On The Death Of Mr Crashaw

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given

The two most sacred names of earth and heaven,

The hard and rarest union which can be

Next that of godhead with humanity.

Long did the Muses banish’d slaves abide,

And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;

Like Moses thou (though spells and charms withstand)

Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.

Ah wretched we, poets of earth! but thou

Wert living the same poet which thou’rt now.

Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,

And joy in an applause so great as thine,

Equal society with them to hold,

Thou need’st not make new songs, but say the old.

And they (kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see

How little less than they exalted man may be.

Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell,

The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up Hell.

Nor have we yet quite purg’d the Christian land;

Still idols here like calves at Bethel stand.

And though Pan’s death long since all oracles broke,

Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke:

Nay with the worst of heathen dotage we

(Vain men!) the monster Woman deify;

Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,

And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.

What different faults corrupt our Muses thus

Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain

The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain

That her eternal verse employ’d should be

On a less subject than eternity;

And for a sacred mistress scorn’d to take

But her whom God himself scorn’d not his spouse to make.

It (in a kind) her miracle did do;

A fruitful mother was, and virgin too.

How well, blest swan, did fate contrive thy death;

And make thee render up thy tuneful breath

In thy great mistress’ arms! thou most divine

And richest offering of Loretto’s shrine!

Where like some holy sacrifice t’ expire

A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire.

Angels (they say) brought the fam’d chapel there,

And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air.

‘Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they,

And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.

Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent

That angels led him when from thee he went,

For even in error sure no danger is

When join’d with so much piety as his.

Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak’t, and grief,

Ah that our greatest faults were in belief!

And our weak reason were even weaker yet,

Rather than thus our wills too strong for it.

His faith perhaps in some nice tenents might

Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.

And I myself a Catholic will be,

So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee.

Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow

On us, the poets militant below!

Oppos’d by our old enemy, adverse chance,

Attack’d by envy, and by ignorance,

Enchain’d by beauty, tortured by desires,

Expos’d by tyrant Love to savage beasts and fires.

Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,

And like Elijah, mount alive the skies.

Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,

More fit thy greatness, and my littleness)

Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove

So humble to esteem, so good to love)

Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be,

I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;

And when my Muse soars with so strong a wing,

‘Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee to sing.

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: To A Louse: On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To Mr. M’Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan: In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the commencement of my poetic career. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To John Kennedy, Dumfries House: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Inventory: In answer to a mandate by the Surveyor of the Taxes by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Address To The Unco Guid, Or The Rigidly Righteous: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Here’s His Health In Water : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Rantin’ Dog, The Daddie O’t: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Vision: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epistle To James Smith: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Ordination : For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n- To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer: To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Twa Dogs: A Tale by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie: On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Scotch Drink : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Address To The Deil: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Cotter’s Saturday Night: Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq., of Ayr. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: For A’ That: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Adam Armour’s Prayer: by Robert Burns

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