There is much in his verses of that sentimentalism which, I have already said in speaking of Southwell, is rife in modern Catholic poetry.

I will give from Crashaw a specimen of the kind of it.

Avoiding a more sacred object, one stanza from a poem of thirty-one, most musical, and full of lovely speech concerning the tears of Mary Magdalen, will suit my purpose.
Hail, sister springs, Parents of silver-footed rills! Ever-bubbling things! Thawing crystal! Snowy hills, Still spending, never spent!--I mean Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene! 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.