Whither away so fast
For sure the sordid earth
Your sweetness cannot taste,
Nor does the
dust deserve your birth.
Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,
Why you 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.
LOVE, thou art absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,
We’ll now appeal
to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
With
strong arms their triumphant crown:
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud, unto the face of death,
Their
great Lord’s glorious name; to none
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For love at large
to fill. Spare blood and sweat:
We’ll see Him take a private seat,
And make His mansion in the mild
And
milky soul of a soft child.
Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long
play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know
What death
with love should have to do.
Nor has she e’er yet understood
Why, 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 make
A
guilty sword blush for her sake;
Yet has a heart dares hope to prove
How 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 them
For this unvalued diadem;
She
offers them her dearest breath,
With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death:
She’ll bargain with them,
and will give
Them God, and teach them how to live
In Him; or, if they this deny,
For Him she’ll teach them
how to die.
So shall she leave amongst them sown
Her 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 esteemàed 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 come
T’ embrace a milder martyrdom...
O how oft shalt thou complain
Of a sweet and subtle pain!
Of intolerable joys!
Of a death, in
which who dies
Loves his death, and dies again,
And would for ever so be slain;
And lives and dies, and
knows not why
To live, but that he still may die!
How kindly will thy gentle heart
Kiss the sweetly-killing
dart!
And close in his embraces keep
Those delicious wounds, that weep
Balsam, 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, hasted
By too hot a fire, and wasted
Into perfuming clouds, so fast
Shalt thou exhale to heaven
at last
In 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 white
Mistress, attended by such
bright
Souls 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 stand
And teach thy lips
heaven, with her hand,
On which thou now may’st to thy wishes
Heap up thy consecrated kisses!
What joy
shall seize thy soul, when she,
Bending her blessàed eyes on thee,
Those second smiles of heaven, shall
dart
Her 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 one
Weave
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