A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the…

Love, thou are 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 into 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,

And see him take a private seat,

Making his mansion in the mild

And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarce has she learn’d to lisp the 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 she’a heart dares hope to prove

How much less strong is death than love.

Be love but there, let poor six years

Be pos’d with the maturest fears

Man trembles at, you straight shall find

Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.

’Tis love, not years or limbs that can

Make the martyr, or the man.

Love touch’d her heart, and lo it beats

High, and burns with such brave heats,

Such thirsts to die, as dares drink up

A thousand cold deaths in one cup.

Good reason, for she breathes all fire;

Her weak breast heaves with strong desire

Of what she may with fruitless wishes

Seek for amongst her mother’s kisses.

Since ’tis not to be had at home,

She’ll travel to a martyrdom.

No home for hers confesses she

But where she may a martyr be.

She’ll to the Moors, and trade with them

For this unvalued diadem.

She’ll offer them her dearest breath,

With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death.

She’ll bargain with them, and will give

Them God; 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 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 come

T’ embrace a milder martyrdom.

Blest powers forbid thy tender life

Should bleed upon a barbarous knife;

Or some base hand have power to rase

Thy breast’s chaste cabinet, and uncase

A soul kept there so sweet; oh no,

Wise Heav’n will never have it so;

Thou art Love’s victim, and must die

A death more mystical and high;

Into Love’s arms thou shalt let fall

A still-surviving funeral.

He is the dart must make the death

Whose stroke shall taste thy hallow’d breath;

A dart thrice dipp’d in that rich flame

Which writes thy spouse’s radiant name

Upon the roof of heav’n, where aye

It shines, and with a sovereign ray

Beats bright upon the burning faces

Of souls, which in that name’s sweet graces

Find everlasting smiles. So rare,

So spiritual, pure, and fair

Must be th’ immortal instrument

Upon whose choice point shall be sent

A life so lov’d; and that there be

Fit executioners for thee,

The fair’st and first-born sons of fire,

Blest Seraphim, shall leave their quire

And turn Love’s soldiers, upon thee

To exercise their archery.

Oh, 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 forever so be slain,

And lives and dies, and knows not why

To live, but that he thus may never leave to 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 last 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 Heav’n at last

In a resolving sigh; and then,

O what? Ask not the tongues of men;

Angels cannot tell; suffice,

Thyself shall feel thine own full joys

And hold them fast forever. 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 reveal’d Life shall stand

And teach thy lips heav’n with his hand,

On which thou now mayst to thy wishes

Heap up thy consecrated kisses.

What joys shall seize thy soul when she,

Bending her blessed eyes on thee,

(Those second smiles of heav’n) 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 a constellation

Of 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,

All thy suff’rings be divine;

Tears shall take comfort and turn gems,

And wrongs repent to diadems.

Ev’n thy deaths shall live, and new

Dress the soul that erst they slew;

Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars

As keep account of the Lamb’s wars.

Those rare works where thou shalt leave writ

Love’s noble history, with wit

Taught thee by none but him, while here

They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.

Each heav’nly word by whose hid flame

Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same

Shall flourish on thy brows, 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 souls throng to be

Themselves thy crown; sons of thy vows,

The virgin-births with which thy sovereign spouse

Made fruitful thy fair soul, go now

And with them all about thee, bow

To him. “Put on,” he’ll say, “put on,

My rosy love, that thy rich zone

Sparkling with the sacred flames

Of thousand souls whose happy names

Heav’n keeps upon thy score. Thy bright

Life brought them first to kiss the light

That kindled them to stars.” And so

Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go,

And wheresoe’er he sets his white

Steps, walk with him those ways of light

Which who in death would live to see

Must learn in life to die like thee.