An Hymne of Heavenly Love
Love,
lift
me
up
upon
thy
golden
wings
From
this
base
world
unto
thy
heavens
hight,
Where
I
may
see
those
admirable
things
Which
there
thou
workest
by
thy
soveraine
might,
Farre
above
feeble
reach
of
earthly
sight,
That
I
thereof
an
heavenly
hymne
may
sing
Unto
the
God
of
Love,
high
heavens
king.
Many
lewd
layes
(ah!
woe
is
me
the
more!)
In
praise
of
that
mad
fit
which
fooles
call
Love,
I
have
in
th'heat
of
youth
made
heretofore,
That
in
light
wits
did
loose
affection
move;
But
all
those
follies
now
I
do
reprove,
And
turned
have
the
tenor
of
my
string,
The
heavenly
prayses
of
true
Love
to
sing.
And
ye
that
wont
with
greedy
vaine
desire
To
reade
my
fault,
and,
wondring
at
my
flame,
To
warme
your
selves
at
my
wide
sparckling
fire,
Sith
now
that
heat
is
quenched,
quench
my
blame,
And
in
her
ashes
shrowd
my
dying
shame;
For
who
my
passed
follies
now
pursewes,
Beginnes
his
owne,
and
my
old
fault
renewes.
BEFORE
THIS
WORLDS
GREAT
FRAME,
in
which
al
things
Are
now
containd,
found
any
being-place,
Ere
flitting
Time
could
wag
his
eyas
wings
About
that
mightie
bound
which
doth
embrace
The
rolling
spheres,
and
parts
their
houres
by
space,
That
high
eternall
Powre,
which
now
doth
move
In
all
these
things,
mov'd
in
it
selfe
by
love.
It
lovd
it
selfe,
because
it
selfe
was
faire;
(For
fair
is
lov'd);
and
of
it
self
begot
Like
to
it
selfe
his
eldest
Sonne
and
Heire,
Eternall,
pure,
and
voide
of
sinfull
blot,
The
firstling
of
his
ioy,
in
whom
no
iot
Of
loves
dislike
or
pride
was
to
be
found,
Whom
he
therefore
with
equall
honour
crownd.
With
him
he
raignd,
before
all
time
prescribed,
In
endlesse
glorie
and
immortall
might,
Together
with
that
Third
from
them
derived,
Most
wise,
most
holy,
most
almightie
Spright!
Whose
kingdomes
throne
no
thoughts
of
earthly
wight
Can
comprehend,
much
lesse
my
trembling
verse
With
equall
words
can
hope
it
to
reherse.
Yet,
O
most
blessed
Spirit!
pure
lampe
of
light,
Eternall
spring
of
grace
and
wisedom
trew,
Vouchsafe
to
shed
into
my
barren
spright
Some
little
drop
of
thy
celestiall
dew,
That
may
my
rymes
with
sweet
infuse
embrew,
And
give
me
words
equall
unto
my
thought,
To
tell
the
marveiles
by
thy
mercie
wrought.
Yet
being
pregnant
still
with
powrefull
grace,
And
full
of
fruitfull
Love,
that
loves
to
get
Things
like
himselfe
and
to
enlarge
his
race,
His
second
brood,
though
not
of
powre
so
great,
Yet
full
of
beautie,
next
he
did
beget,
An
infinite
increase
of
angels
bright,
All
glistring
glorious
in
their
Makers
light.
To
them
the
heavens
illimitable
hight
(Not
this
round
heaven
which
we
from
hence
behold,
Adornd
with
thousand
lamps
of
burning
light,
And
with
ten
thousand
gemmes
of
shyning
gold)
He
gave
as
their
inheritance
to
hold,
That
they
might
serve
him
in
eternall
blis,
And
be
partakers
of
those
ioyes
of
his.
There
they
in
their
trinall
triplicities
About
him
wait,
and
on
his
will
depend,
Either
with
nimble
wings
to
cut
the
skies,
When
he
them
on
his
messages
doth
send,
Or
on
his
owne
dread
presence
to
attend,
Where
they
behold
the
glorie
of
his
light,
And
caroll
hymnes
of
love
both
day
and
night.
Both
day
and
night
is
unto
them
all
one;
For
he
his
beames
doth
unto
them
extend,
That
darknesse
there
appeareth
never
none;
Ne
hath
their
day,
ne
hath
their
blisse,
an
end,
But
there
their
termelesse
time
in
pleasure
spend;
Ne
ever
should
their
happinesse
decay,
Had
not
they
dar'd
their
Lord
to
disobay.
But
pride,
impatient
of
long
resting
peace,
Did
puffe
them
up
with
greedy
bold
ambition,
That
they
gan
cast
their
state
how
to
increase
Above
the
fortune
of
their
first
condition,
And
sit
in
Gods
own
seat
without
commission:
The
brightest
angel,
even
the
Child
of
Light,
Drew
millions
more
against
their
God
to
fight.
Th'Almighty,
seeing
their
so
bold
assay,
Kindled
the
flame
of
his
consuming
yre,
And
with
his
onely
breath
them
blew
away
From
heavens
hight,
to
which
they
did
aspyre,
To
deepest
hell,
and
lake
of
damned
fyre,
Where
they
in
darknesse
and
dread
horror
dwell,
Hating
the
happie
light
from
which
they
fell.
So
that
next
off-spring
of
the
Makers
love,
Next
to
himselfe
in
glorious
degree,
Degendering
to
hate,
fell
from
above
Through
pride;
(for
pride
and
love
may
ill
agree);
And
now
of
sinne
to
all
ensample
bee:
How
then
can
sinfull
flesh
it
selfe
assure,
Sith
purest
angels
fell
to
be
impure?
But
that
Eternall
Fount
of
love
and
grace,
Still
flowing
forth
his
goodnesse
unto
all,
Now
seeing
left
a
waste
and
emptie
place
In
his
wyde
pallace
through
those
angels
fall,
Cast
to
supply
the
same,
and
to
enstall
A
new
unknowen
colony
therein,
Whose
root
from
earths
base
groundworke
should
begin.
Therefore
of
clay,
base,
vile,
and
nest
to
nought,
Yet
form'd
by
wondrous
skill,
and
by
his
might
According
to
an
heavenly
patterne
wrought,
Which
he
had
fashiond
in
his
wise
foresight,
He
man
did
make,
and
breathd
a
living
spright
Into
his
face,
most
beautifull
and
fayre,
Endewd
with
wisedomes
riches,
heavenly,
rare.
Such
he
him
made,
that
he
resemble
might
Himselfe,
as
mortall
thing
immortall
could;
Him
to
be
lord
of
every
living
wight
He
made
by
love
out
of
his
owne
like
mould,
In
whom
he
might
his
mightie
selfe
behould;
For
Love
doth
love
the
thing
belov'd
to
see,
That
like
it
selfe
in
lovely
shape
may
bee.
But
man,
forgetfull
of
his
Makers
grace
No
lesse
than
angels,
whom
he
did
ensew,
Fell
from
the
hope
of
promist
heavenly
place,
Into
the
mouth
of
Death,
to
sinners
dew,
And
all
his
off-spring
into
thraldome
threw,
Where
they
for
ever
should
in
bonds
remaine
Of
never-dead,
yet
ever-dying
paine;
Till
that
great
Lord
of
Love,
which
him
at
first
Made
of
meere
love,
and
after
liked
well,
Seeing
him
lie
like
creature
long
accurst
In
that
deep
horor
of
despeyred
hell,
Him,
wretch,
in
doole
would
let
no
lenger
dwell,
But
cast
out
of
that
bondage
to
redeeme,
And
pay
the
price,
all@
were
his
debt
extreeme.
Out
of
the
bosome
of
eternall
blisse,
In
which
he
reigned
with
his
glorious
Syre,
He
downe
descended,
like
a
most
demisse
And
abiect
thrall,
in
fleshes
fraile
attyre,
That
he
for
him
might
pay
sinnes
deadly
hyre,
And
him
restore
unto
that
happie
state
In
which
he
stood
before
his
haplesse
fate.
In
flesh
at
first
the
guilt
committed
was,
Therefore
in
flesh
it
must
be
satisfyde;
Nor
spirit,
nor
angel,
though
they
man
surpas,
Could
make
amends
to
God
for
mans
misguyde,
But
onely
man
himselfe,
who
selfe
did
slyde:
So,
taking
flesh
of
sacred
virgins
wombe,
For
mans
deare
sake
he
did
a
man
become.
And
that
most
blessed
bodie,
which
was
borne
Without
all
blemish
or
reprochfull
blame,
He
freely
gave
to
be
both
rent
and
torne
Of
cruell
hands,
who
with
despightfull
shame
Revyling
him,
(that
them
most
vile
became,)
At
length
him
nayled
on
a
gallow-tree,
And
slew
the
iust
by
most
uniust
decree.
O
huge
and
most
unspeakeable
impression
Of
Loves
deep
wound,
that
pierst
the
piteous
hart
Of
that
deare
Lord
with
so
entyre
affection,
And,
sharply
launcing
every
inner
part,
Dolours
of
death
into
his
soule
did
dart,
Doing
him
die
that
never
it
deserved,
To
free
his
foes,
that
from
his
heast
had
swerved!
What
hart
can
feel
least
touch
of
so
sore
launch,
Or
thought
can
think
the
depth
of
so
deare
wound?
Whose
bleeding
sourse
their
streames
yet
never
staunch,
But
stil
do
flow,
and
freshly
still
redownd,
To
heale
the
sores
of
sinfull
soules
unsound,
And
clense
the
guilt
of
that
infected
cryme,
Which
was
enrooted
in
all
fleshly
slyme.
O
blessed
Well
of
Love!
O
Floure
of
Grace!
O
glorious
Morning-Starre!
O
Lampe
of
Light!
Most
lively
image
of
thy
Fathers
face,
Eternal
King
of
Glorie,
Lord
of
Might,
Meeke
Lambe
of
God,
before
all
worlds
behight,
How
can
we
thee
requite
for
all
this
good?
Or
what
can
prize**
that
thy
most
precious
blood?
Yet
nought
thou
ask'st
in
lieu
of
all
this
love
But
love
of
us,
for
guerdon
of
thy
paine:
Ay
me!
what
can
us
lesse
than
that
behove?
Had
he
required
life
for
us
againe,
Had
it
beene
wrong
to
ask
his
owne
with
game?
He
gave
us
life,
he
it
restored
lost;
Then
life
were
least,
that
us
so
little
cost.
But
he
our
life
hath
left
unto
us
free,
Free
that
was
thrall,
and
blessed
that
was
band;
Ne
ought
demaunds
but
that
we
loving
bee,
As
he
himselfe
hath
lov'd
us
afore-hand,
And
bound
therto
with
an
eternall
band;
Him
first
to
love
that
was
so
dearely
bought,
And
next
our
brethren,
to
his
image
wrought.
Him
first
to
love
great
right
and
reason
is,
Who
first
to
us
our
life
and
being
gave,
And
after,
when
we
fared
had
amisse,
Us
wretches
from
the
second
death
did
save;
And
last,
the
food
of
life,
which
now
we
have,
Even
he
himselfe,
in
his
dear
sacrament,
To
feede
our
hungry
soules,
unto
us
lent.
Then
next,
to
love
our
brethren,
that
were
made
Of
that
selfe*
mould
and
that
self
Maker's
hand
That
we,
and
to
the
same
againe
shall
fade,
Where
they
shall
have
like
heritage
of
land,
However
here
on
higher
steps
we
stand,
Which
also
were
with
selfe-same
price
redeemed
That
we,
however
of
us
light
esteemed.
And
were
they
not,
yet
since
that
loving
Lord
Commaunded
us
to
love
them
for
his
sake,
Even
for
his
sake,
and
for
his
sacred
word
Which
in
his
last
bequest
he
to
us
spake,
We
should
them
love,
and
with
their
needs
partake;
Knowing
that
whatsoere
to
them
we
give
We
give
to
him
by
whom
we
all
doe
live.
Such
mercy
he
by
his
most
holy
reede
Unto
us
taught,
and,
to
approve
it
trew,
Ensampled
it
by
his
most
righteous
deede,
Shewing
us
mercie,
miserable
crew!
That
we
the
like
should
to
the
wretches
shew,
And
love
our
brethren;
thereby
to
approve
How
much
himselfe
that
loved
us
we
love.
Then
rouze
thy
selfe,
O
Earth!
out
of
thy
soyle,
In
which
thou
wallowest
like
to
filthy
swyne,
And
doest
thy
mynd
in
durty
pleasures
moyle,
Unmindfull
of
that
dearest
Lord
of
thyne;
Lift
up
to
him
thy
heavie
clouded
eyne,
That
thou
this
soveraine
bountie
mayst
behold,
And
read,
through
love,
his
mercies
manifold.
Beginne
from
first,
where
he
encradled
was
In
simple
cratch*,
wrapt
in
a
wad
of
hay,
Betweene
the
toylfull
oxe
and
humble
asse,
And
in
what
rags,
and
in
how
base
aray,
The
glory
of
our
heavenly
riches
lay,
When
him
the
silly
shepheards
came
to
see,
Whom
greatest
princes
sought
on
lowest
knee.
From
thence
reade
on
the
storie
of
his
life,
His
humble
carriage,
his
unfaulty
wayes,
His
cancred
foes,
his
fights,
his
toyle,
his
strife,
His
paines,
his
povertie,
his
sharpe
assayes,
Through
which
he
past
his
miserable
dayes,
Offending
none,
and
doing
good
to
all,
Yet
being
malist
both
by
great
and
small.
And
look
at
last,
how
of
most
wretched
wights
He
taken
was,
betrayd,
and
false
accused;
How
with
most
scornfull
taunts
and
fell
despights,
He
was
revyld,
disgrast,
and
foule
abused;
How
scourgd,
how
crownd,
how
buffeted,
how
brused;
And,
lastly,
how
twixt
robbers
crucifyde,
With
bitter
wounds
through
hands,
through
feet,
and
syde!
Then
let
thy
flinty
hart,
that
feeles
no
paine,
Empierced
he
with
pittifull
remorse,
And
let
thy
bowels
bleede
in
every
vaine,
At
sight
of
his
most
sacred
heavenly
corse,
So
torne
and
mangled
with
malicious
forse;
And
let
thy
soule,
whose
sins
his
sorrows
wrought,
Melt
into
teares,
and
grone
in
grieved
thought.
With
sence
whereof
whilest
so
thy
softened
spirit
Is
inly
toucht,
and
humbled
with
meeke
zeale
Through
meditation
of
his
endlesse
merit,
Lift
up
thy
mind
to
th'author
of
thy
weale,
And
to
his
soveraine
mercie
doe
appeale;
Learne
him
to
love
that
loved
thee
so
deare,
And
in
thy
brest
his
blessed
image
beare.
With
all
thy
hart,
with
all
thy
soule
and
mind,
Thou
must
him
love,
and
his
beheasts
embrace;
All
other
loves,
with
which
the
world
doth
blind
Weake
fancies,
and
stirre
up
affections
base,
Thou
must
renounce
and
utterly
displace,
And
give
thy
self
unto
him
full
and
free,
That
full
and
freely
gave
himselfe
to
thee.
Then
shalt
thou
feele
thy
spirit
so
possest,
And
ravisht
with
devouring
great
desire
Of
his
dear
selfe,
that
shall
thy
feeble
brest
Inflame
with
love,
and
set
thee
all
on
fire
With
burning
zeale,
through
every
part
entire,
That
in
no
earthly
thing
thou
shalt
delight,
But
in
his
sweet
and
amiable
sight.
Thenceforth
all
worlds
desire
will
in
thee
dye,
And
all
earthes
glorie,
on
which
men
do
gaze,
Seeme
durt
and
drosse
in
thy
pure-sighted
eye,
Compar'd
to
that
celestiall
beauties
blaze,
Whose
glorious
beames
all
fleshly
sense
doth
daze
With
admiration
of
their
passing
light,
Blinding
the
eyes,
and
lumining
the
spright.
Then
shall
thy
ravisht
soul
inspired
bee
With
heavenly
thoughts,
farre
above
humane
skil,
And
thy
bright
radiant
eyes
shall
plainely
see
Th'idee
of
his
pure
glorie
present
still
Before
thy
face,
that
all
thy
spirits
shall
fill
With
sweete
enragement
of
celestiall
love,
Kindled
through
sight
of
those
faire
things
above.
Edmund Spenser
Edmund Spenser (born 1552/53, London, England—died January 13, 1599, London) English poet whose long allegorical poem The Faerie Queene is one of the greatest in the English language. It was written in what came to be called the Spenserian stanza. In 1598 rebels attacked and burned Kilcolman Castle, forcing Spenser and his family to flee to Cork. In December he returned to England, where he delivered a report on the Irish crisis at Whitehall on Christmas Eve. Three weeks later, on 13 January 1599, he died, perhaps of illness brought on by exhaustion. He was buried soon after in the south transept of Westminster Abbey in the Poets’ Corner.