Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 26

Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning and s.h.i.+ning thoughts, man's posthume day, The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way, The dead alive and busy, the still voice Of enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys!

Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs, Which in commerce with light spend all their hours: Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun.

Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night, Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.

By sucking you, the wise--like bees--do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a store Have we of books, as bees of herbs, or more: And the great task, to try, then know, the good.

To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, Is a rare, scant performance: for man dies Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies.

But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drest By old sage florists, who well knew the best: And I amidst you all am turned a weed!

Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.

Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not be Content to know--what was too much for thee!

LOOKING BACK.

Fair s.h.i.+ning mountains of my pilgrimage And flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars, The days and nights of my first happy age; An age without distaste and wars!

When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads, And mind those sacred midnight lights By which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and beds Confin'd or seal'd up others' sights: O then, how bright, And quick a light Doth brush my heart and scatter night; Chasing that shade, Which my sins made, While I so spring, as if I could not fade!

How brave a prospect is a bright back-side!

Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye!

And days well spent like the glad East abide, Whose morning-glories cannot die!

THE SHOWER.

Waters above! eternal springs!

The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!

O welcome, welcome to the sad!

Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!

Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rs Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers, Have I enjoy'd, and down have run Many a fine and s.h.i.+ning sun; But never, till this happy hour, Was blest with such an evening-shower!

DISCIPLINE.

Fair Prince of Light! Light's living Well Who hast the keys of death and h.e.l.l!

If the mole[66] man despise Thy day, Put chains of darkness in his way.

Teach him how deep, how various are The counsels of Thy love and care.

When acts of grace and a long peace, Breed but rebellion, and displease, Then give him his own way and will, Where lawless he may run, until His own choice hurts him, and the sting Of his foul sins full sorrows bring.

If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth, Please not the mole so much as earth: Give him his mine to dig, or dwell, And one sad scheme of hideous h.e.l.l.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] The original edition has _mule_.

THE ECLIPSE.

Whither, O whither didst thou fly When I did grieve Thine holy eye?

When Thou didst mourn to see me lost, And all Thy care and counsels cross'd.

O do not grieve, where'er Thou art!

Thy grief is an undoing smart, Which doth not only pain, but break My heart, and makes me blush to speak.

Thy anger I could kiss, and will; But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill.

AFFLICTION.

O come, and welcome! come, refine!

For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will s.h.i.+ne.

Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he, When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree.

Crosses make straight his crooked ways, And clouds but cool his dog-star days; Diseases too, when by Thee blest, Are both restoratives and rest.

Flow'rs that in suns.h.i.+nes riot still, Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill, The fall is fair, e'en to desire, Where in their sweetness all expire.

O come, pour on! what calms can be So fair as storms, that appease Thee?

RETIREMENT.

Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face!

G.o.d's footstool! and man's dwelling-place!

I ask not why the first believer Did love to be a country liver?

Who, to secure pious content, Did pitch by groves and wells his tent; Where he might view the boundless sky, And all those glorious lights on high, With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs, Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs, And ev'ry minute bless the King And wise Creator of each thing.

I ask not why he did remove To happy Mamre's holy grove, Leaving the cities of the plain To Lot and his successless train?

All various l.u.s.ts in cities still Are found; they are the thrones of ill, The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd, Cages with much uncleanness fill'd: But rural shades are the sweet sense Of piety and innocence; They are the meek's calm region, where Angels descend and rule the sphere; Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the Dove Duly as dew comes from above.

If Eden be on Earth at all, 'Tis that which we the country call.

THE REVIVAL.

Unfold! unfold! Take in His light, Who makes thy cares more short than night.

The joys which with His day-star rise He deals to all but drowsy eyes; And, what the men of this world miss, Some drops and dews of future bliss.