THE WEEPER. By Richard Crashaw [In the edition of 1670, the volume by Mr. Phillips in    1785, in Chalmers' collection, and others, the previous    Poem is printed with numerous alterations and    omission, in manner following.] AIL sister springs,   Parents of silver-forded rills !         Ever bubbling things !   Thawing crystal !  Snowy hills ! Still spending, never spent ;  I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.             Heavens thy fair eyes be ;         Heavens of ever-falling stars ;             'Tis seed-time still with thee,         And stars thou sow'st, whose harvest dares Promise the earth to countershine Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.             But we're deceived all :         Stars they're indeed too true,             For they but seem to fall         As Heaven's other spangles do : It is not for our earth and us, To shine in things so precious.             Upwards thou dost weep ;         Heaven's bosom drinks the gentle stream.             Where the milky rivers meet,         Thine crawls above and is the cream. Heaven, of such fair floods as this, Heaven the crystal ocean is.             Every morn from hence,         A brisk cherub something sips,             Whose soft influence         Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips ; Then to his music : and his song Tastes of this breakfast all day long,             When some new bright guest         Takes up among the stars a room,             And Heaven will make a feast,         Angels with their bottles come ; And draw from these full eyes of thine Their Master's water, their own wine.             The dew no more will weep,         The primrose's pale cheek to deck ;             The dew no more will sleep,         Nuzzled in the lily's neck. Much rather would it tremble here, And leave them both to be thy tear.             Not the soft gold which         Steals from the amber-weeping tree,             Makes sorrow half so rich,         As the drops distill'd from thee. Sorrow's best jewels lie in these Caskets of which Heaven keeps the keys.             When Sorrow would be seen         In her brightest majesty,             For she is a queen,         Then is she drest by none but thee. Then, and only then, she wears Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears.             Not in the evening's eyes,         When they red with weeping are             For the Sun that dies,         Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. Nowhere but here did ever meet Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.             Sadness, all the while         She sits in such a throne as this,             Can do nought but smile,         Nor believe she sadness is : Gladness itself would be more glad To be made so sweetly sad.             There is no need at all,         That the balsam-sweating bough             So coyly should let fall         His med'cinable tears ; for now Nature hath learn'd t'extract a dew More sovereign and sweet from you.             Yet let the poor drops weep,         Weeping is the case of woe ;             Softly let them creep,         Sad that they are vanquish'd so ; They, though to others no relief, May balsam be for their own grief.             Golden though he be,         Golden Tagus murmurs ; though             Might he flow from thee,         Content and quiet he would go ; Richer far does he esteem Thy silver, than his golden stream.             Well does the May that lies         Smiling in thy cheecks, confess             The April in thine eyes ;         Mutual sweetness they express. No April e'er lent softer showers, Nor May returnèd fairer flowers.             Thus dost thou melt the year         Into a weeping motion ;             Each minute waiteth here,         Takes his tear and gets him gone ; By thine eye's tinct ennobled thus, Time lays him up ; he's precious.             Time, as by thee he passes,         Makes thy ever-watery eyes             His hour-glasses ;         By them his steps he rectifies. The sands he used no longer please, For his own sands he'll use thy seas.             Does thy song lull the air ?         Thy tear's just cadence still keeps time.             Does thy sweet-breath'd prayer         Up in clouds of incense climb ? Still at each sigh, that is, each stop, A bead, that is, a tear, doth drop.             Does the night arise?         Still thy tears do fall, and fall.             Does night lose her eyes ?         Still the fountain weeps for all. Let night or day do what they will, Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.             Not, so long she lived,         Will thy tomb report of thee ;             But, so long she grieved,         Thus must we date thy memory. Others by days, by months, by years, Measure their ages, thou by tears.             Say, watery brothers,         Ye simpering sons of those fair eyes             Your fertile mothers,         What hath our world that can entice You to be born ? what is't can borrow You from her eyes swoll'n wombs of sorrow ?             Whither away so fast ?         O wither ? for the sluttish earth             Your sweetness cannot taste,         Nor does the dust deserve your birth. Whither haste ye then ? O, say Why ye trip so fast away ?             We go not to seek         The darlings of Aurora's bed,             The rose's modest cheek,         Nor the violet's humble head. No such thing ; we go to meet A worthier object, our Lord's feet. Source: Turnbull, William B., Ed. The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw. London: John Russell Smith, 1858. 8-13. to Richard Crashaw Site copyright ©1996-2000 Anniina Jokinen. All Rights Reserved. Created by Anniina Jokinen on August 4, 2000. Background ©1997-1999 Greg Schorno. All Rights Reserved. Used with express written permission.