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. * * * * * Disband dull fears; give Faith the day; To save your life, kill your delay; It is Love's siege, and sure to be Your triumph, though his victory." His poem, "The Weeper," shoots the prismatic hues of the rainbow athwart the veil of fast-falling tears: "Hail sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills! Ever bubbling things! Thawing crystal! snowy hills! Still spending, never spent; I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. * * * * * "Every morn from hence, A brisk cherub something sips, Whose soft influence Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; Then to his music, and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long. "Not in the evening's eyes, When they red with weeping are For the sun that dies, Sits sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. "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 Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears. "The dew no more will weep, 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." These are some of Crashaw's "Steps to the Temple"--verily he walked thither on velvet. "Wishes to his supposed Mistress," is more than a pretty enumeration of the good qualities of woman as they rise in the heart of a noble, gallant lover: "Whoe'er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me: