Dear, beauteous Saint! more white than day, When in his naked, pure array, Fresher than morning-flowers which shew As thou in tears dost, best in dew. How art thou changed! how lively-fair, Pleasing and innocent an air, Not tutored by thy glass, but free, Native and pure shines now in thee! But since thy beauty doth still keep Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep? This dusky state of sighs and tears Durst not look on those smiling years, When Magdal-castle was thy seat, Where all was sumptuous, rare and neat. Why lies this @3hair@1 despised now Which once thy care and art did show? Who then did dress the much loved toy, In @3spires, globes@1, angry @3curls@1 and coy, Which with skilled negligence seemed shed About thy curious, wild, young head? Why is this rich, this pistic nard Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? What pretty sullenness did haste Thy easy hands to do this waste? Why art thou humbled thus, and low As earth, thy lovely head dost bow? Dear @3soul@1! thou knew'st, flowers here on earth At their Lord's foot-stool have their birth; Therefore thy withered self in haste Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast, That at the root of this green tree Thy great decays restored might be. Thy curious vanities and rare; Odorous ointments kept with care, And dearly bought (when thou didst see They could not cure, nor comfort thee) Like a wise, early Penitent Thou sadly didst to him present, Whose interceding, meek and calm Blood, is the world's all-healing @3Balm@1. This, this Divine Restorative Called forth thy tears, which ran in live And hasty drops, as if they had (Their Lord so near) sense to be glad. Learn, @3Ladies@1, here the faithful cure Makes beauty lasting, fresh and pure; Learn Mary's art of tears, and then Say, @3You have got the day from men@1. Cheap, mighty Art! her Art of love, Who loved much and much more could move; Her Art! whose memory must last Till truth through all the world be past, Till his abused, despised flame Return to Heaven, from whence it came, And send a fire down, that shall bring Destruction on his ruddy wing. Her Art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, Were once sin's loose and tempting spies, But now are fixed stars, whose light Helps such dark stragglers to their sight. Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind A judge wert thou, and how unkind! It was impossible, that thou Who wert all false, should'st true grief know; Is't just to judge her faithful tears By that foul rheum thy false eye wears? @3This woman@1 (say'st thou) is @3a sinner@1: And sate there none such at thy dinner? Go leper, go; wash till thy flesh Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh; He is still leprous, that still paints: Who saint themselves, they are no @3saints@1. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISOLATION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ANDROMEDA by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS TO JOHN KEATS; SONNET by AMY LOWELL IRELAND (1847) by DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY WHERE LIES THE LAND by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH AUTHOR TO HIS CHILD by FRANCES AIRTH |