Your first choice fails; oh, when you choose again,
May it not be among the sons of men!"

This is the language of devotional rapture common to the extremes of the
religious world--Methodism and Roman Catholicism. Every one has heard the
ardent hymn by Newton--"The Name of Jesus," and that stirring anthem, "The
Coronation of Christ"--few have read the eloquent production of the canon
of Loretto, a canticle from the flaming heart of Rome, addressed "To the
name above every name, the name of Jesus."

"Pow'rs of my soul, be proud!
And speak loud
To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name;
And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim
New smiles to nature.

* * * * *

Sweet name, in thy each syllable
A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
A thousand hills of frankincense,
Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices,
And ten thousand paradises,
The soul that tastes thee takes from thence,
How many unknown worlds there are
Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!
How many thousand mercies there
In Pity's soft lap lie asleeping!"

Crashaw's invitations to holiness breathe the very gallantry of piety. He
addresses "the noblest and best of ladies, the Countess of Denbigh," who
had been his patroness in exile, "persuading her to resolution in
religion."

"What heaven-entreated heart is this
Stands trembling at the gate of bliss.

* * * * *

What magic bolts, what mystic bars
Maintain the will in these strange wars!
What fatal, what fantastic bands
Keep the free heart from its own hands!
So, when the year takes cold, we see
Poor waters their own prisoners be;

Fetter'd and lock'd up fast, they lie
In a sad self-captivity;
Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore,
To see themselves their own severer shore.

* * * * *

Disband dull fears; give Faith the day;
To save your life, kill your delay;
It is Love's siege, and sure to be
Your triumph, though his victory."

His poem, "The Weeper," shoots the prismatic hues of the rainbow athwart
the veil of fast-falling tears:

"Hail sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
Ever bubbling things!
Thawing crystal! snowy hills!
Still spending, never spent; I mean
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magda