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OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH MYSTICAL VERSE

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The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse The Oxford Book Of English Mystical Verse Oxford University Press London Edinburgh Glasgow New York Toronto. The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse. Chosen by D. H. S. Nicholson and A. H. E. Lee. Comprising poems by authors, this unique anthology strings. The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse book. Read 2 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Recommended by Joel Goldsmith - an antholo.


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The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse [D.H.S. Nicholson, A.H.E. Lee] on ronaldweinland.info *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. There has always been a. The Oxford book of English mystical verse. Publication date []. Topics English poetry, Mysticism -- Great Britain, Mysticism in literature. PublisherOxford . The Oxford book of English mystical verse. byNicholson, D. H. S. (Daniel Howard Sinclair), ; Lee, A. H. E. (Arthur Hugh Evelyn).

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About D. Books by D. Tomb'd in my self: A drudge.: My self even to my self a slave.

Mystical verse english oxford book of

Thou Freedome, Life: Thy Freedom I: I tyed To loose thy bonds: My Yoke shall ease, my bonds shall free. Dead soul, thy Spring of life, my dying side: There dye with me to live: Behold I go, Where I do know Infinitie to dwell.

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Or else my Gaine, so ill improv'd, will shame My Trade, and shew how much declin'd I am ; Or else my Treasure will but blurre my name With Bankrupt, and divulge how poore I am ; Or else my Pleasures, that so much inflame My Thoughts, will blabb how full of sores I am: So I my best-beloved's am ; so he is mine.

Ev'n so we met ; and after long pursuit, Ev'n so we joyn'd ; we both became entire ; No need for either to renew a suit, For I was flax and he was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine ; So I my best-beloved's am ; so he is mine. If all those glitt'ring Monarchs that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball, Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world 's but theirs ; but my beloved 's mine.

Nay, more ; If the fair Thespian Ladies all Should heap together their diviner treasure: That treasure should be deem'd a price too small To download a minute's lease of half my pleasure ; 'Tis not the sacred wealth of all the nine Can download my heart from him, or his, from being mine. Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow My least desires unto the least remove ; He 's firmly mine by oath ; I his by vow ; He 's mine by faith ; and I am his by love ; He 's mine by water ; I am his by wine ; Thus I my best-beloved's am ; thus he is mine.

He gives me wealth ; I give him all my vows: I give him songs ; he gives me length of dayes ; With wreaths of grace he crowns my conqu'ring brows, And I his temples with a crown of Praise, Which he accepts as an everlasting signe, That I my best-beloved's am ; that he is mine. The sunne arising in the East, Though he give' light, and th' East perfume, If they should offer to contest With Thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this, Though many sunnes to shine endeavour? We count three hundred, but we misse: There is but one, and that one ever. Hadst Thou not had Thy part, Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart.

But since Thy breath gave me both life and shape, Thou know'st my tallies ; and when there 's assign'd So much breath to a sigh, what 's then behinde? Or if some yeares with it escape, The sigh then onely is A gale to bring me sooner to my blisse. Thy life on earth was grief, and Thou art still Constant unto it, making it to be A point of honour now to grieve in me, And in Thy members suffer ill.

They who lament one crosse, Thou dying dayly, praise Thee to Thy losse. What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, then is Man?

Reason and speech we onely bring ; Parrats may thank us, if they are not mute, They go upon the score. Man is all symmetric, Full of proportions, one limbe to another, And all to all the world besides ; Each part may call the farthest brother, For head with foot hath private amitie, And both with moons and tides. Nothing hath got so farre But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey ; His eyes dismount the highest starre ; He is in little all the sphere ; Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Find their acquaintance there.

For us the windes do blow, The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow ; Nothing we see but means our good, As our delight or as our treasure ; The whole is either our cupboard of food Or cabinet of pleasure.

The starres have us to bed, Night draws the curtain, which the sunne withdraws ; Musick and light attend our head, All things unto our flesh are kinde In their descent and being ; to our minde In their ascent and cause. Waters united are our navigation ; Distinguished, our habitation ; Below, our drink ; above, our meat ; Both are our cleanlinesse.

Hath one such beautie? Then how are all things neat! More servants wait on Man Than he'l take notice of: Oh mightie love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. Till then afford us so much wit, That, as the world serves us, we may serve Thee, And both Thy servants be.

But when all my cares and pains Cannot give the name of gains To Thy wretch so full of stains, What delight or hope remains? What the gains in having thee Do amount to, onely He Who for man was sold can see ; That transferr'd th' accounts to Me. Man But as I can see no merit Leading to this favour, So the way to fit me for it Is beyond my savour. As the reason, then, is Thine, So the way is none of mine: I disclaim the whole designe ; Sinne disclaims and I resigne.

Saviour That is all: Thou break'st my heart. Yet to be Thine doth me restore, So that again I now am mine, And with advantage mine the more, Since this being mine brings with it Thine.

And Thou with me dost Thee restore: If I without Thee would be mine, I neither should be mine nor Thine. And with advantage mine the more, Since Thou in death wast none of Thine, Yet then as mine didst me restore: O, be mine still ; still make me Thine ; Or rather make no Thine and Mine. So both should losers be. Not rudely, as a beast, To runne into an action ; But still to make Thee prepossest, And give it his perfection. A man that looks on glasse, On it may stay his eye ; Or if he pleaseth, through it passe, And then the heav'n espie.

All may of Thee partake: Nothing can be so mean Which with his tincture, 'for Thy sake,' Will not grow bright and clean.

This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold ; For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for lesse be told. My lines and life are free ; free as the rode, Loose as the winde, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me bloud, and not restore What I have lost with cordiall fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did drie it ; there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the yeare onely lost to me? Have I no bayes to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay?

Not so, my heart ; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy ears ; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load.

Let no malignant misty fume, Nor foggy vapour, once presume To interpose thy perfect sight This day, which makes us love thy light For ever better, that we could That blessed object once behold, Which is both the circumference, And center of all excellence: Draw neer then, and freely poure Forth all thy light into that houre, Which was crowned with his birth, And made heaven envy earth.

Let not his birth-day clouded be, By whom thou shinest, and we see. Hee'l be thy guest, because he may not be, Hee'l come into thy house? The Name of our New Peace ; our Good: Our Blisse: The Name of All our Lives and Loves. Hearken, And Help, ye holy Doves! Awake, My glory. One little World or two Alas will never doe. We must have store. Goe, Soul, out of thy Self, and seek for More.

Shall we dare This, my Soul? Come, nere to part, Nature and Art! Come ; and come strong, To the conspiracy of our Spatious song. Chear thee my Heart! Powres of my Soul, be Proud! We will have care To keep it fair, And send it back to you again. Come, lovely Name! Come, lovely Name ; life of our hope! Lo we hold our Hearts wide ope! Unlock thy Cabinet of Day Dearest Sweet, and come away. O come away And kill the Death of This Delay. O see, so many Worlds of barren yeares Melted and measur'd out in Seas of Teares.

O dawn, at last, long look't for Day! Take thine own wings, and come away. Lo, where Aloft it comes! O they are wise ; And know what Sweetes are suck't from out it. Welcome to our dark world, Thou Womb of Day! O dissipate thy spicy Powres Clowd of condensed sweets and break upon us In balmy showrs ; O fill our senses, And take from us All force of so Prophane a Fallacy To think ought sweet but that which smells of Thee. How many unknown Worlds there are Of Comforts, which Thou hast in keeping!

How many Thousand Mercyes there In Pitty's soft lap ly a sleeping! Happy he who has the art To awake them, And to take them Home, and lodge them in his Heart. O that it were as it was wont to be! On their Bold Brests about the world they bore thee 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.

What did their Weapons but sett wide the Doores For Thee: Wellcome dear, All-Adored Name! For sure there is no Knee That knowes not Thee. Who yet a child, out ran maturity, and durst plott a Martyrdome. To prove the word, Wee'l now appeal to none of all Those thy old Souldiers, Great and tall, Ripe Men of Martyrdom, that could reach down With strong armes, their triumphant crown ; Such as could with lusty breath Speak lowd into the face of death Their Great Lord's glorious name, to none Of those whose spatious Bosomes spread a throne For Love at larg to fill, spare blood and sweat ; And see him take a private seat, Making his mansion in the mild And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarse has she learn't to lisp the name Of Martyr ; yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with that breath Which spent can download so brave a death. Scarse has she Blood enough to make A guilty sword blush for her sake ; Yet has she'a Heart dares hope to prove How much lesse strong is Death then Love. Be love but there ; let poor six yeares Be pos'd with the maturest Feares Man trembles at, you straight shall find Love knowes no nonage, nor the Mind.

Love touch't her Heart, and lo it beates High, and burnes with such brave heates ; Such thirsts to dy, as dares drink up, A thousand cold deaths in one cup. Good reason. For she breathes All fire.

The Oxford book of English mystical verse

Her weake brest heaves with strong desire Of what she may with fruitles wishes Seek for amongst her Mother's kisses.

Since 'tis not to be had at home She'l travail to a Martyrdom. No home for hers confesses she But where she may a Martyr be.

Sh'el to the Moores ; And trade with them, For this unvalued Diadem. So shall she leave amongst them sown Her Lord's Blood ; or at lest her own. Farewel then, all the world! Teresa is no more for you.

Farewell, all pleasures, sports, and ioyes, Never till now esteemed toyes Farewell what ever deare may be, Mother's armes or Father's knee. Farewell house, and farewell home!

She's for the Moores, and Martyrdom. Sweet, not so fast! Blest powres forbid, Thy tender life Should bleed upon a barborous knife ; Or some base hand have power to race Thy Brest's chast cabinet, and uncase A soul kept there so sweet, 6 no ; Wise heavn will never have it so. Thou art love's victime ; and must dy A death more mysticall and high.

Into love's armes thou shalt let fall A still-surviving funerall. So rare, So spirituall, pure, and fair Must be th'immortall instrument Upon whose choice point shall be sent A life so lov'd ; And that there be Fitt executioners for Thee, The fair'st and first-born sons of fire Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire And turn love's souldiers, upon Thee To exercise their archerie. O how oft shalt thou complain Of a sweet and subtle Pain. Of intolerable loyes ; Of a Death, in which who dyes Loves his death, and dyes again.

And would for ever so be slain. And lives, and dyes ; and knowes not why To live, But that he thus may never leave to Dy. How kindly will thy gentle Heart Kisse the sweetly-killing Dart! And close in his embraces keep Those delicious Wounds, that weep Balsom to heal themselves with.

Thus When These thy Deaths, so numerous, Shall all at last dy into one, And melt thy Soul's sweet mansion ; Like a soft lump of incense, hasted By too hott a fire, and wasted Into perfuming clouds, so fast Shalt thou exhale to Heavn at last In a resolving Sigh, and then O what?

Ask not the Tongues of men. O what delight, when reveal'd Life shall stand And teach thy lipps heav'n with his hand ; On which thou now maist to thy wishes Heap up thy consecrated kisses. What ioyes shall seize thy soul, when she Bending her blessed eyes on thee Those second Smiles of Heav'n shall dart Her mild rayes through thy melting heart!

Angels, thy old freinds, there shall greet thee Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good Workes which went before And waited for thee, at the door, Shall own thee there ; and all in one Weave a constellation Of Crowns, with which the King thy spouse Shall build up thy triumphant browes.

All thy old woes shall now smile on thee And thy paines sitt bright upon thee, All thy Suffrings be divine. Teares shall take comfort, and turn gemms And Wrongs repent to Diademms. Ev'n thy Death shall live ; and new Dresse the soul that erst they slew. Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarres As keep account of the Lamb's warres. Each heavnly word by whose hid flame Our hard Hearts shall strike fire, the same Shall flourish on thy browes, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee ; Whose light shall live bright in thy Face By glory, in our hearts by grace.

Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd Soules throng to be Themselves thy crown. Sons of thy vowes The virgin-births with which thy soveraign spouse Made fruitfull thy fair soul, goe now And with them all about thee bow To Him, put on hee'l say put on My rosy love That thy rich zone Sparkling with the sacred flames Of thousand soules, whose happy names Heav'n keep upon thy score,.

Thy bright Life brought them first to kisse the light That kindled them to Starrs. That is a Seraphim, they say And this the great Teresia. Readers, be rul'd by me ; and make Here a well-plac't and wise mistake. You must transpose the picture quite, And spell it wrong to read it right ; Read Him for her, and her for him ; And call the Saint the Seraphim. Painter, what didst thou understand To put her dart into his hand!

See, even the yeares and size of him Showes this the mother Seraphim. This is the mistresse flame ; and duteous he Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see. O most poor-spirited of men! Why man, this speakes pure mortall frame ; And mockes with female Frost love's manly flame. One would suspect thou meant'st to print Some weak, inferiour, woman saint. Doe then as equall right requires, Since His the blushes be, and her's the fires, Resume and rectify thy rude design ; Undresse thy Seraphim into Mine.

Redeem this injury of thy art ; Give Him the vail, give her the dart. Give Him the vail ; that he may cover The Red cheeks of a rivall'd lover. Asham'd that our world, now, can show Nests of new Seraphims here below.

Give her the Dart for it is she Fair youth shootes both thy shaft and Thee Say, all ye wise and well-peirc't hearts That live and dy amidst her darts, What is't your tastfull spirits doe prove In that rare life of Her, and love?

Say and bear wittnes. Sends she not A Seraphim at every shott? What magazins of immortall Armes there shine! Heavn's great artillery in each love-spun line.

Give then the dart to her who gives the flame ; Give him the veil, who gives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate Of worst faults to be fortunate ; If all's prescription ; and proud wrong Hearkens not to an humble song ; For all the gallantry of him, Give me the suffring Seraphim. Leave her that ; and thou shalt leave her Not one loose shaft but love's whole quiver. For in love's feild was never found A nobler weapon then a Wound. Love's passives are his activ'st part.

The wounded is the wounding heart. O Heart! Live in these conquering leaves ; live all the same ; And walk through all tongues one triumphant Flame.

Live here, great Heart ; and love and dy and kill ; And bleed and wound ; and yeild and conquer still. Let this immortall life wherere it comes Walk in a crowd of loves and Martyrdomes.

Let mystick Deaths wait on't ; and wise soules be The love-slain wittnesses of this life of thee. O sweet incendiary! O thou undanted daughter of desires! By all of Him we have in Thee ; Leave nothing of my Self in me. Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may dy. Thy blessed eyes breed such desire, I dy in love's delicious Fire.

O love, I am thy Sacrifice. Be still triumphant, blessed eyes. Still shine on me, fair suns! Though still I dy, I live again ; Still longing so to be still slain, So gainfull is such losse of breath. I dy even in desire of death. Still live in me this loving strife Of living Death and dying Life.

For while thou sweetly slayest me Dead to my selfe, I live in Thee. It is, in one choise handfull, heavenn ; and all Heavn's Royall host ; incamp't thus small To prove that true schooles use to tell, Ten thousand Angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery Which here contracts itself, and comes to ly Close couch't in their white bosom: It is an armory of light Let constant use but keep it bright, You'l find it yeilds To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and sheilds Then sin hath snares, or Hell hath darts.

Dear soul, be strong. Mercy will come e're long And bring his bosom fraught with blessings, Flowers of never fading graces To make immortall dressings For worthy soules, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him, who is alone The Spouse of Virgins and the Virgin's son. Words which are not heard with Eares Those tumultuous shops of noise Effectuall wispers, whose still voice The soul it selfe more feeles then heares ; Amorous languishments ; luminous trances ; Sights which are not seen with eyes ; Spirituall and soul-peircing glances Whose pure and subtil lightning flyes Home to the heart, and setts the house on fire And melts it down in sweet desire Yet does not stay To ask the windows leave to passe that way ; Delicious Deaths ; soft exalations Of soul ; dear and divine annihilations ; A thousand unknown rites Of ioyes and rarefy'd delights ; A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mystick thing Which the divine embraces Of the deare spouse of spirits with them will bring For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name.

O fair, 6 fortunate! O riche, 6 dear! O happy and thrice happy she Selected dove Who ere she be, Whose early love With winged vowes Makes hast to meet her morning spouse And close with his immortall kisses. Happy indeed, who never misses To improve that pretious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey All fresh and fragrant as he rises Dropping with a baulmy Showr A delicious dew of spices ; O let the blissfull heart hold fast Her heavnly arm-full, she shall tast At once ten thousand paradises ; She shall have power To rifle and deflour The rich and roseall spring of those rare sweets Which with a swelling bosome there she meets Boundles and infinite Bottomles treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures Happy proof!

And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flow'r does slight, Scarce touching where it lyes, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphear. Restless it roules, and unsecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure ; Till the warm sun pitty its pain And to the skies exhale it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the humane flow'r be seen Rememb'ring still its former height, Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own light, Does in its pure and circling thoughts express The greater heaven in an heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away ; So the world-excluding round Yet receiving in the day.

How loose and easie hence to go ; How girt and ready to ascend ; Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew destil, White and intire, though congeal'd and chill ; Congeal'd on Earth ; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th' almighty sun. The Coronet WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour's head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong ; Through every garden, every mead, I gather flow'rs my fruits are only flow'rs , Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorn'd my shepherdesse's head: And now, when I have summ'd up all my store, Thinking so I my self deceive So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore, Alas!

I find the Serpent old, That, twining in his speckled breast About the flowers disguis'd, does fold, With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that would'st debase with them And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem! The skinne, and shell of things Though faire, are not Thy wish, nor pray'r, but got By meer Despair of wings.

To rack old Elements, or Dust and say Sure here he must needs stay, Is not the way, nor just. Search well another world ; who studies this, Travels in Clouds, seeks Manna, where none is. O how I long to travell back And tread again that ancient track!

Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move, And when this dust falls to the urn In that state I came return. Infinite sweetnes! O let me climbe When I lye down! The Pious soul by night Is like a clouded starre, whose beames though sed To shed their light Under some Cloud Yet are above, And shine, and move Beyond that mistie shrowd. So in my Bed That Curtain'd grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide My lamp, and life, both shall in thee abide.

Give him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep. Walk with thy fellow-creatures: O leave thy Cares, and follies!

Spend not an hour so, as to weep another, For tears are not thine own ; If thou giv'st words Dash not thy friend, nor Heaven ; O smother A vip'rous thought ; some Syllables are Swords. Unbitted tongues are in their penance double, They shame their owners, and the hearers trouble. The darksome States-man hung with weights and woe Like a thick midnight-fog mov'd there so slow He did nor stay, nor go ; Condemning thoughts like sad Ecclipses scowl Upon his soul, And Clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout.

Yet dig'd the Mole, and lest his ways be found Workt under ground, Where he did Clutch his prey, but one did see That policie, Churches and altars fed him, Perjuries Were gnats and flies, It rain'd about him bloud and tears, but he Drank them as free.

The fearfull miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one peece above, but lives In feare of theeves. Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the Ring, But most would use no wing.

O fools said I, thus to prefer dark night Before true light, To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day Because it shews the way, The way which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God, A way where you might tread the Sun, and be More bright than he. But as I did their madnes so discusse One whisper'd thus, This Ring the Bride-groome did for none provide But for his bride. Gods Virgin Spouse The glad worlds blessed maid!

Whose beauty tyed life to thy house, And brought us saving ayd. For Coalescent by that Band We are his body grown, Nourished with favors from his hand Whom for our head we own. And such a Knot, what arm dares loose, What life, what death can sever r Which us in him, and him in us United keeps for ever.

The Dwelling-place WHAT happy, secret fountain, Fair shade, or mountain, Whose undiscover'd virgin glory Boasts it this day, though not in story, Was then thy dwelling? My dear, dear God! I do not know What lodgd thee then, nor where, nor how ; But I am sure, thou dost now come Oft to a narrow, homely room, Where thou too hast but the least part, My God, I mean my sinful heart.

Thou foul deception of all men That would not have the true come on. Thou art a Moon-like toil ; a blinde Self-posing state ; A dark contest of waves and winde ; A meer tempestuous debate. Life is a fix'd, discerning light, A knowing -Joy ; No. How bright are all things here! When first among His works I did appear O how their glory me did crown! The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air, Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair!

The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem. A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all his Glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all Spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine ; I nothing in the world did know But 'twas divine. The state of Innocence And bliss, not trades and poverties, Did fill my sense. The streets were paved with golden stones, The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine!

Rich diamond and pearl and gold In every place was seen ; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great wonders clothed with glory did appear, Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was everywhere ; No joy to this! Cursed and devised proprieties, With envy, avarice And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise, Flew from the splendour of mine eyes, And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, I dreamed not aught of those, But wandered over all men's grounds, And found repose.

Proprieties themselves were mine, And hedges ornaments ; Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents Did not divide my joys, but all combine. Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed My joys by others worn: For me they all to wear them seemed When I was born.

The sight Is deep and infinite, Ah me! Even trades themselves seen in celestial light, And cares and sins and woes are bright. Order the beauty even of beauty is, It is the rule of bliss, The very life and form and cause of pleasure ; Which if we do not understand, Ten thousand heaps of vain confused treasure Will but oppress the land. In blessedness itself we that shall miss, Being blind, which is the cause of bliss.

First then behold the world as thine, and well Note that where thou dost dwell. See all the beauty of the spacious case, Lift up thy pleas'd and ravisht eyes, Admire the glory of the Heavenly place And all its blessings prize.

That sight well seen thy spirit shall prepare, The first makes all the other rare. Men's woes shall be but foils unto thy bliss, Thou once enjoying this: Their faults shall keep thee right: All shall be thine, because they all conspire To feed and make thy glory higher.

To see a glorious fountain and an end, To see all creatures tend To thy advancements, and so sweetly close In thy repose: To see all these unite at once in thee Is to behold felicity. To see the fountain is a blessed thing, It is to see the King Of Glory face to face: For in the end the fountain best is shown, As by effects the cause is known.

From one, to one, in one to see all things, To see the King of Kings But once in two ; to see His endless treasures Made all mine own, myself the end Of all his labours! To see myself His friend! Who all things finds conjoined in Him alone, Sees and enjoys the Holy One. O Heavenly Joy! O great and sacred blessedness Which I possess!

So great a joy Who did into my arms convey? From God above Being sent, the Heavens me enflame: To praise his Name The stars do move! The burning sun doth shew His love. O how divine Am I! To all this sacred wealth, This life and health, Who raised?

Who mine Did make the same? What hand divine? Dumbness SURE Man was born to meditate on things, And to contemplate the eternal springs Of God and Nature, glory, bliss, and pleasure ; That life and love might be his Heavenly treasure ; And therefore speechless made at first, that He Might in himself profoundly busied be: Wise Nature made him deaf, too, that He might Not be disturbed, while he doth take delight In inward things, nor be depraved with tongues, Nor injured by the errors and the wrongs That mortal words convey.

For sin and death Are most infused by accursed breath, That flowing from corrupted entrails, bear Those hidden plagues which souls may justly fear. My non-intelligence of human words Ten thousand pleasures unto me affords ; For while I knew not what they to me said, Before their souls were into mine conveyed, Before that living vehicle of wind Could breathe into me their infected mind, Before my thoughts were leavened with theirs, before There any mixture was ; the Holy Door, Or gate of souls was close, and mine being one Within itself to me alone was known.

Then did I dwell within a world of light, Distinct and separate from all men's sight, Where I did feel strange thoughts, and such things see That were, or seemed, only revealed to me, There I saw all the world enjoyed by one ; There I was in the world myself alone ; No business serious seemed but one ; no work But one was found ; and that did in me lurk. D'ye ask me what? And to admire The satisfaction of all true desire: To reign in silence, and to sing alone, To see, love, covet, have, enjoy and praise, in one ; To prize and to be ravished ; to be true, Sincere and single in a blessed view Of all His gifts.

Thus was I pent within A fort, impregnable to any sin: Until the avenues being open laid Whole legions entered, and the forts betrayed: Before which time a pulpit in my mind, A temple and a teacher I did find, With a large text to comment on. No ear But eyes themselves were all the hearers there, And every stone, and every star a tongue, And every gale of wind a curious song. The Heavens were an oracle, and spake Divinity: Mine ears let other noises in, not theirs, A noise disturbing all my songs and prayers.

My foes pulled down the temple to the ground ; They my adoring soul did deeply wound And casting that into a swoon, destroyed The Oracle, and all I there enjoyed: Yet the first words mine infancy did hear, The things which in my dumbness did appear, Preventing all the rest, got such a root Within my heart, and stick so close unto 't, It may be trampled on, but still will grow And nutriment to soil itself will owe.

The first Impressions are Immortal all, And let mine enemies hoop, cry, roar, or call, Yet these will whisper if I will but hear, And penetrate the heart, if not the ear.

I felt no dross nor matter in my soul, No brims nor borders, such as in a bowl We see. My essence was capacity, That felt all things ; The thought that springs Therefrom 's itself. It hath no other wings To spread abroad, nor eyes to see, Nor hands distinct to feel, Nor knees to kneel ; But being simple like the Deity In its own centre is a sphere Not shut up here, but everywhere.

It doth not by another engine work, But by itself ; which in the act doth lurk. Its essence is transformed into a true And perfect act. And so exact Hath God appeared in this mysterious fact, That 'tis all eye, all act, all sight, And what it please can be, Not only see, Or do ; for 'tis more voluble than light, Which can put on ten thousand forms, Being cloth'd with what itself adorns. This made me present evermore With whatsoe'er I saw.

An object, if it were before My eye, was by Dame Nature's law, Within my soul. Her store Was all at once within me ; all Her treasures Were my immediate and internal pleasures, Substantial joys, which did inform my mind.

With all she wrought My soul was fraught, And every object in my heart a thought Begot, or was ; I could not tell, Whether the things did there Themselves appear, Which in my Spirit truly seem'd to dwell ; Or whether my conforming mind Were not even all that therein shin'd. It was so quick and pure, That all my mind was wholly everywhere, Whate'er it saw, 'twas ever wholly there ; The sun ten thousand legions off, was nigh: The utmost star, Though seen from far, Was present in the apple of my eye.

There was my sight, my life, my sense, My substance, and my mind ; My spirit shin'd Even there, not by a transient influence: The act was immanent, yet there: The thing remote, yet felt even here. O Joy!

O wonder and delight! O sacred mystery! My Soul a Spirit infinite! An image of the Deity! A pure substantial light! That Being greatest which doth nothing seem! Why, 'twas my all, I nothing did esteem But that alone. A strange mysterious sphere! A deep abyss That sees and is The only proper place of Heavenly Bliss.

To its Creator 'tis so near In love and excellence, In life and sense, In greatness, worth, and nature ; and so dear, In it, without hyperbole, The Son and friend of God we see. O wondrous Self! O sphere of light, O sphere of joy most fair O act, O power infinite ; O subtile and unbounded air! O living orb of sight! Thou which within me art, yet me! Thou eye, And temple of His whole infinity! O what a world art Thou!

The Oxford book of English mystical verse /

A world within! All things appear, All objects are Alive in Thee! Supersubstantial, rare, Above themselves, and nigh of kin To those pure things we find In His great mind Who made the world! Tho' now eclipsed by sin There they are useful and divine, Exalted there they ought to shine. But that they all more rich should be, And far more brightly shine, As used by me ; It ravishes my soul to see the end, To which this work so wonderful doth tend.

That we should make the skies More glorious far before Thine eyes Than Thou didst make them, and even Thee Far more Thy works to prize, As used they be Than as they're made, is a stupendous work, Wherein Thy wisdom mightily doth lurk. Thy greatness, and Thy love, Thy power, in this, my joy doth move ; Thy goodness, and felicity In this exprest above.

All praise I see: While Thy great Godhead over all doth reign, And such an end in such a sort attain. What bound may we assign, O God, to any work of Thine! Their endlessness discovers Thee In all to be divine ; A Deity, That will for evermore exceed the end Of all that creature's wit can comprehend. Are men made Gods? And may they see So wonderful a thing As God in me?

And is my soul a mirror that must shine Even like the sun and be far more divine? O how doth Sacred Love His gifts refine, exalt, improve! Our love to creatures makes them be In Thine esteem above Themselves to Thee! O here His goodness evermore admire! He made our souls to make His creatures higher. Then may He benefit receive from things, And be not Parent only of all springs. Such sands, such dangerous rocks we must beware: From all Eternity A perfect Deity Most great and blessed He doth still appear ; His essence perfect was in all its features, He ever blessed in His joys and creatures.

From everlasting He those joys did need, And all those joys proceed From Him eternally. From everlasting His felicity Complete and perfect was, Whose bosom is the glass, Wherein we all things everlasting see. His name is Now, His Nature is For-ever: None can His creatures from their Maker sever.

The End in Him from everlasting is The fountain of all bliss: From everlasting it Efficient was, and influence did emit, That caused all. Before The world, we do adore This glorious End. Because all benefit From it proceeds: The End complete, the means must needs be so, By which we plainly know, From all Eternity The means whereby God is, must perfect be. God is Himself the means Whereby He doth exist: They are His joys before the Cherubim.

His wants appreciate all, And being infinite, Permit no being to be mean or small That He enjoys, or is before His sight. His satisfactions do His wants delight. Wants are the fountains of Felicity ; No joy could ever be Were there no want. No bliss, No sweetness perfect, were it not for this. Want is the greatest pleasure Because it makes all treasure.

O what a wonderful profound abyss Is God! In whom eternal wants and treasures Are more delightful since they both are pleasures. And all thqse wanted pleasures He infinitely hath. What endless measures, What heights and depths may we In His felicity Conceive! Whose very wants are endless pleasures. His life in wants and joys is infinite, And both are felt as His Supreme Delight. He 's not like us ; possession doth not cloy, Nor sense of want destroy ; Both always are together ; No force can either from the other sever.

Yet there 's a space between That 's endless. Both are seen Distinctly still, and both are seen for ever. As soon as e'er He wanteth all His bliss, His bliss, tho' everlasting, in Him is. His Essence is all Act: He did that He All Act might always be.

His nature burns like fire ; His goodness infinitely does desire To be by all possesst ; His love makes others blest. It is the glory of His high estate, And that which I for evermore admire, He is an Act that doth communicate. From all to all Eternity He is That Act: He is the means of them, they not of Him. O delicious stream!

O ravishing and only pleasure! Where Shall such another theme Inspire my tongue with joys or please mine ear!

Book mystical verse of english oxford

Abridgement of delights! And Queen of sights! O mine of rarities! O Kingdom wide! O more! O cause of all! O glorious Bride! O Bride of God! O King! O soul and crown of everything! Did not I covet to behold Some endless monarch, that did always live In palaces of gold, Willing all kingdoms, realms, and crowns to give Unto my soul!

Lo, now I see there 's such a King, The fountain-head of everything!

Book english mystical of verse oxford

Did my ambition ever dream Of such a Lord, of such a love! Did I Expect so sweet a stream As this at any time! Could any eye Believe it?

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Why all power Is used here ; Joys down from Heaven on my head do shower, And Jove beyond the fiction doth appear Once more in golden rain to come To Danae's pleasing fruitful womb. His Ganymede! His life! His joy! Or He comes down to me, or takes me up That I might be His boy, And fill, and taste, and give, and drink the cup.

But those tho' great are all Too short and small, Too weak and feeble pictures to express The true mysterious depths of Blessedness. I am His image, and His friend, His son, bride, glory, temple, end. An Hymn upon St. What active Angel doth inhabit here! What heavenly light inspires my skin, Which doth so like a Deity appear!

All Kingdoms I descry In me. An inward Omnipresence here Mysteriously like His within me stands, Whose knowledge is a Sacred Sphere That in itself at once includes all lands. There is some Angel that within me can Both talk and move, And walk and fly and see and love, A man on earth, a man Above. Dull walls of clay my Spirit leaves, And in a foreign Kingdom doth appear, This great Apostle it receives, Admires His works and sees them, standing here. O live within and leave unwieldy dross!

Flesh is but clay! My God, the mark of my desires, And hides his lovely face ; When he descends within my view, He charms my reason to pursue, But leaves it tir'd and fainting in th j unequal chase.

Or if I reach unusual height Till near his presence brought, There floods of glory check my flight, Cramp the bold pinions of my wit, And all untune my thought ; Plunged in a sea of light I roll, Where wisdom, justice, mercy, shines ; Infinite rays in crossing lines Beat thick confusion oil my sight, and overwhelm my soul. Great God! Faith shall direct her humble flight, Through all the trackless seas of light, To Thee, th' Eternal Fair, the infinite Unknown. To him no high, no low, no great, no small He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

All nature is but art, unknown to thee: All chance, direction, which thou canst not see: All discord, harmony not understood ; All partial evil, universal good. Now, when this Change is to be undergone, It looks for some own Pow'r, and, finding none, Begins to doubt of Grace, unwilling quite To yield up its self-willing Nature's Right. It never quakes for Fear, and will not die In Light Divine, tho' to be blest thereby: The Light of -Grace it thinks to be Deceit, Because it worketh gently without Heat ; Mov'd too by outward Reason, which is blind, And of itself sees nothing of this Kind.

Who knows, it thinketh, whether it be true That God is in thee, and enlightens too? Is it not Fancy? Nature is but a name for an effect, Whose cause is God. Him blind antiquity profan'd, not serv'd, With self-taught rites, and under various names, Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, And Flora, and Vertumnus ; peopling earth With tutelary goddesses and gods That were not ; and commending, as they would, To each some province, garden, field, or grove.

But all are under one. One spirit His Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows Rules universal nature. Not a flow'r But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth. Happy who walks with him! The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright ; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are cover'd warm ; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep ; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep.

And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold, And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying: And, by His health, sickness Is driven away From our immortal day. For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold. When wilt thou return again? Their marble tombs I built with tears ; And with cold and shuddering fears. When wilt thou return and live?

When wilt thou pity as I forgive? Hast thou no sins of thy own? O'er my sins thou sit and weep, And lull thy own sins fast asleep. They thy harlots, thou their slave ; And my bed becomes their grave. Still for victory I burn. Living, thee alone I'll have ; And when dead I'll be thy grave. I will fly and thou pursue: Night and morn the flight renew. As our dear Redeemer said: Thine has a great hook nose like thine ; Mine has a snub nose like to mine. Thine is the Friend of all Mankind ; Mine speaks in parables to the blind.

Thine loves the same world that mine hates ; Thy heaven doors are my hell gates. Socrates taught what Meletus Loath'd as a nation's bitterest curse, And Caiaphas was in his own mind A benefactor to mankind. Both read the Bible day and night, But thou read'st black where I read white.

Was Jesus gentle, or did He Give any marks of gentility? When twelve years old He ran away, And left His parents in dismay. When after three days' sorrow found, Loud as Sinai's trumpet-sound: Ye understand not what I say, And, angry, force Me to obey. Obedience is a duty then, And favour gains with God and men. John for disobedience bled, But you can turn the stones to bread. God's high king and God's high priest Shall plant their glories in your breast, If Caiaphas you will obey, If Herod you with bloody prey Feed with the sacrifice, and be Obedient, fall down, worship me.

Ye smiters with disease, make way. I come your King and God to seize, Is God a smiter with disease? Throughout the land He took His course, And trac'd diseases to their source. He curs'd the Scribe and Pharisee, Trampling down hypocrisy. Was Jesus humble? Boast of high things with humble tone, And give with charity a stone? When but a child He ran away, And left His parents in dismay.

When they had wander'd three days long These were the words upon His tongue: I am doing My Father's business. He says with most consummate art ' Follow Me, I am meek and lowly of heart, As that is the only way to escape The miser's net and the glutton's trap. He who loves his enemies betrays his friends. This surely is not what Jesus intends ; But the sneaking pride of heroic schools, And the Scribes' and Pharisees' virtuous rules ; For He acts with honest, triumphant pride, And this is the cause that Jesus died.

He did not die with Christian ease, Asking pardon of His enemies: If He had, Caiaphas would forgive ; Sneaking submission can always live. Priestly and Bacon and Newton Poor spiritual knowledge is not worth a button! For thus the Gospel Sir Isaac confutes: What was He doing all that time, From twelve years old to manly prime? Was He then, idle, or the less About His Father's business? God wants not man to humble himself: That is the trick of the Ancient Elf.

This is the race that Jesus ran: Thou also dwell'st in Eternity. Thou art a Man: God is no more: Thy own Humanity learn to adore, For that is My spirit of life. Awake, arise to spiritual strife, And Thy revenge abroad display In terrors at the last Judgement Day. God's mercy and long suffering Is but the sinner to judgement to bring. Thou on the Cross for them shalt pray And take revenge at the Last Day.