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 buried.
_The Widow's Mites._ Two mites, two drops, yet all her house and land, Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand; The other's wanton wealth foams high and brave: The other cast away--she only gave.
_On the Prodigal._ Tell me, bright boy! tell me, my golden lad! Whither away so frolic?
Why so glad?
What! _all_ thy wealth in council?
_all_ thy state?
Are husks so dear?
Troth, 'tis a mighty rate! I value the following as a lovely parable.