Where e'er she lye,
Lock't up from mortal eye,
In shady leaves of destiny:
for the ascetic turn of his mind soon banished even the supposition of an earthly sweetheart. Our poet's whole life was a romance, but one looks in vain for any recorded love-story.
In 1636, the young man passed to Peterhouse, and we must thank the anonymous editor of his first poems for many valuable details of his life there. "He was excellent," it seems, "in five languages (besides his mother-tongue), Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish; the two last whereof were his own acquisition." Among Crashaw's other accomplishments, "as well pious as harmless," he mentions music, drawing, and graving; and makes comments upon his "rare moderation in diet." The poet's religious life during these years seems to have been almost monastic. Once again let us turn to the editor's picturesque words: "In the temple of God, under his wing, he led his life in St. Mary's Church, near St. Peter's College; there he lodged under Tertullian's roof of angels; there he made his nest more gladly than David's swallow near the House of God; where, like a primitive saint, he offered more prayers in the night than others usually offer in the day." There was very little of earth in this life at Peterhouse; but his poems—many of them composed in the quiet chapel—show how much of Heaven. Lines like these speak for themselves:
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves;
Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.
