Book 2 — HENRY VAUGHAN. (continued 2)

But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too,

Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, And all that distance was law and command. But we a healing Sun, by day and night, Have our sure guardian and our leading light. What thou didst hope for and believe we find And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, But we the substance have, and on him rest.

[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11.

THE FEAST.

1 Oh, come away, Make no delay, Come while my heart is clean and steady! While faith and grace Adorn the place, Making dust and ashes ready!

2 No bliss here lent Is permanent, Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; Short sips and sights Endear delights: Who seeks for more he would inherit.

3 Come then, true bread, Quickening the dead, Whose eater shall not, cannot die! Come, antedate On me that state, Which brings poor dust the victory.

4 Aye victory, Which from thine eye Breaks as the day doth from the east, When the spilt dew Like tears doth shew The sad world wept to be released.

5 Spring up, O wine, And springing shine With some glad message from his heart, Who did, when slain, These means ordain For me to have in him a part!

6 Such a sure part In his blest heart, The well where living waters spring, That, with it fed, Poor dust, though dead, Shall rise again, and live, and sing.

7 O drink and bread, Which strikes death dead, The food of man's immortal being! Under veils here Thou art my cheer, Present and sure without my seeing.

8 How dost thou fly And search and pry Through all my parts, and, like a quick And knowing lamp, Hunt out each damp, Whose shadow makes me sad or sick!

9 O what high joys! The turtle's voice And songs I hear! O quickening showers Of my Lord's blood, You make rocks bud, And crown dry hills with wells and flowers!

10 For this true ease, This healing peace, For this [brief] taste of living glory, My soul and all, Kneel down and fall, And sing his sad victorious story!

11 O thorny crown, More soft than down! O painful cross, my bed of rest! O spear, the key Opening the way! O thy worst state, my only best!

12 O all thy griefs Are my reliefs, As all my sins thy sorrows were! And what can I, To this reply? What, O God! but a silent tear?

13 Some toil and sow That wealth may flow, And dress this earth for next year's meat: But let me heed Why thou didst bleed, And what in the next world to eat.

'Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper of the Lamb.'—Rev. xix. 9.

THE WATERFALL.

With what deep murmurs, through time's silent stealth, Does thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth Here flowing fall, And chide and call, As if his liquid, loose retinue staid Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid; The common pass, Where, clear as glass, All must descend, Not to an end, But quickened by this deep and rocky grave, Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank! where often I Have sat, and pleased my pensive eye; Why, since each drop of thy quick store Runs thither whence it flowed 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 he'll 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 find, Unless that Spirit lead his mind, Which first upon thy face did move And hatched all with his quickening love. As this loud brook's incessant fall In streaming rings re-stagnates all, Which reach by course the bank, and then Are no more seen: just so pass men. O my invisible estate, My glorious liberty, still late! Thou art the channel my soul seeks, Not this with cataracts and creeks.