The poem is called _The Weeper_, and is radiant of delicate fancy. But
surely such tones are not worthy of flitting moth-like about the holy
sorrow of a repentant woman! Fantastically beautiful, they but play with
her grief. Sorrow herself would put her shoes off her feet in approaching
the weeping Magdalene. They make much of her indeed, but they show her
little reverence. There is in them, notwithstanding their fervour of
amorous words, a coldness like that which dwells in the ghostly beauty of
icicles shining in the moon.

But I almost reproach myself for introducing Crashaw thus. I had to point
out the fact, and now having done with it, I could heartily wish I had
room to expatiate on his loveliness even in such poems as _The Weeper_.

His _Divine Epigrams_ are not the most beautiful, but they are to me the
most valuable of his verses, inasmuch as they make us feel afresh the
truth which he sets forth anew. In them some of the facts of our Lord's
life and teaching look out upon us as from clear windows of the past. As
epigrams, too, they are excellent--pointed as a lance.


_Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord._

Here, where our Lord once laid his head,
Now the grave lies buriëd.


_The Widow's Mites._

Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land,
Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand;