"And at the same time by ill hap there fell
Another arrow out of Cupid's quiver;
The which was carried by the wind at will,
And under Death the amorous shaft did shiver.[27]
They being parted, Love took up Death's dart,
And Death took up Love's arrow for his part."

[27] Not, of course = "break," but "shudder."

There is perhaps more genuine poetic worth, though there is less
accomplishment of form, in the unfortunate Father Robert Southwell, who was
executed as a traitor on the 20th of February 1595. Southwell belonged to a
distinguished family, and was born (probably) at Horsham St. Faiths, in
Norfolk, about the year 1560. He was stolen by a gipsy in his youth, but
was recovered; and a much worse misfortune befell him in being sent for
education not to Oxford or Cambridge but to Douay, where he got into the
hands of the Jesuits, and joined their order. He was sent on a mission to
England; and (no doubt conscientiously) violating the law there, was after
some years of hiding and suspicion betrayed, arrested, treated with great
harshness in prison, and at last, as has been said, executed. No specific
acts of treason were even charged against him; and he earnestly denied any
designs whatever against the Queen and kingdom, nor can it be doubted that
he merely paid the penalty of others' misdeeds. His work both in prose and
poetry was not inconsiderable, and the poetry was repeatedly printed in
rather confusing and imperfect editions after his death. The longest, but
by no means the best, piece is _St. Peter's Complaint_. The best
unquestionably is _The Burning Babe_, which, though fairly well known, must
be given:--

"As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surpris'd I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright, did in the air appear,
Who scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
As though His floods should quench His flames which with His tears were
fed;
'Alas!' quoth He, 'but newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel My fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought are me