A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa
LOVE, thou are absolute, sole LordOf life and death. To prove the word,We'll now appeal to none of allThose thy old soldiers, great and tall,Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach downWith strong arms their triumphant crown:Such as could with lusty breathSpeak loud, unto the face of death,Their great Lord's glorious name; to noneOf those whose spacious bosoms spread a throneFor love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:We'll see Him take a private seat,And make His mansion in the mildAnd milky soul of a soft child.Scarce has she learnt to lisp a nameOf martyr, yet she thinks it shameLife should so long play with that breathWhich spent can buy so brave a death.She never undertook to knowWhat death with love should have to do.Nor has she e'er yet understoodWhy, to show love, she should shed blood;Yet, though she cannot tell you why,She can love, and she can die.Scarce has she blood enough to makeA guilty sword blush for her sake;Yet has a heart dares hope to proveHow much less strong is death than love....
Since 'tis not to be had at home,She'll travel for a martyrdom.No home for her, confesses she,But where she may a martyr be.She'll to the Moors, and trade with themFor this unvalued diadem;She offers them her dearest breath,With Christ's name in 't, in charge for death:She'll bargain with them, and will giveThem God, and teach them how to liveIn Him; or, if they this deny,For Him she'll teach them how to die.So shall she leave amongst them sownHer Lord's blood, or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world, adieu!Teresa is no more for you.Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,Never till now esteemed toys!
Farewell whatever dear may be--Mother's arms, or father's knee!Farewell house, and farewell home!She 's for the Moors and Martyrdom.
Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse,Whom thou seek'st with so swift vows,Calls thee back, and bids thee comeT' embrace a milder martyrdom....
O how oft shalt thou complainOf a sweet and subtle pain!Of intolerable joys!Of a death, in which who diesLoves his death, and dies again,And would for ever so be slain;And lives and dies, and knows not whyTo live, but that he still may die!How kindly will thy gentle heartKiss the sweetly-killing dart!And close in his embraces keepThose delicious wounds, that weepBalsam, to heal themselves with thus,When these thy deaths, so numerous,Shall all at once die into one,And melt thy soul's sweet mansion;Like a soft lump of incense, hastedBy too hot a fire, and wastedInto perfuming clouds, so fastShalt thou exhale to heaven at lastIn a resolving sigh, and then,--O what? Ask not the tongues of men.
Angels cannot tell; suffice,Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys,And hold them fast for ever there.So soon as thou shalt first appear,The moon of maiden stars, thy whiteMistress, attended by such brightSouls as thy shining self, shall come,And in her first ranks make thee room;Where, 'mongst her snowy family,Immortal welcomes wait for thee.O what delight, when she shall standAnd teach thy lips heaven, with her hand,On which thou now may'st to thy wishesHeap up thy consecrated kisses!What joy shall seize thy soul, when she,Bending her blessed eyes on thee,Those second smiles of heaven, shall dartHer mild rays through thy melting heart!
Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee,Glad at their own home now to meet thee.All thy good works which went before,And waited for thee at the door,Shall own thee there; and all in oneWeave a constellationOf crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,Shall build up thy triumphant brows.All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,And thy pains sit bright upon thee:All thy sorrows here shall shine,And thy sufferings be divine.Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,And wrongs repent to diadems.Even thy deaths shall live, and newDress the soul which late they slew.Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scarsAs keep account of the Lamb's wars.
Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writLove's noble history, with witTaught thee by none but Him, while hereThey feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.Each heavenly word by whose hid flameOur hard hearts shall strike fire, the sameShall flourish on thy brows, and beBoth fire to us and flame to thee;Whose light shall live bright in thy faceBy glory, in our hearts by grace.Thou shalt look round about, and seeThousands of crown'd souls throng to beThemselves thy crown, sons of thy vows,The virgin-births with which thy spouseMade fruitful thy fair soul; go now,And with them all about thee bowTo Him; put on, He'll say, put on,My rosy Love, that thy rich zone,Sparkling with the sacred flamesOf thousand souls, whose happy namesHeaven keeps upon thy score: thy brightLife brought them first to kiss the lightThat kindled them to stars; and soThou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.And, wheresoe'er He sets His whiteSteps, walk with Him those ways of light,Which who in death would live to see,Must learn in life to die like thee.
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