* * * * *
Sweet name, in thy each syllable
A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
A thousand hills of frankincense,
Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices,
And ten thousand paradises,
The soul that tastes thee takes from thence,
How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In Pity's soft lap lie asleeping!"
Crashaw's invitations to holiness breathe the very gallantry of piety. He
addresses "the noblest and best of ladies, the Countess of Denbigh," who
had been his patroness in exile, "persuading her to resolution in
religion."
"What heaven-entreated heart is this
Stands trembling at the gate of bliss.
* * * * *
What magic bolts, what mystic bars
Maintain the will in these strange wars!
What fatal, what fantastic bands
Keep the free heart from its own hands!
So, when the year takes cold, we see
Poor waters their own prisoners be;
Fetter'd and lock'd up fast, they lie
In a sad self-captivity;
Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore,
To see themselves their own severer shore.
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