A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa

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.

NOTESForm: couplets 1.First published in Steps to the Temple, 1646, but revised in Carmen Deo Nostro, from which this text is taken. An English translation of the autobiography of Saint Teresa (1518-82), founder of the Order of the Discalced(barefooted) Carmelites, had been published in 1642 underthe title of The Flaming Heart .... 35-65. Saint Teresa's attempt as a child to court martyrdom by preaching to the Moors is recounted in the autobiography. 71. rase: cut. 79 ff. The vision of a fiery seraph several times thrusting a golden dart through her heart, "which remained wholly enflamed with a great love of Almighty God'', is also recounted in the autobiography. 101-2. "For the soul ... would always be very glad, if she might be ever dying of this disease" (The Flaming Heart).123. The moon of maiden stars: the virgin Mary.172. zone: girdle.