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. REASON, ; . THE USE OF IT IN DIVINE MATTERS, . SOME blind themselves, 'cause possibly they may :
Be led by others a right way; They build on sands, which if unmov’d they find, i
'T is but because there was no wind.. . Less hard 't is, not to err ourselves, than know
. If our forefathers err'd or no.. When we trust men concerning God, we then.
Trust not God concerning men.
Visions and inspirations some expect
Their course here to direct;
Imaginary gold t'enjoy:
And gild the passage as they fly; But when they fall, and meet th' opposing ground, : What but a sordid slime is found ?
Sometimes their fancies they 'bove reason set,
And fast, that they may dream of meat; Sometimes ill spirits their sickly souls delude, .
And bastard forms obtrude :. ... So Endor's wretched sorceress, although
She Saul through his disguise did know, Yet, when the devil comes up disguis’d, she criene
“ Behold! the Gods arise."
In vain, alas! these outward hopes are try’d;
Reason within 's our only guide ; Reason, which (God be prais’d!) still walks, for all
Its old original fall :
With a reasonable mind,
May with our reason join.
The holy book, like the eighth sphere, does shine
With thousand lights of truth divine :
It makes but all one galaxy.
So vast and dangerous as these,
Without the compass too below.
Though Reason cannot through Faith's mysteries see,
It sees that there and such they be; Leads to heaven's door, and there does humbly keep,
And there through chinks and key-holes peep: Though it, like Moses, by a sad command,
Must not come into th' Holy Land, Yet thither it infallibly does guide,
And from afar 't is all descry'd.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW. POET and Saint ! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven ; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead with humanity. Long did the Muses' banish'd slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride ; Like Moses thou (though spells and charms with
stand) Hast brought them nobly home back to their holy
land. Ah wretched we, poets of earth! but thou Wert living the same poet which thou ’rt now; Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine, And joy in an applause so great as thine. Equal society with them to hold, Thou need’st not make new songs, but say the old; And they (kind spirits !) shall all rejoice, to see How little less than they exalted man may be. Still the old Heathen gods in Numbers dwell; The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell ! Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian land; Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand. And, though Pan's death long since all oracles broke, Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke: Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage, we (Vain men!) the monster Woman deify:
Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,
Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
death, And made thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great mistress' arms, thou most divine And richest offering of Loretto's shrine ! Where, like some holy sacrifice t'expire, A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the fam'd chapel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air: 'T is surer much they brought thee there, and they, And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. • Pardon, my mother-church! if I consent"
That angels led him when from thee he went; · For ev'n in error sure no danger is, When join’d with so much piety as his.
* Mr. Crashaw died of a fever at Loretto, being newly chosen canon of that church.
Ah, mighty God! with shame I speak’t, and grief,