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, "T is but because there was no wind. Less hard 't is, not to err ourselves, than know When we trust men concerning God, we then Visions and inspirations some expect Like senseless chemists their own wealth destroy, So stars appear to drop to us from sky, But when they fall, and meet th' opposing ground, Sometimes their fancies they 'bove reason set, So Endor's wretched sorceress, although She Saul through his disguise did know, Yet, when the devil comes up disguis'd, she cries, "Behold! the Gods arise," In vain, alas! these outward hopes are try'd; Reason, which (God be prais'd!) still walks, for all And, since itself the boundless Godhead join'd With a reasonable mind, It plainly shows that mysteries divine The holy book, like the eighth sphere, does shine So numberless the stars, that to the eye Yet Reason must assist too; for, in seas Our course by stars above we cannot know, 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; 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 And joy in an applause so great as thine. Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old; Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face, Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain And for a sacred mistress scorn'd to take, It (in a kind) her miracle did do ; A fruitful mother was, and virgin too. * How well (blest swan!) did Fate contrive thy death, And made thee render up thy tuneful breath Pardon, my mother-church! if I consent 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, And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet, So far at least, great Saint! to pray to thee. Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse Chance, Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by Desires, Not that thy spirit might on me double be, And, when my Muse soars with so strong a wing, "T will learn of things divine, and first of thee, to sing. |