Ecce tuos lapides! nihil est pretiosius illis; Seu pretium capiti dent, capiantve tuo. Scilicet haec ratio vestri diadematis: hoc est, Unde coronatis vos decet ire comis. Quisque lapis quanto magis in se vilis habetur, Ditior hoc capiti est gemma futura tuo. Haec est, quae sacra didicit florere figura, Non nisi per lacrymas charta videnda tuas. Scilicet ah dices, haec cum spectaveris ora, Ora sacer sic, ô sic tulit ille pater. Sperabis solitas illinc, pia fulmina, voces; Sanctaque tam dulci mella venire via. Sic erat illa, suas Famae cum traderet alas, Ad calamum, dices, sic erat illa manus. Tale erat et pectus, celsae domus ardua mentis, Tale suo plenum sidere pectus erat. O bene fallacis mendacia pulchra tabellae, Et qui tam simili vivit in aere, labor! Cum tu tot chartis vitam, Pater alme, dedisti, Haec merito vitam charta dat una tibi. TRANSLATION. ON STEPHEN'S CROWN. [This poem seems only intelligible by our supposing that a double reference is intended; first, and faintly, to St. Stephen the proto-martyr; and mainly to Stephens (Stephanus), father and son, Robert and Henry, the great scholars, commentators, printers, and publishers of the sixteenth century, whose books would always be in Crashaw's hands. Stephens, father and son, suffered persecution, banishment, poverty, and excommunication alike from Protestants and Catholics, while engaged in bringing out the Bible, Greek Testament, and numerous Classic Authors. 'In two years Henry revised and published more than 4000 pages of Greek text.' In the latter years of his life, being driven from Geneva (as it is alleged) by the 'petty surveillance and censorship of the pious pastors there, he wandered in poverty over Europe, his own family often ignorant where he was to be found.'] Behold thy stones! more precious nought is seen, Whether they deck with precious rays serene Thy head, or from it take a precious glow. This is your style of diadem; e'en so With crownèd locks 'tis seemly ye should go: The viler in itself each stone may seem, A richer gem upon thy head will gleam. Behold the Book where, seen through mist of tears, A sacred form in manhood's bloom appears. Ah, you will say, when you behold this face, Such looks, O such, our father us'd to grace. The accustom'd sounds you hope for--holy thunder, And the blest honey hid that sweet tongue under: So, o'er his pen, you say, that hand was bent, When her own wings to fetter'd Fame he lent. Such was that breast, his spirit's lofty dwelling-- That breast with its own starry thoughts high swelling. O pleasing fantasies of picture fair, And kindred forms which laboured brass may bear! Since through thee, Sire, such countless writings live, Life unto thee let this one writing give. R. WI.