Part 36 (1/2)

VIII.

Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets, Painted with every choicest flower that grows, That I may soon unflower your fragrant baskets, To strow the fields with odours where he goes, Let whatsoe'er he treads on be a rose.

So down she let her eyelids fall, to s.h.i.+ne Upon the rivers of bright Palestine, Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers skip with wine.

SONG OF SORCERESS SEEKING TO TEMPT CHRIST.

Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows: Love doth make the heavens to move, And the sun doth burn in love: Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak; Under whose shadows lions wild, Softened by love, grow tame and mild: Love no medicine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas; Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench: Love did make the b.l.o.o.d.y spear Once a leafy coat to wear, While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play: And of all love's joyful flame, I the bud, and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me, The wooing shall thy winning be.

See, see the flowers that below, Now as fresh as morning blow, And of all, the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows: How they all unleaved die, Losing their virginity; Like unto a summer-shade, But now born, and now they fade.

Everything doth pa.s.s away, There is danger in delay: Come, come gather then the rose, Gather it, ere it you lose.

All the sand of Tagus' sh.o.r.e Into my bosom casts his ore; All the valley's swimming corn To my house is yearly borne: Every grape of every vine Is gladly bruised to make me wine.

While ten thousand kings, as proud, To carry up my train have bowed, And a world of ladies send me In my chambers to attend me.

All the stars in heaven that s.h.i.+ne, And ten thousand more, are mine: Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

CLOSE OF 'CHRIST'S VICTORY AND TRIUMPH.'

I

Here let my Lord hang up his conquering lance, And b.l.o.o.d.y armour with late slaughter warm, And looking down on his weak militants, Behold his saints, midst of their hot alarm, Hang all their golden hopes upon his arm.

And in this lower field dis.p.a.cing wide, Through windy thoughts, that would their sails misguide, Anchor their fleshly s.h.i.+ps fast in his wounded side.

II.

Here may the band, that now in triumph s.h.i.+nes, And that (before they were invested thus) In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds, Pitched round about in order glorious, Their sunny tents, and houses luminous, All their eternal day in songs employing, Joying their end, without end of their joying, While their Almighty Prince destruction is destroying.

III.

Full, yet without satiety, of that Which whets and quiets greedy appet.i.te, Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat, But one eternal day, and endless light Gives time to those, whose time is infinite, Speaking without thought, obtaining without fee, Beholding him, whom never eye could see, Magnifying him, that cannot greater be.

IV.

How can such joy as this want words to speak?

And yet what words can speak such joy as this?

Far from the world, that might their quiet break, Here the glad souls the face of beauty kiss, Poured out in pleasure, on their beds of bliss, And drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold Their eyes on him, whose graces manifold The more they do behold, the more they would behold.

V.

Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes, Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on G.o.d's sweating altar burning lies; Their hungry ears feed on the heavenly noise That angels sing, to tell their untold joys; Their understanding naked truth, their wills The all, and self-sufficient goodness fills, That nothing here is wanting, but the want of ills.

VI.

No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow, No bloodless malady empales their face, No age drops on their hairs his silver snow, No nakedness their bodies doth embase, No poverty themselves, and theirs disgrace, No fear of death the joy of life devours, No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers, No loss, no grief, no change wait on their winged hours.

VII.