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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ON A TREATISE OF CHARITY by RICHARD CRASHAW

Poet Analysis

First Line: RISE THEN, IMMORTALL MAID! RELIGION RISE
Last Line: TO BE A TRUE PROTESTANT, 'S BUT TO HATE THE POPE.
Rise then, immortall maid! Religion rise!
Put on thy selfe in thine own looks: t' our eyes
Be what thy beauties, not our blots, have made thee,
Such as (ere our dark sinnes to dust betrayd thee)
Heav'n set thee down new drest; when thy bright birth
Shot thee like lightning, to th'astonisht earth.
From th' dawn of thy faire eyelids wipe away
Dull mists and melancholy clouds: take day
And thine owne beams about thee: bring the best
Of whatsoe're perfum'd thy Eastern nest.
Girt all thy glories to thee: then sit down,
Open this booke, faire Queen, and take thy crown.
These learned leaves shall vindicate to thee
Thy holyest, humblest, handmaid Charitie.
She'l dresse thee like thy self, set thee on high
Where thou shalt reach all hearts, command each eye.
Lo where I see thy Altars wake, and rise
From the pale dust of that strange sacrifice
Which they themselves were; each one putting on
A majestie that may beseem thy throne.
The holy youth of heav'n, whose golden rings
Girt round thy awfull Altars, with bright wings
Fanning thy fair locks (which the world beleeves
As much as sees) shall with these sacred leaves
Trick their tall plumes, and in that garb shall go
If not more glorious, more conspicuous tho.
-- Be it enacted then
By the fair laws of thy firm-pointed pen,
Gods services no longer shall put on
A sluttishnesse, for pure religion:
No longer shall our Churches frighted stones
Lie scatter'd like the burnt and martyr'd bones
Of dead Devotion; nor faint marbles weep
In their sad ruines; nor Religion keep
A melancholy mansion in those cold
Urns. Like Gods Sanctuaries they lookt of old:
Now seem they Temples consecrate to none,
Or to a new God Desolation.
No more the hypocrite shall th'upright be
Because he's stiffe, and will confesse no knee:
While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou
(Disdainfull dust and ashes) bend thy brow;
Nor on Gods Altar cast two scorching eyes
Bak't in hot scorn, for a burnt sacrifice:
But (for a Lambe) thy tame and tender heart
New struck by love, still trembling on his dart;
Or (for two Turtle doves) it shall suffice
To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes.
This shall from hence-forth be the masculine theme
Pulpits and pennes shall sweat in; to redeem
Vertue to action, that life-feeding flame
That keeps Religion warme: not swell a name
Of faith, a mountaine word, made up of aire,
With those deare spoiles that wont to dresse the fair
And fruitfull Charities full breasts (of old)
Turning her out to tremble in the cold.
What can the poore hope from us, when we be
Uncharitable ev'n to Charitie?
Nor shall our zealous ones still have a fling
At that most horrible and horned thing,
Forsooth the Pope: by which black name they call
The Turk, the Devil, Furies, Hell and all,
And something more. O he is Antichrist:
Doubt this, and doubt (say they) that Christ is Christ.
Why, 'tis a point of Faith. What e're it be,
I'm sure it is no point of Charitie.
In summe, no longer shall our people hope,
To be a true Protestant, 's but to hate the Pope.



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