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To the Name above every Name the Name of Jesus

I sing the Name which None can

But touch’t with An interiour Ray:

The Name of our New Peace; our Good:

Our Blisse: and Supernaturall Blood:

The Name of All our Lives and Loves.

Hearken,

And Help, ye holy Doves!

The high-born Brood of Day; you

Candidates of blissefull Light,

The Heirs Elect of Love; whose Names

Unto The everlasting life of Song;

All ye wise Soules, who in the wealthy

Of This unbounded Name build your warm Nest.

Awake,

My glory.

Soul, (if such thou be,

And That fair Word at all referr to Thee)Awake and

And be All Wing;

Bring hither thy whole Self; and let me

What of thy Parent Heaven yet speakes in thee,

O thou art

Of noble Powres,

I see,

And full of nothing else but empty Me,

Narrow, and low, and infinitely

Then this Great mornings mighty Busynes.

One little World or two(Alas) will never doe.

We must have store.

Goe,

Soul, out of thy Self, and seek for More.

Goe and

Great Nature for the Key of her huge

Of Heavns, the self involving Sett of Sphears(Which dull mortality more Feeles then heares)Then rouse the

Of nimble,

Art, and traverse

The Aiery Shop of soul-appeasing Sound:

And beat a summons in the

All-soveraign

To warn each severall

And shape of sweetnes,

Be they

As sigh with supple

Or answer Artfull Touch,

That they convene and come

To wait at the love-crowned Doores

This Illustrious Day.

Shall we dare This, my Soul? we’l doe’t and

No Other note for’t, but the Name we sing.

Wake Lute and

And every sweet-lipp’t

That talkes with tunefull string;

Start into life,

And leap with

Into a hasty Fitt-tun’d Harmony.

Nor must you think it muchT’obey my bolder touch;

I have Authority in Love’s name to take

And to the worke of Love this morning wake you;

Wake;

In the

Of Him who never sleeps,

All Things that Are,

Or, what’s the same,

Are Musicall;

Answer my

And come along;

Help me to meditate mine Immortall Song.

Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth,

Bring All your houshold stuffe of Heavn on earth;

O you, my Soul’s most certain Wings,

Complaining Pipes, and prattling Strings,

Bring All the

Of Sweets you have;

And murmur that you have no more.

Come, né to part,

Nature and Art!

Come; and come strong,

To the conspiracy of our Spatious song.

Bring All the Powres of

Your Provinces of well-united Worlds can raise;

Bring All your Lutes and Harps of Heaven and Earth;

What ére cooperates to The common

Vessells of vocall Ioyes,

Or You, more noble Architects of Intellectuall Noise,

Cymballs of Heav’n, or Humane sphears,

Solliciters of Soules or Eares;

And when you’are come, with

That you can bring or we can call;

O may you

For ever here, and

Your selves into the

And everlasting series of a deathlesse Song;

Mix All your many Worlds,

Above,

And loose them into One of Love.

Chear thee my Heart!

For Thou too hast thy

And Place in the Great

Of This unbounded All-imbracing Song.

Powres of my Soul, be Proud!

And speake

To All the dear-bought Nations This Redeeming Name,

And in the wealth of one Rich Word

New Similes to Nature.

May it be no

Blest Heavns, to you, and your Superiour song,

That we, dark Sons of Dust and Sorrow,

A while Dare

The Name of Your Dilights and our Desires,

And fitt it to so farr inferior Lyres.

Our Murmurs have their Musick too,

Ye mighty Orbes, as well as you,

Nor yeilds the noblest

Of warbling Seraphim to the eares of Love,

A choicer Lesson then the joyfull

Of a poor panting Turtle-Dove.

And we, low Wormes have leave to

The Same bright Busynes (ye Third Heavens) with you.

Gentle Spirits, doe not complain.

We will have

To keep it fair,

And send it back to you again.

Come, lovely Name!

Appeare from forth the

Regions of peacefull Light,

Look from thine own Illustrious Home,

Fair King of Names, and come.

Leave All thy native Glories in their Georgeous Nest,

And give thy Self a while The gracious

Of humble Soules, that seek to

The hidden

Which man’s heart

When Thou art Master of the Mind.

Come, lovely Name; life of our hope!

Lo we hold our Hearts wide ope!

Unlock thy Cabinet of

Dearest Sweet, and come away.

Lo how the thirsty

Gasp for thy Golden Showres! with longstretch’t Hands.

Lo how the laboring

That hopes to

All Heaven by Thee,

Leapes at thy Birth.

The’ attending World, to wait thy Rise,

First turn’d to eyes;

And then, not knowing what to doe;

Turn’d Them to Teares, and spent Them too.

Come Royall Name, and pay the

Of all this Pretious Patience.

O come

And kill the Death of This Delay.

O see, so many Worlds of barren

Melted and measur’d out is Seas of Teares.

O see,

The Weary liddes of wakefull Hope(Love’s Eastern windowes) All wide

With Curtains drawn,

To catch The Day-break of Thy Dawn.

O dawn, at last, long look’t for Day!

Take thine own wings, and come away.

Lo, where Aloft it comes!

It comes,

The Conduct of Adoring Spirits, that

Like diligent Bees,

And swarm about it.

O they are wise;

And know what Sweetes are suck’t from out it.

It is the Hive,

By which they thrive,

Where All their Hoard of Hony lyes.

Lo where it comes, upon The snowy

Soft Back;

And brings a Bosom big with Loves.

Welcome to our dark world,

Womb of Day!

Unfold thy fair Conceptions;

And

The Birth of our Bright Ioyes.

O thou

Body of Blessings: spirit of Soules extracted!

O dissipate thy spicy Powres(Clowd of condensed sweets) and break upon

In balmy showrs;

O fill our senses,

And take from

All force of so Prophane a

To think ought sweet but that which smells of Thee.

Fair, flowry Name;

In none but

And Thy Nectareall Fragrancy,

Hourly there

An universall Synod of All sweets;

By whom it is defined

That no

For ever shall

To passe for Odoriferous,

But such alone whose sacred

Can prove it Self some kin (sweet name) to Thee.

Sweet Name, in Thy each SyllableA Thousand Blest Arabias dwell;

A Thousand Hills of Frankincense;

Mountains of myrrh, and Beds of species,

And ten Thousand Paradises,

The soul that tasts thee takes from thence.

How many unknown Worlds there

Of Comforts, which Thou hast in keeping!

How many Thousand Mercyes

In Pitty’s soft lap ly a sleeping!

Happy he who has the

To awake them,

And to take

Home, and lodge them in his Heart.

O that it were as it was wont to be!

When thy old Freinds of Fire,

All full of Thee,

Fought against Frowns with smiles; gave Glorious

To Persecutions;

And against the

Of Death and feircest Dangers, durst with

And sober pace march on to meet A Grave.

On their Bold Brests about the world they bore

And to the Teeth of Hell stood up to teach thee,

In Center of their inmost Soules they wore thee,

Where Rackes and Torments striv’d, in vain, to reach thee.

Little, alas, thought

Who tore the Fair Brests of thy Freinds,

Their Fury but made

For Thee;

And serv’d them in Thy glorious ends.

What did Their weapons but with wider

Inlarge thy flaming-brested

More freely to

That impatient

The Heart that hides Thee hardly covers.

What did their Weapons but sett wide the

For Thee:

Fair, purple Doores, of love’s devising;

The Ruby windowes which inrich’t the

Of Thy so oft repeated Rising.

Each wound of Theirs was Thy new Morning;

And reinthron’d thee in thy Rosy Nest,

With blush of thine own Blood thy day adorning,

It was the witt of love óreflowd the

Of Wrath, and made thee way through All Those wounds.

Wellcome dear,

All-Adored Name!

For sure there is no

That knowes not Thee.

Or if there be such sonns of shame,

Alas what will they

When stubborn Rocks shall

And Hills hang down their Heavn-saluting

To seek for humble

Of Dust, where in the Bashfull shades of

Next to their own low Nothing they may ly,

And couch before the dazeling light of thy dread majesty.

They that by Love’s mild Dictate

Will not adore thee,

Shall Then with Just Confusion,

And break before thee.

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Richard Crashaw

Richard Crashaw (c. 1613 – 21 August 1649) was an English poet, teacher, High Church Anglican cleric and Roman Catholic convert, who was among t…

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