious Bosomes spread a throne
For Love at large to fill, spare blood and sweat;
And take him to a private seat,
Making his mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.
Scarse had she learn'd to lisp the name
Of Martyr; yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know
What death with love should have to doe;
Nor has she e'er yet understood
Why to show love, she should shed blood
Yet though she cannot tell you why,
She can Love, and she can DY.
Scarse has she Blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake;
Yet has she a Heart dares hope to prove
How much less strong is Death than Love.
Be love but there; let six poor yeares
Be posed with the maturest Feares
Man trembles at, you straight shall find
Love knows no nonage, nor the Mind.
'Tis Love, not yeares or Limbs that can
Make the Martyr, or the man.
Love touch't her Heart, and lo it beates
High, and burnes with such brave heates;
Such thirstes to dy, as dares drink up,
A thousand cold deaths in one cup.
Good reason. For she breathes all fire.
Her (weake) brest heaves with strong desire
Of what she may with fruitless wishes
Seek for amongst her Mother's kisses,
Since 'tis not to be had at home
She'll travail to a Martyrdom.
No home for hers confesses she
But where she may a Martyr be.
She'll to the Moores; and trade with them, For this unvalued Diadem.
She'll offer them here dearest Breath,
With CHRIST's Name in't, in change for death.
She'll bargain with them; and will give
Them GOD; teach them how to live
In him: or, if this they deny,
For him she'll teach them how to DY.
So shall she leave amongst them sown
Her Lord's Blood; or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world! Adieu.
TERESA is no more for you.
Farewell, all pleasures, sports and joyes,
(Never till now esteemed toyes,)
(Farewell what ever deare may be,)
Mother's armes or Father's knee.
Farewell house, and farewell home!
She's for the Moores and Martyrdom.
Sweet, not so fast! lo thy fair Spouse
Whom thou seekst with so swift vowes,
Calls thee back, and bids thee come
T'embrace a milder Martyrdom.
Blest powres forbid, Thy tender life;
Should bleed upon a barbarous knife;
Or some base hand have power to race
Thy Brest's chaste cabinet, and uncase
A soul kept there so sweet, O no;
Wise heaven will never have it so.
Thou art love's victime; and must dy
A death more mystical and high.
Into love's armes thou shalt let fall
A still-surviving funerall.
His is the Dart must make the Death
Whose stroke shall taste thy hallow'd breath;
A Dart thrice dipt in that rich flame
Which writes thy spouse's radiant Name
Upon the roof of Heav'n; where ay
It shines, and with a sovereign ray
Beates bright upon the burning faces
Of soules which in that names sweet graces
Find everlasting smiles. So rare,
So spirituall, pure, and fair
Must be th' immortal instrument
Upon whose choice point shall be sent
A life so lov'd; and that there be
Fit executioners for Thee,
The fairest and first-born sons of fire,
Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire
And turn love's souldiers, upon Thee
To exercise their archerie.
O how oft shalt thou complain
Of a sweet and subtle Pain.
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