It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie

Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence,

As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foe to take your part,

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is the armory of light;

Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts

More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts.

Only be sure

The hands be pure

That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chaste and true,

Wakeful and wise,

Here is a friend shall fight for you. Hold but this book before your heart, Set

prayer alone to play his part.

But oh! the heart

That studies this high art

Must be a sure housekeeper,

And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring her bosom full of blessings

Flowers of never-fading graces,

To make immortal dressings,

For worthy souls whose wise embraces

Store up

The

themselves for Him who is alone

spouse of virgins, and the virgin's Son.

But if the noble Bridegroom, when he come,
Shall find the wandering heart from home,
Leaving her chaste abode

To gad abroad

Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies ;'
To take her pleasure and to play,

And keep the devil's holiday;

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling
But beguiling

Sphere of sweet and sugared lies;
Some slippery pair

Of false, perhaps as fair,
Flattering, but forswearing eyes;—
Doubtless some other heart
Will get the start,

And, slipping in before,

Will take possession of the sacred store

Of hidden sweets and holy joys

Words which are not heard with ears,

(These tumultuous shops of noise,)

Effectual whispers, whose still voice

The soul itself more feels than hears;

Amorous languishments, luminous trances,

Sights which are not seen with eyes,

Spiritual and soul-piercing glances,

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies

Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire,

And melts it down in sweet desire.

Yet doth not stay

To ask the window's leave to pass that way;
Delicious death, soft exhalations

Of soul, dear and divine annihilations;

A thousand unknown rites

Of joys and rarefied delights;

And many a mystic thing,

Which the divine embraces

Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring;

For which it is no shame

That dull morality must not know a name.

' Beelzebub.

Of all this hidden store

Of blessings, and ten thousand more,

If when He come,

He find the heart from home,

Doubtless he will unload

Himself some other where;

And pour abroad

His precious sweets

On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!
O! happy and thrice happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove,

Whoe'er she be,

Whose early love

With winged vows

Makes haste to meet her morning spouse,

And close with his immortal kisses!

Happy soul! who never misses

To improve that precious hour;

And every day

Seize her sweet prey,

All fresh and fragrant as he rises,

Dropping with a balmy shower,

A delicious dew of spices.

Oh! let that happy soul hold fast
Her heavenly armful she shall taste

At once ten thousand paradises:

She shall have power

To rifle and deflower

The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures
Of pure inebriating pleasures.

Happy soul! she shall discover

What joy, what bliss,

How many heavens at once it is

To have a God become her lover.

PATRICK CAREY.

BUT little is known of Carey, except that he was of the established church and a loyalist. His poems, some of which possess great merit, were first printed by Sir Walter Scott, from a MS. dated 1651.

CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS

PASSION.

LOOK, how He shakes for cold!
How pale his lips are grown!

Wherein his limbs to fold,

Yet mantle has He none.

His pretty feet and hands

(Of late more pure and white
Than is the snow

That pains them so)
Have lost their candor' quite.
His lips are blue,

(Where roses grew,)

He's frozen everywhere:

All the heat He has,
Joseph, alas!

Gives in a groan, or Mary in a tear.

Look! how He glows for heat!

What flames come from his eyes!

"Tis blood that He doth sweat,

Blood his bright forehead dyes.

See, see! it trickles down,

Look, how it showers amain!

Through every pore

His blood runs o'er,

And empty leaves each vein.

1 Whiteness.

His very heart

Burns in each part,

A fire his breast doth sear;

For all this flame

To cool the same,

He only breathes a sigh, and weeps a tear.

What bruises do I see!

What hideous stripes are those!

Could any cruel be

Enough to give such blows?

Look, how they bind his arms,
And vex his soul with scorns!
Upon his hair

They make Him wear
A crown of piercing thorns.
Through hands and feet,

Sharp nails they beat.

And now the cross they rear;

Mary looks on,

But only John

Stands by to sigh, Mary to shed a tear.

Why did He quake for cold?

Why did He glow for heat?

Dissolve that first He could,

He could call back that sweat. Those bruises, stripes, bonds, taunts, Those thorns which thou didst see, Those nails, that cross,

His own life's loss

Why, oh! why suffered He?

'Twas for thy sake:

Thou, thou didst make

Him all those torments bear:

If then his love

Do thy soul move,

Sigh out a groan, weep down a melting tear.