The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw, Volume II

In Short

This volume acts as a definitive recovery of the Latin and Greek poetry of a significant early modern English poet. More than a simple anthology, it provides a bridge to the seventeenth-century imagination, illustrating how classical erudition and religious fervor were once inextricably linked. By pairing original texts with modern translations, the book illuminates the poet’s transition from an academic life at Cambridge to a spiritual exile in Rome. It endures as a testament to the period’s "grave wit" and the ornate, meditative beauty of its devotional verse.

The Story

The collection follows the intellectual evolution of a man born into the heart of English theological controversy. The editor establishes this context by contrasting the poet’s delicate, imaginative verses with the harsh, anti-Catholic tracts of his father, William Crashaw—a man who dedicated his life to railing against the "secret Iniquities" of Rome. The poet, however, eventually turns away from this inherited austerity. After his time as an "ejected Fellow" at St. Peterhouse, Cambridge, he undergoes a profound "change," embracing Roman Catholicism and leaving England behind for the "silences" of Rome.

The arc of the book mirrors this internal pilgrimage. It begins with the heavy weight of theological debate and moves toward the fluid, shimmering brilliance of the poet’s own epigrams and meditative poems. The poet finds himself in a "poor mendicant quality" in Rome, yet the verses themselves suggest he is not the "lean swine" his detractors described. Instead, he explores the paradoxes of faith: the "happy shipwreck" of salvation, the "healing strife" of the soul, and the "cruel faith" of those who, like Thomas, must touch a wound to believe.

As the reader moves through the collection, the themes of exile, identity, and divine love deepen. The poet repeatedly returns to images of transformation—water turning to ice, or the "blossom'd pomp" of lilies outshining Solomon. He addresses figures of authority, royalty, and religious icons with a blend of intellectual rigor and startling intimacy. By the end of the collection, the reader sees the poet not as a political turncoat, but as a man who "glided away from his principles" to find a different, more aestheticized home in the faith. He dies in exile, but his poems remain as "red letters" or "balsome" for the reader’s own spiritual wounds. The volume concludes by documenting the poet’s final years, where he finds himself increasingly isolated from the "generation and kindred of Mecaenas," yet fully committed to his own "birth of his own brains."

How It Unfolds

The inheritance of controversy The opening pages frame the poet’s life against the backdrop of his father’s "violent invective against Popery." This establishes the stifling, intellectual climate from which the poet eventually breaks free.

The path of conversion The narrative shifts to the poet’s departure from the established church and his journey to Rome. The editor refutes the claim of worldly gain, framing the "change" as a personal, spiritual necessity rather than a careerist move.

The anatomy of the epigram A wide selection of sacred Latin and Greek epigrams follows, exploring biblical scenes with precision. Each piece acts as a self-contained meditation, turning a familiar story—like the healing of the withered hand—into an inquiry about the nature of faith.

The conflict of allegiances The book examines the poet’s struggle to balance his intellectual identity with his growing religious devotion. Through his Latin poems, he navigates the tension between the "golden Muse" and the "vile theme" of religious conflict, ultimately choosing grace.

The testament of the end The volume closes with commemorative and commemorative-style pieces, reflecting on birth, death, and the nature of the poet’s own legacy. It leaves the reader with the image of a man whose "fiery gulf" of a mind was finally stilled by the very faith he sought.

The People

The book is centered on two figures: the father and the son. William Crashaw, the father, is a towering, rigid presence—a "scholar among scholars" whose life is defined by his "supreme object of his aversion," the Catholic Church. He represents the tradition the son must leave behind. Richard Crashaw, the poet, emerges as a figure of "impertinent curiosity" and "poetical vein of fancy." He wants to reconcile the cold, intellectual demands of his era with a warmer, more visceral religious experience. He is hindered by the "obloquy" and "misconstruction" of his contemporaries, who view his conversion as a betrayal. He ends his life not as a triumphant saint, but as a "pitiful wier-drawer" who has found his "own shadow" in the quiet of a foreign land. Through his verses, he becomes a figure who is "more ally'd in consanguinity" to the divine than to his own kin.

In Its Own Voice

"Aeternall Loue! what 'tis to loue Thee well, / None but himselfe who feeles it, none can tell."

This couplet, taken from his meditation on divine love, captures the poet’s belief that true devotion defies the reach of language.

"I, vita, i, perdam: mihi mors tua, Christe, reperta est: / Mors tua vita mea est; mors tibi vita mea."

In this reflection on Christ’s sacrifice, the poet emphasizes the paradox that his own life is found only through the death of his Savior.

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an exploration of the "change" that occurs when an individual abandons the rigid, logical systems of their birth for a more intuitive, aestheticized experience of the divine. It asks whether faith can be a form of poetry, or if poetry is merely a way to translate the "dread eclipse" of a soul encountering God. The book also wrestles with the nature of exile: not just the physical movement from England to Rome, but the psychological drift that occurs when a mind is no longer at home in the culture that raised it. It is a work about the labor of belief, the "happy shipwreck" of surrendering one's intellect to a higher, often inscrutable, mystery.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate the dense, metaphysical intelligence of the seventeenth century will find this volume deeply rewarding. It is not an easy read; the poems are often linguistically ornate, and the Latin and Greek originals require patience, though they are accompanied by helpful translations. Reading it feels like stepping into a hushed cathedral where the air is thick with both intellectual debate and incense. You will encounter a mind that is constantly turning over the "balsome" of faith, trying to reconcile the "stormy night" of the world with the promise of an "aeternall morrow."

What stays with you is the poet’s vulnerability—the sense of a man "admiring the birth of his own brains" while simultaneously fearing that his words are "balsome" for wounds he cannot fully heal. It is a book for those who understand that art is often a form of suffering, and that the most profound insights are often found in the "silences" where no clamor reaches. While the period attitudes regarding religion and social status are stark, they serve as a necessary contrast to the poet’s own gentle, almost trembling, pursuit of beauty.