In a 'Manvall for true Catholicks, or a Handfvll, or rather a Heartfull of holy Meditations and Prayers, gathered out of certaine ancient Manuscripts, written 300 yeeres agoe, or more,' which is usually bound up with the 'Querela,' there is no little striking thought and word-painting, combined with a parsimony of epithet, and a naked and yet imaginative echo of the monkish Latin, singularly impressive. Passing the 'Orthodoxall Confessions of God the Father' and 'Sonne' and 'Holy Ghost,' though all have many memorable things—I would close our specimens with one complete poem from the 'Manvall.' It is entitled 'The Conclusion, with a devout and holy prayer;' the word 'prayer' reminding us that in his Prayers herein and in his 'Milke for Babes' (1618, and several later), Crashaw is lowly and devout, and simply a sinner holding the Christian's hope. The remark applies also to much of his celebration of 'Carraciolo,' the Italian convert and 'Second Moses' (1608).
'This is Christian faith unfainèd,
Orthodoxall, true, unstainèd.
As I teach, all understand,
Yeelding unto neither hand.
And in this my soule's defence,
Reiect me not for mine offence:
Thogh Death's slave, yet desperation
I fly in death to seek salvation.
I have no meane Thy love to gain,
But this faith which I maintaine.
This Thou seest, nor will I cease
By this to beg for a release.
Let this sacred salve be bound
Vpon my sores, to make them sound.
Though man be carried forth, and lying
In his grave, and putrifying:
Bound and hid from mortall eyes;
Yet if Thou bid, he must arise.
At Thy will the grave will open,
At Thy will his bonds are broken.
And forth he comes without delay,
If Thou but once bid, Come away!
In this sea of dread and doubt
My poore barke is tost about;
With storms and pirats far and wide,
Death and woes on every side.
Come, thou Steer's-man ever blest,
Calme these winds that me molest;
Chase these ruthlesse pyrats hence,
And show me some safe residence.
My tree is fruitles, dry, and dead,
All the boughs are witherèd;
Downe it must, and to the fire,
If desert have his due hire.
But spare it, Lord, another yeare.
With manuring it [yet] may beare.
If it then be dead and dry,
Burne it; alas, what remedy!
Mine old foe assaults me sore
With fire and water, more and more.
Poore I, of all my strength bereft,
Onely unto Thee am left.
That my foe may hence be chasèd,
And I from Ruin's clawes releasèd,
Lord, vouchsafe me every day
Strength to fast, and faith to pray:
These two meanes Thyself hast taught
To bring temptation's force to noght.
Lord, free my soule from sin's infection
By repentance's direction.
Be Thy feare in me abiding,
My soule to true salvation guiding.
Grant me faith, Lord, hope, and love,
Zeale of heaven and things above.
Teach mee prize the world at nought;
On Thy blisse be all my thought.
All my hopes on Thee I found,
In Whom all good things abound.
Thou art all my dignitie:
All I have I have from Thee.
Thou art my comfort in distresse,
Thou art my cure in heavinesse;
Thou art my music in my sadnes,
Thou art my medicine in my madnesse.
Thou my freedom from my thral,
Thou my raiser from my fall.
In my labour Thou reliev'st me;
Thou reform'st whatever grieves me.
Al my wrongs Thy hand revengeth,
And from hurt my soul defendeth.
Thou my deepest doubts revealest,
Thou my secret faults concealest.
O do Thou stay my feet from treading
In paths to hel and horror leading,
Where eternal torment dwels,
With fears and tears and lothsome smels;
Where man's deepest shame is sounded,
And the guilty still confounded;
Where the scourge for ever beateth,
And the worme that alwaies eateth;
Where all those endless do remain,
Lord, preserve us from this paine.
In Sion lodge me, Lord, for pitty—
Sion, David's kingly citty,
Built by Him that's onely good;
Whose gates be of the Crosse's wood;
Whose keys are Christ's undoubted word;
Whose dwellers feare none but the Lord;
Whose wals are stone, strong, quicke and bright;
Whose Keeper is the Lord of Light:
Here the light doth never cease,
Endlesse Spring and endles peace;
Here is musicke, heaven filling,
Sweetnesse evermore distilling;
Here is neither spot nor taint,
No defect, nor no complaint;
No man crookèd, great nor small,
But to Christ conformèd all.
Blessed towne, divinely gracèd,
On a rocke so strongly placèd,
Thee I see, and thee I long for;
Thee I seek, and thee I grone for.
O what ioy thy dwellers tast,
All in pleasure first and last!
What full enioying blisse divine,
What iewels on thy wals do shine!
Ruby, iacinth, chalcedon,
Knowne to them within alone.
In this glorious company,
In the streets of Sion, I
With Iob, Moses, and Eliah,
Will sing the heauenly Alleviah. Amen.
Surely this is a very noteworthy transfusion of old Latin pieties into vivid English. 'Visions' of Jerusalem the Golden transfigure even the austere words towards the close. One can picture Master Richard's eyes kindling over his Father's verses when he was gone.
So endeth what I have thought it needful to tell of the elder Crashaw. As hitherto almost nothing has been told of him, even our compressed little Memorial—keeping back many things and notices that have gathered in our note-books—may be welcome to some. I pass now to
II. A Study of the Life and Poetry of Richard Crashaw.
The outward facts of our 'sweet Singer's' story are given with comparative fulness in our Memorial-Introduction (vol. i. pp. xxvii.-xxxviii.). In the present brief Essay we wish to look into some of these, so as to arrive at a true estimate of them and of the Poetry, now fully (and for the first time) collected.
I think I shall be able to say what has struck myself as worth saying about Crashaw, under these three things:
I. His change from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, using the terms as historic words, not polemically.
II. His friends and associates, as celebrated in his Writings.