Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A HYMN [TO THE NAME AND] IN HONOR OF SAINT TERESA, by RICHARD CRASHAW Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Love, thou art absolute sole lord Last Line: Must learn in life to die like thee. Variant Title(s): In Memory Of The Vertuous And Learned ... Early Martyrdom Subject(s): Nuns; Teresa, Saint (1515-1582); Teresa Of Jesus, Saint; Teresa Of Avila, Saint; Theresa, Saint | ||||||||
FOUNDRESS OF THE REFORMATION OF THE DISCALCED CARMELITES, BOTH MEN AND WOMEN. A WOMAN FOR ANGELICAL HEIGHT OF SPECULATION, FOR MASCULINE COURAGE OF PERFORMANCE, MORE THAN A WOMAN; WHO YET A CHILD OUTRAN MATURITY, AND DURST PLOT A MARTYRDOM. Love, thou art absolute sole lord Of life and death. To prove the word, We'll now appeal to none at 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 spacious bosoms spread a throne For Love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat, And see Him take a private seat; Making His mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child. Scarce has she learnt 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 do; 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 die. Scarce has she blood enought 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 poor six years Be posed with the maturest fears Man trembles at, you straight shall find Love knows no nonage, nor the mind. 'Tis love, not years or limbs, that can Make the martyr or the man. Love touched her heart, and lo it beats High, and burns with such brave heats, Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up A thousand cold deaths in one cup. Good reason, for she breathes all fire; Her weak breast 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 travel to a martyrdom. No home for hers confesses she But where she may a martyr be. She'll to the Moors and trade with them For this unvalued diadem. She'll offer them her 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 they this deny, For Him she'll teach them how to die. 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 joys, Never till now esteemed toys; Farewell, whatever dear may be, Mother's arms, or father's knee; Farewell house and farewell home, She's for the Moors and martyrdom! Sweet, not so fast! thy fair Spouse Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows Calls thee back, and bids thee come T' embrace a milder martyrdom. Blest powers forbid thy tender life Should bleed upon a barbarous knife; Or some base hand have power to rase [cut] Thy breast's chaste cabinet, and uncase A soul kept there so sweet; oh no, Wise Heav'n will never have it so. Thou art Love's victim, and must die A death more mystical and high; Into Love's arms thou shalt let fall A still surviving funeral. His is the dart must make the death Whose stroke shall taste thy hallowed breath; A dart thrice dipped in that rich flame Which writes thy Spouse's radiant name Upon the roof of heaven, where aye It shines, and with a sovereign ray Beats bright upon the burning faces Of souls which in that name's sweet graces Find everlasting smiles, So rare, So spiritual, pure, and fair Must be th' immortal instrument Upon whose choice point shall be sent A life so loved; and that there be Fit executioners for thee, The fair'st and first-born sons of fire, Blest seraphim, shall leave their choir And turn Love's soldiers, upon thee To exercise their archery. Oh, how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle pain, Of intolerable joys, Of a death, in which who dies Loves his death and dies again, And would for ever so be slain, And lives and dies, and knows not why To live, but that he thus may never leave to die! How kindly will thy gentle heart Kiss the sweetly killing dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious wounds, that weep Balsam to heal themselves with. Thus When they thy deaths, so numerous, Shall all at last die into one, And melt thy soul's sweet mansion; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hot a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last In a resolving sigh; and then, Oh, what? Ask not the tongues of men; Angels cannot thee tell; suffice, Thyself shall feel thine own full joys And hold them fast for ever. There, So soon as thou shalt first appear, The moon of maiden stars, thy white Mistress, attended by such bright Souls as thy shining self, shall come And in her first ranks make thee room; Where 'mongst her snowy family Immortal welcomes wait for thee. Oh, what delight when revealed life shall stand And teach thy lips heaven with his hand, On which thou now mayst to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses. What joys shall seize thy soul when she, Bending her blessed eyes on thee, Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart Her mild rays through thy melting heart! Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before And waited for thee at the door Shall own thee there, and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy Spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee And thy pains sit bright upon thee; All thy sorrows here shall shine, All thy sufferings be divine; Tears shall take comfort and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul that erst they slew; Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb's wars. Those rare works where thou shalt leave writ Love's noble history, with wit Taught thee by none but Him, while here They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. Each heavenly word by whose hid flame Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee, Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. Thou shalt look round about and see Thousands of crowned souls throng to be Themselves thy crown; sons of thy vows, The virgin-births with which thy sovereign Spouse Made fruitful thy fair soul, go now And with them all about thee, bow To Him. "Put on," He'll say, "put on, My rosy love, that, thy rich zone Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand souls whose happy names Heav'n keeps upon thy score. Thy bright Life brought them first to kiss the light That kindled them to stars." And so Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go, And wheresoe'er He sets His white Steps, walk with Him those ways of light Which who in death would live to see Must learn in life to die like thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FLAMING HEART by RICHARD CRASHAW APOLOGIE FOR THE HYMNE IN MEMORY OF LADY MADRE DE TERESA (2) by RICHARD CRASHAW ST. THERESA AND THE CHILD by JOHN BANISTER TABB SAINTE CHAPELLE by NELLIE HURLBURT WHITNEY A SONG [OF DIVINE LOVE] by RICHARD CRASHAW AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED by RICHARD CRASHAW CHARITAS NIMIA; OR THE DEAR BARGAIN by RICHARD CRASHAW IN THE HOLY NATIVITY [OF OUR LORD GOD]; AS SUNG BY SHEPHERDS by RICHARD CRASHAW ON GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK, THE TEMPLE, SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN by RICHARD CRASHAW |
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