Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
By Richard Crashaw (1613?1640)A Descant on the Twenty-third Psalm
HAPPY me, O happy sheep! | |
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep, | |
Ev’n my God, ev’n He it is | |
That points me to these paths of bliss; | |
On Whose pastures cheerful Spring | 5 |
All the year doth sit and sing, | |
And rejoicing, smiles to see | |
Their green backs wear His livery: | |
Pleasure sings my soul to rest, | |
Plenty wears me at her breast, | 10 |
Whose sweet temper teaches me | |
Not wanton, nor in want to be. | |
At my feet the blubbering mountain | |
Weeping melts into a fountain, | |
Whose soft silver-sweating streams | 15 |
Make high-noon forget his beams: | |
When my wayward breath is flying, | |
He calls home my soul from dying, | |
Strokes and tames my rabid grief, | |
And does woo me into life: | 20 |
When my simple weakness strays | |
(Tangled in forbidden ways) | |
He, my Shepherd, is my Guide; | |
He’s before me, on my side, | |
And behind me; He beguiles | 25 |
Craft in all her knotty wiles: | |
He expounds the weary wonder | |
Of my giddy steps, and under | |
Spreads a path clear as the day | |
Where no churlish rub says nay | 30 |
To my joy-conducted feet, | |
Whilst they gladly go to meet | |
Grace and Peace, to learn new lays | |
Tuned to my great Shepherd’s praise. | |
Come now, all ye terrors, sally, | 35 |
Muster forth into the valley, | |
Where triumphant darkness hovers | |
With a sable wing, that covers | |
Brooding horror. Come, thou Death, | |
Let the damps of thy dull breath | 40 |
Overshadow e’en that shade, | |
And make Darkness ’self afraid; | |
There my feet, e’en there, shall find | |
Way for a resolvèd mind. | |
Still my Shepherd, still my God | 45 |
Thou art with me; still Thy rod | |
And Thy staff, whose influence | |
Gives direction, gives defence. | |
At the whisper of Thy word | |
Crown’d abundance spreads my board; | 50 |
While I feast, my foes do feed | |
Their rank malice, not their need, | |
So that with the self-same bread | |
They are starved and I am fed. | |
How my head in ointment swims! | 55 |
How my cup o’erlooks her brims! | |
So, e’en so, still may I move | |
By the line of Thy dear love; | |
Still may Thy sweet mercy spread | |
A shady arm above my head, | 60 |
About my paths; so shall I find | |
The fair centre of my mind, | |
Thy temple, and those lovely walls | |
Bright ever with a beam that falls | |
Fresh from the pure glance of Thine eye, | 65 |
Lighting to Eternity. | |
There I’ll dwell for ever, there | |
Will I find a purer air | |
To feed my life with, there I’ll sup | |
Balm and nectar in my cup; | 70 |
And thence my ripe soul will I breathe | |
Warm into the arms of Death. | |