Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark Tent,

Whose

peace but by some Angels wing or voice

Is seldom rent;

Then I in Heaven all the long year

Would keep, and never wander here.

But living where the Sun

Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tyre
Themselves and others, I consent and run

To ev'ry myre,

And by this worlds ill-guiding light,

Erre more then I can do by night.

There is in God (some say)

A deep, but dazzling darkness; As men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they

See not all clear;

O for that night! where I in him

Might live invisible and dim.

Henry Vaughan.

The Water-fall.

Ith what deep murmurs through times silent stealth
Doth thy transparent, cool and watry wealth

Here flowing fall,

And chide, and call,

As if his liquid, loose Retinue staid

Lingring, and were of this steep place afraid,

The common pass

Where, clear as glass,

40

50

All must descend

Not to an end:

But quickned by this deep and rocky grave,
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank, where often I
Have sate, and pleas'd my pensive eye,
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither, whence it flow'd before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came (sure) from a sea of light?
Or since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee, that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes, hee'l not restore?

O useful Element and clear!

My sacred wash and cleanser here,

My first consigner unto those

Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes?

What sublime truths, and wholesome themes,
Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams!

Such as dull man can never finde

Unless that Spirit lead his minde,
Which first upon thy face did move,
And hatch'd all with his quickning love.
As this loud brooks incessant fall

In streaming rings restagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen, just so pass men.

my

invisible estate,

My glorious liberty, still late!

Thou art the Channel my soul seeks,

Not this with Cataracts and Creeks.

Henry Vaughan.

ΙΟ

20

30

40

Quickness.

Alse life! a foil and no more, when

FA

Wilt thou be gone?

Thou foul deception of all men

That would not have the true come on.

Thou art a Moon-like toil; a blinde
Self-posing state;

A dark contest of waves and winde;
A meer tempestuous debate.

Life is a fix'd, discerning light,

A knowing Joy;

No chance, or fit: but ever bright,
And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.

'Tis such a blissful thing, that still

Doth vivifie,

And shine and smile, and hath the skill
To please without Eternity.

Thou art a toylsom Mole, or less,

A moving mist;

But life is, what none can express,
A quickness, which my God hath kist.

Henry Vaughan.

10

20

Н

A Pastorall Hymne.

Appy Choristers of Aire,

HAPPY by your nimble flight draw neare

Who by your

His throne, whose wondrous story

And unconfined glory

Your notes still Caroll, whom your sound
And whom your plumy pipes rebound.

Yet do the lazy Snailes no lesse

The greatnesse of our Lord confesse,

And those whom weight hath chain'd

And to the Earth restrain'd,

Their ruder voices do as well,

Yea and the speechlesse Fishes tell.

Great Lord, from whom each Tree receaves,

Then paies againe as rent, his leaves;

Thou dost in purple set

The Rose and Violet,

And giv'st the sickly Lilly white,

Yet in them all, thy name dost write.

John Hall.

And she washed his Feet with her Teares, and
wiped them with the Hairs of her Head.

ΙΟ

He proud Egyptian Queen, her Roman Guest,
(T'express her Love in Hight of State, and Pleasure)
With Pearl dissolv'd in Gold, did feast,

Both Food, and Treasure.

And now (dear Lord!) thy Lover, on the fair
And silver Tables of thy Feet, behold!

Pearl in her Tears, and in her Hair,

Offers thee Gold.

Edward Sherburne.

10

The Christians reply to the Phylosopher.

He Good in Graves as Heavenly Seed are sown ;

TH

And at the Saints first Spring, the General Doome, Will rise, not by degrees, but fully blowne;

When all the Angells to their Harvest come. Cannot Almighty Heaven (since Flowers which pass Thaw'd through a Still, and there melt mingled too, Are rais'd distinct in a poore Chymists Glass)

Doe more in Graves then Men in Lymbecks doe? God bred the Arts to make us more believe

(By seeking Natures cover'd Misteries)
His darker Workes, that Faith may thence conceive
He can do more then what our Reason sees.

O Coward Faith! Religion's trembling Guide!
Whom even the dim-ey'd Arts must lead to see
What Nature only from our sloath does hide,

Causes remote, which Faith's dark dangers be.
Religion, e're impos'd, should first be taught;
Not seeme to dull obedience ready lay'd,
Then swallow'd strait for ease, but long be sought;
And be by Reason councell'd, though not sway'd.

God has enough to humane kinde disclos'd;
Our fleshly Garments he a while receiv'd,
And walk'd as if the Godhead were depos'd,
Yet could be then but by a few believ❜d.
The Faithless Jews will this at Doome confess,
Who did suspect him for his low disguise :

But, if he could have made his vertue less,

He had been more familiar to their Eyes.