The unthrift Sunne shot vitall gold
A thousand peeces,

And heaven its azure did unfold

Checqur'd with snowie fleeces,

The aire was all in spice

bush

A garland wore; Thus fed my Eyes

But all the Eare lay hush.

Only a little Fountain lent

Some use for Eares,

And on the dumbe shades language spent
The Musick of her teares;

I drew her neere, and found
The Cisterne full

Of divers stones, some bright, and round,
Others ill-shap'd, and dull.

The first (pray marke,) as quick as light
Danc'd through the floud,

But, th❜last more heavy then the night
Nail'd to the Center stood;

I wonder❜d much, but tyr'd

At last with thought,

My restless Eye that still desir'd

As strange an object brought;

It was a banke of flowers, where I descried

(Though 'twas mid-day,)

Some fast asleepe, others broad-eyed

And taking in the Ray,

Here musing long, I heard

A rushing wind

Which still increas'd, but whence it stirr'd

No where I could not find;

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I turn'd me round, and to each shade

Dispatch'd an Eye,

To see, if any leafe had made
Least motion, or Reply,

But while I listning sought

My mind to ease

By knowing, where 'twas, or where not,
It whisper'd; Where I please.

Lord, then said I, On me one breath,
And let me dye before my death!

Henry Vaughan.

The Retreate.

HAppy those early dayes! when I

Shin'd in my Angell-infancy.

Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, Celestiall thought,
When yet I had not walkt above
A mile, or two, from my first love,
And looking back (at that short space,)
Could see a glimpse of his bright-face;
When on some gilded Cloud, or flowre
My gazing soul would dwell an houre,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My Conscience with a sinfull sound,
Or had the black art to dispence
A sev'rall sinne to ev'ry sence,

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But felt through all this fleshly dresse
Bright shootes of everlastingnesse.

O how I long to travell back
And tread again that ancient track !
That I might once more reach that plaine,
Where first I left my glorious traine,
From whence th' Inlightned spirit sees
That shady City of Palme trees;
But (ah!) my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way.
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move,
And when this dust falls to the urn
In that state I came return.

Henry Vaughan.

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ROM. CAP. 8. VER. 19.

Etenim res Create exerto Capite observantes expectant

revelationem Filiorum Dei.

Nd do they so? have they a Sense

AND

A fought but Influence?

Of

Can they their heads lift, and expect,

And grone too? why th'Elect

Can do no more: my volumes sed

They were all dull, and dead,

They judg'd them senslesse, and their state

Wholly Inanimate.

Go, go; Seal up thy looks,

And burn thy books.

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I would I were a stone, or tree,
Or flowre by pedigree,

Or some poor high-way herb, or Spring
To flow, or bird to sing!

Then should I (tyed to one sure state,)
All day expect my date;

But I am sadly loose, and stray

A giddy blast each way;

O let me not thus range!

Thou canst not change.

Sometimes I sit with thee, and tarry
An hour, or so, then vary.
Thy other Creatures in this Scene
Thee only aym, and mean;
Some rise to seek thee, and with heads
Erect peep from their beds;

Others, whose birth is in the tomb,
And cannot quit the womb,
Sigh there, and grone for thee,
Their liberty.

O let not me do lesse! shall they
Watch, while I sleep, or play?
Shall I thy mercies still abuse

With fancies, friends, or newes
O brook it not! thy bloud is mine,

And my soul should be thine; O brook it not! why wilt thou stop After whole showres one drop? Sure, thou wilt joy to see

Thy sheep with thee.

?

Henry Vaughan.

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40

W

Man.

Eighing the stedfastness and

stare

Of some mean things which here below reside, Where birds like watchful Clocks the noiseless date

And Intercourse of times divide,

Where Bees at night get home and hive, and flowrs
Early, aswel as late,

Rise with the Sun, and set in the same bowrs;

I would (said I) my God would give

The staidness of these things to man! for these
To his divine appointments ever cleave,

And no new business breaks their peace;
The birds nor sow, nor reap, yet sup and dine,
The flowres without clothes live,

Yet Solomon was never drest so fine.

Man hath stil either toyes, or Care,

He hath no root, nor to one place is ty'd,

But ever restless and Irregular

About this Earth doth run and ride,

He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where,
He sayes it is so far

That he hath quite forgot how to go there.

He knocks at all doors, strays and roams,
Nay hath not so much wit as some stones have
Which in the darkest nights point to their homes,
By some hid sense their Maker gave;
Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest

And

passage through these looms God order'd motion, but ordain'd no rest.

ΤΟ

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