Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 27

Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note!

And with warm whispers call thee out; The frosts are past, the storms are gone, And backward life at last comes on.

The lofty groves in express joys Reply unto the turtle's voice; And here in dust and dirt, O here The lilies of His love appear!

THE DAY SPRING.

Early, while yet the dark was gay And gilt with stars, more trim than day, Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose, The green immortal Branch arose; } And in a solitary place } S. Mark, Bow'd to His Father His blest face. } c. 1, v. 35- If this calm season pleased my Prince, Whose fulness no need could evince, Why should not I, poor silly sheep, His hours, as well as practice, keep?

Not that His hand is tied to these, From whom Time holds his transient lease But mornings new creations are, When men, all night sav'd by His care, Are still reviv'd; and well He may Expect them grateful with the day.

So for that first draught of His hand, } Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land, } Job, c. 38, The sons of G.o.d their thanks did bring, } v. 7- And all the morning stars did sing. } Besides, as His part heretofore The firstlings were of all that bore So now each day from all He saves Their soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.

This makes Him daily shed and show'r His graces at this early hour; Which both His care and kindness show, Cheering the good, quickening the slow.

As holy friends mourn at delay, And think each minute an hour's stay, So His Divine and loving Dove With longing throes[67] doth heave and move, And soar about us while we sleep; Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep, And shine, but always without fail, Before the slow sun can unveil, In new compa.s.sions breaks, like light, And morning-looks, which scatter night.

And wilt Thou let Thy creature be, When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?

Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises Dost leave him, having left his vices?

Since these, if suffer'd, may again Lead back the living to the slain.

O, change this scourge; or, if as yet None less will my transgressions fit, Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do What I would not submit unto.

FOOTNOTES:

[67] The original has _throws_.

THE RECOVERY.

I.

Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud And previous glories gild that blushing cloud; Whose lively fires in swift projections glance From hill to hill, and by refracted chance Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then Fly off in coy and winged flames again: If thou this day Hold on thy way, Know, I have got a greater light than thine; A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.

Then get thee down! then get thee down!

I have a Sun now of my own.

II.

Those nicer livers, who without thy rays Stir not abroad, those may thy l.u.s.tre praise; And wanting light--light, which no wants doth know-- To thee--weak shiner!--like blind Persians bow.

But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head, From His own bright eternal eye doth shed One living ray, There thy dead day Is needless, and man to a light made free, Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see.

Then get thee down! then get thee down!

I have a Sun now of my own.

THE NATIVITY.

Written in the year 1656.

Peace? and to all the world? Sure One, And He the Prince of Peace, hath none!

He travels to be born, and then Is born to travel more again.

Poor Galilee! thou canst not be The place for His Nativity.

His restless mother's call'd away, And not deliver'd till she pay.

A tax? 'tis so still! we can see The Church thrive in her misery, And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise, When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies.

Rise?--should all fall, we cannot be In more extremities than He.

Great Type of pa.s.sions! Come what will, Thy grief exceeds all copies still.

Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee: And though Thou found'st no welcome here, Thou didst provide us mansions there.

A stable was Thy Court, and when Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men: They were Thy courtiers; others none; And their poor manger was Thy throne.

No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold, Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.

No rockers waited on Thy birth, No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth; But her chaste lap and sacred breast, Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.

But stay: what light is that doth stream And drop here in a gilded beam?

It is Thy star runs page, and brings Thy tributary Eastern kings.

Lord! grant some light to us, that we May with them find the way to Thee!

Behold what mists eclipse the day!

How dark it is! Shed down one ray, To guide us out of this dark night, And say once more, "Let there be light!"

THE TRUE CHRISTMAS.

So, stick up ivy and the bays, And then restore the heathen ways.

Green will remind you of the spring, Though this great day denies the thing; And mortifies the earth, and all But your wild revels, and loose hall.

Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow Blushing upon your b.r.e.a.s.t.s' warm snow, That very dress your lightness will Rebuke, and wither at the ill.

The brightness of this day we owe Not unto music, masque, nor show, Nor gallant furniture, nor plate, But to the manger's mean estate.

His life while here, as well as birth, Was but a check to pomp and mirth; And all man's greatness you may see Condemned by His humility.

Then leave your open house and noise, To welcome Him with holy joys, And the poor shepherds' watchfulness, Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.

What you abound with, cast abroad To those that want, and ease your load.

Who empties thus, will bring more in; But riot is both loss and sin.

Dress finely what comes not in sight, And then you keep your Christmas right.

THE REQUEST.

O thou who didst deny to me This world's ador'd felicity, And ev'ry big imperious l.u.s.t, Which fools admire in sinful dust, With those fine subtle twists, that tie Their bundles of foul gallantry-- Keep still my weak eyes from the shine Of those gay things which are not Thine!

And shut my ears against the noise Of wicked, though applauded, joys!

For Thou in any land hast store Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; Where from the busy dust and heat, As well as storms, they may retreat.

A rock or bush are downy beds, When Thou art there, crowning their heads With secret blessings, or a tire Made of the Comforter's live fire.

And when Thy goodness in the dress Of anger will not seem to bless, Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain, Which, as it drops, clears all again.