RICHARD CRASHAW.

HEROD.

The first Book of the "Sospetto d'Herode" of Marino.

MUSE, now the servant of soft loves no more,

Hate is thy theme; and Herod, whose unblest Hand (so what dares not jealous greatness?) tore A thousand sweet babes from their mother's

breast;

The blooms of martyrdom. O be a door

Of language to my infant lips, ye best

Of confessors; whose throats answering his swords, Gave forth your blood for breath, spoke souls for words.

Below the bottom of the great abyss,

There where one centre reconciles all things; The world's profound heart pants; there placed is Mischief's old master; close about him clings A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss His correspondent cheeks: these loathsome strings

Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties

Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.

The judge of torments, and the king of tears, He fills a burnished throne of quenchless fire; And for his old fair robes of light, he wears

A gloomy mantle of dark flames: the tire
That crowns his hated head on high appears;
Where seven tall horns (his empire's pride)
aspire,

And, to make up hell's majesty, each horn
Seven crested hydras horribly adorn.

His eyes, the sullen dens of death and night,
Startle the dull air with a dismal red;
Such his fell glances as the fatal light

Of staring comets, that look kingdoms dead :
From his black nostrils, and blue lips, in spite

Of hell's own stink, a worser stench is spread : His breath hell's lightning is; and each deep groan

Disdains to think that heav'n thunders alone.

His flaming eyes' dire exhalation,

Unto a dreadful pile gives fiery breath;
Whose unconsum'd consumption preys upon
The never-dying life of a long death.
In his sad house of slow destruction,

His shop of flames, he fries himself, beneath
A mass of woes: his teeth for torment gnash,
While his steel sides sound with his tail's strong
lash.

Three rigorous virgins, waiting still behind,
Assist the throne of th' iron-sceptered king:
With whips of thorns and knotty vipers twin'd
They rouse him, when his rank thoughts need a
sting:

Their locks are beds of uncomb'd snakes, that wind
About their shady brows in wanton rings.
Thus reigns the wrathful king; and while he reigns,
His sceptre and himself both he disdains.

Disdainful wretch! how hath one bold sin cost
Thee all the beauties of thy once bright eyes!
How hath one black eclipse cancell❜d and crost
The glories that did gild thee in thy rise!
Proud morning of a perverse day! how lost
Art thou unto thyself, thou too self-wise
Narcissus! foolish Phæton! who, for all
Thy high-aim'd hopes, gain'dst but a flaming
fall.

From death's sad shades to the life-breathing air
This mortal enemy to mankind's good
Lifts his malignant eyes, wasted with care,
To become beautiful in human blood.
Where Jordan melts his crystal, to make fair

The fields of Palestine, with so pure a flood;
There does he fix his eyes; and there detect
New matter, to make good his great suspect.

He calls to mind the old quarrel, and what spark
Set the contending sons of heav'n on fire:
Oft in his deep thought he revolves the dark
Sybils' divining leaves; he does inquire
Into th' old prophecies, trembling to mark
How many present prodigies conspire
To crown their past predictions: both he lays
Together, in his pond'rous mind both weighs.

Heaven's gold-winged herald, late he saw
To a poor Galilean virgin sent;

How low the bright youth bow'd, and with what

awe

Immortal flow'rs to her fair hand present.

He saw the old Hebrew's womb neglect the law
Of age and barrenness, and her babe prevent
His birth, by his devotion who began
Betimes to be a saint before a man.

He saw rich nectar-thaws, release the rigour
Of th' icy north; from frost-bound Atlas' hands
His adamantine fetters fall; green vigour

Gladding the Scythian rocks and Lybian sands: He saw a vernal smile sweetly disfigure

Winter's sad face, and through the flowr'y lands Of fair Engaddi honey-sweating fountains With manna, milk, and balm, new broach the mountains.

He saw how in that blest day-bearing night,
The heav'n-rebuked shades made haste away;
How bright a dawn of angels with new light
Amaz'd the midnight world, and made a day
Of which the morning knew not: mad with spite
He marked how the poor shepherds ran to pay
Their simple tribute to the Babe, whose birth
Was the great business both of heav'n and earth.

He saw a threefold sun, with rich increase.

Make proud the ruby portals of the east; He saw the temple, sacred to sweet peace, Adore her prince's birth, flat on her breast; He saw the falling idols all confess

A coming deity: he saw the nest

Of pois'nous and unnatural loves, earth-nurs'd,
Touched with the world's true antidote to burst.