Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear,
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed,
As though His floods should quench His flames, which with His tears were fed.
"Alas!" quoth He, "But newly born, in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel My fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilèd souls,
For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in My blood":
With these He vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callèd unto mind that it was Christmas Day.
This deep religious fervour permeates the poet's entire work, not merely the Mæoniæ, a series on the life of our Saviour and His Mother, but even the shortest lyric, without, I think, one single exception. He bitterly regretted the worldliness of most Elizabethan verse, complaining in one of his Introductions that "The finest wits are now given to write passionate discourses." To-day, perhaps, we see the deep human value of many of these same "passionate discourses" more clearly
