A LETTER FROM Mr. CRASHAW to the Countess of DENBIGH, 
 Against Irresolution and Delay in matters of RELIGION.  
Sept: 〈…〉  
LONDON.   

Against Irresolution and Delay in matters of RELIGION.  

WHat Heav'n-besieged Heart is this  
Stands Trembling at the Gate of Bliss:  
Holds fast the Door, yet dares not venture  
Fairly to open and to enter?  
Whose Definition is, A Doubt  
'Twixt Life and Death, 'twixt In and Out.  
Ah! linger not, loved Soul: A slow  
And late Consent was a long No.  
Who grants at last, a great while tried,  
And did his best to have Denied.   

What Magick-Bolts, what my stick Barrs  
Maintain the Will in these strange Wars?  
What Fatal, yet fantastic, Bands  
Keep the free Heart from his own Hands?  
Say, lingering Fair, why comes the Birth  
Of your brave Soul so slowly forth?  
Plead your Pretences, (O you strong  
In weakness) why you choose so long  
In Labour of yourself to lie,  
Not daring quite to Live nor Die.   

So when the Year takes cold we see  
Poor Waters their own Prisoners be:  
Fettered and locked up fast they lie  
In a cold self-captivity.  
Th'astonished Nymphs their Floud's strange Fate deplore,  
To find themselves their own severer Shoar.   

Love, that lends haste to heaviest things,  
In you alone hath lost his wings.  
Look round and read the World's wide face,  
The field of Nature or of Grace;  
Where can you fix, to find Excuse  
Or Pattern for the Pace you use?  
Mark with what Faith Fruits answer Flowers,  
And know the Call of heavens kind showers:  
Each mindful Plant hasts to make good  
The hope and promise of his Bud.  
Seed-time's not all; there should be Harvest too.  
Alas! and has the Year no Spring for you?   

Both Winds and Waters urge their way,  
And murmur if they meet a stay.  
Mark how the curled Waves work and wind,  
All hating to be left behind.  
Each big with business thrusts the other,  
And seems to say, Make haste, my Brother.  
The airy nation of neat Doves,  
That draw the Chariot of chaste Loves,  
Chide your delay: yea those dull things,  
Whose ways have least to do with wings,  
Make wings at least of their own Weight,  
And by their Love control their Fate.  
So lumpish Steel, untaught to move,  
Learned first his Lightness by his Love.   

What e'er Love's matter be, he moves  
By th'even wings of his own Doves,  
Lives by his own Laws, and does hold  
In grossest Metals his own Gold.   

All things swear friends to Fair and Good,  
Yea Suitors; Man alone is wo'ed,  
Tediously wo'ed, and hardly won:  
Only not slow to be undone.  
As if the Bargain had been driven  
So hardly betwixt Earth and Heaven;  
Our God would thrive too fast, and be  
Too much a gainer by't, should we  
Our purchased selves too soon bestow  
On him, who has not lov'dus so.  
When love of Us called Him to see  
If we'd vouchsafe his company,  
He left his Father's Court, and came  
Lightly as a Lambent Flame,  
Leaping upon the Hills, to be  
The Humble King of You and Me.  
Nor can the cares of his whole Crown  
(When one poor Sigh sends for him down)  
Detain him, but he leaves behind  
The late wings of the lazy Wind,  
Spurns the tame Laws of Time and Place,  
And breaks through all ten heavens to our embrace.   

Yield to his Siege, wise Soul, and see  
Your Triumph in his Victory.  
Disband dull Fears, give Faith the day:  
To save your Life, kill your Delay.  
'Tis Cowardice that keeps this Field;  
And want of Courage not to Yield.   

Yield then, O yield, that Love may win  
The Fort at last, and let Life in.  
Yield quickly, lest perhaps you prove  
Death's Prey, before the Prize of Love.  
This Fort of your Fair Self if't be not won,  
He is repulsed indeed, but You're undone.   
FINIS.