"Meet you her, my wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call'd my absent kisses."
We are not reprinting Crashaw, and must forbear further quotation. It is enough if we have presented to the reader a lily or a rose from his pages, and have given a clue to that treasure-house—
"A box where sweets compacted lie."
A generation nurtured in poetic susceptibility by the genius of Keats and Tennyson, should not forget the early muse of Crashaw. His verse is the very soul of tenderness and imaginative luxury: less intellectual, less severe in the formation of a broad, manly character than Herbert; catching up the brighter inspirations of Vaughan, and excelling him in richness—it has a warm, graceful garb of its own. It is tinged with the glowing hues of Spenser's fancy; baptized in the fountains of sacred love, it draws an earthly inspiration from the beautiful in nature and life, as in the devout paintings of the great Italian masters, we find the models of their angels and seraphs on earth.
MISERERE DOMINE.
BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.
Thou who look'st with pitying eye
From Thy radiant home on high,
On the spirit tempest-tost,
Wretched, weary, wandering, lost—
Ever ready help to give,
And entreating, "Look and live!"
By that love, exceeding thought,
Which from Heaven the Saviour brought,
By that mercy which could dare
Death to save us from despair,
Lowly bending at Thy feet,
We adore, implore, entreat,
Lifting heart and voice to Thee—
Miserere Domine!
With the vain and giddy throng,
Father! we have wandered long;
Eager from Thy paths to stray,
Chosen the forbidden way;
Heedless of the light within,
Hurried on from sin to sin,
And with scoffers madly trod
On the mercy of our God!
Now to where Thine altars burn,
Father! sorrowing we return.
Though forgotten, Thou hast not
To be merciful forgot;
Hear us! for we cry to Thee—
Miserere Domine!