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 tutor'd 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-castle140140See Note was thy seat,
Where all was sumptuous, rare and neat.
Why lies this hair despiséd now
Which once thy care and art did show?
Who then did dress the much-loved toy,
In spires, globes, angry141141angry, defiant curls and coy,
Which with skill'd negligence seem'd shed
About thy curious, wild, young head?
Why is this rich, this pistic142142pistic, pure nard
Spilt, and the box quite broke and marr'd?
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 soul! thou knew'st flowers here on Earth
At their LORD's foot-stool have their birth;
Therefore thy wither'd 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 balm.
This, this Divine Restorative
Call'd forth thy tears, which ran in live
And hasty drops, as if they had
--Their LORD so near--sense to be glad.