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Richard Crashaw - A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa
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Love, thou are absolute sole lord
    Of life and death. To prove the word,
    We`ll now appeal to none of all
    Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
    Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
    With strong arms their triumphant crown;
    Such as could with lusty breath
    Speak loud into the face of death
    Their great Lord`s glorious name; to none
   Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
   For love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat,
   And see him take a private seat,
   Making his mansion in the mild
   And milky soul of a soft child.

       Scarce has she learn`d to lisp the name
   Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
   Life should so long play with that breath
   Which spent can buy so brave a death.
   She never undertook to know
   What death with love should have to do;
   Nor has she e`er yet understood
   Why to show love she should shed blood;
   Yet though she cannot tell you why,
   She can love, and she can die.

       Scarce has she blood enough to make
   A guilty sword blush for her sake;
   Yet has she`a heart dares hope to prove
   How much less strong is death than love.

       Be love but there, let poor six years
   Be pos`d with the maturest fears
   Man trembles at, you straight shall find
   Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.
   `Tis love, not years or limbs that can
   Make the martyr, or the man.

       Love touch`d her heart, and lo it beats
   High, and burns with such brave heats,
   Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up
   A thousand cold deaths in one cup.
   Good reason, for she breathes all fire;
   Her weak breast heaves with strong desire
   Of what she may with fruitless wishes
   Seek for amongst her mother`s kisses.

       Since `tis not to be had at home,
   She`ll travel to a martyrdom.
   No home for hers confesses she
   But where she may a martyr be.

       She`ll to the Moors, and trade with them
   For this unvalued diadem.
   She`ll offer them her dearest breath,
   With Christ`s name in `t, in change for death.
   She`ll bargain with them, and will give
   Them God; teach them how to live
   In him; or, if they this deny,
   For him she`ll teach them how to die.
   So shall she leave amongst them sown
   Her Lord`s blood, or at least her own.

       Farewell then, all the world, adieu!
   Teresa is no more for you.
   Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and joys,
    (Never till now esteemed toys)
   Farewell, whatever dear may be,
   Mother`s arms or father`s knee,
   Farewell house and farewell home,
   She`s for the Moors, and martyrdom!

       Sweet, not so fast! lo, thy fair spouse,
   Whom thou seek`st with so swift vows,
   Calls thee back, and bids thee come
   T` embrace a milder martyrdom.

       Blest powers forbid thy tender life
   Should bleed upon a barbarous knife;
   Or some base hand have power to rase
   Thy breast`s chaste cabinet, and uncase
   A soul kept there so sweet; oh no,
   Wise Heav`n will never have it so;
   Thou art Love`s victim, and must die
   A death more mystical and high;
   Into Love`s arms thou shalt let fall
   A still-surviving funeral.
   He is the dart must make the death
   Whose stroke shall taste thy hallow`d breath;
   A dart thrice dipp`d in that rich flame
   Which writes thy spouse`s radiant name
   Upon the roof of heav`n, where aye
   It shines, and with a sovereign ray
   Beats bright upon the burning faces
   Of souls, which in that name`s sweet graces
   Find everlasting smiles. So rare,
   So spiritual, pure, and fair
   Must be th` immortal instrument
   Upon whose choice point shall be sent
   A life so lov`d; and that there be
   Fit executioners for thee,
   The fair`st and first-born sons of fire,
   Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire
   And turn Love`s soldiers, upon thee
   To exercise their archery.

       Oh, how oft shalt thou complain
   Of a sweet and subtle pain,
   Of intolerable joys,
  Of a death in which who dies
  Loves his death, and dies again,
  And would forever so be slain,
  And lives and dies, and knows not why
  To live, but that he thus may never leave to die.

     How kindly will thy gentle heart
  Kiss the sweetly-killing dart!
  And close in his embraces keep
  Those delicious wounds, that weep
  Balsam to heal themselves with. Thus
  When these thy deaths, so numerous,
  Shall all at last die into one,
  And melt thy soul`s sweet mansion
  Like a soft lump of incense, hasted
  By too hot a fire, and wasted
  Into perfuming clouds, so fast
  Shalt thou exhale to Heav`n at last
  In a resolving sigh; and then,
  O what? Ask not the tongues of men;
  Angels cannot tell; suffice,
  Thyself shall feel thine own full joys
  And hold them fast forever. There
  So soon as thou shalt first appear,
  The moon of maiden stars, thy white
  Mistress, attended by such bright
  Souls as thy shining self, shall come
  And in her first ranks make thee room;
  Where `mongst her snowy family
  Immortal welcomes wait for thee.

     O what delight, when reveal`d Life shall stand
  And teach thy lips heav`n with his hand,
  On which thou now mayst to thy wishes
  Heap up thy consecrated kisses.
  What joys shall seize thy soul when she,
  Bending her blessed eyes on thee,
  (Those second smiles of heav`n) shall dart
  Her mild rays through thy melting heart!

     Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee,
  Glad at their own home now to meet thee.

     All thy good works which went before
  And waited for thee, at the door,
  Shall own thee there, and all in one
  Weave a constellation
  Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,
  Shall build up thy triumphant brows.

     All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,
  And thy pains sit bright upon thee;
  All thy sorrows here shall shine,
  All thy suff`rings be divine;
  Tears shall take comfort and turn gems,
  And wrongs repent to diadems.
  Ev`n thy deaths shall live, and new
  Dress the soul that erst they slew;
  Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars
  As keep account of the Lamb`s wars.

     Those rare works where thou shalt leave writ
  Love`s noble history, with wit
  Taught thee by none but him, while here
  They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.
  Each heav`nly word by whose hid flame
  Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same
  Shall flourish on thy brows, and be
  Both fire to us and flame to thee,
  Whose light shall live bright in thy face
  By glory, in our hearts by grace.

     Thou shalt look round about and see
  Thousands of crown`d souls throng to be
  Themselves thy crown; sons of thy vows,
  The virgin-births with which thy sovereign spouse
  Made fruitful thy fair soul, go now
  And with them all about thee, bow
  To him. "Put on," he`ll say, "put on,
  My rosy love, that thy rich zone
  Sparkling with the sacred flames
  Of thousand souls whose happy names
  Heav`n keeps upon thy score. Thy bright
  Life brought them first to kiss the light
  That kindled them to stars." And so
  Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go,
  And wheresoe`er he sets his white
  Steps, walk with him those ways of light
  Which who in death would live to see
  Must learn in life to die like thee.
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