HENRY VAUGHAN 1621–1695

Ah! what time wilt Thou come? When shall that cry, ‘The Bridegroom’s coming!’ fill the sky? Shall it in the evening run, When our words and works are done? Or will Thy all-surprising light Break at midnight, When either sleep or some dark pleasure Possesseth mad man without measure? Or shall these early, fragrant hours Unlock Thy bowers? And with their blush of light descry Thy locks crowned with eternity? Indeed it is the only time That with Thy glory best doth chime; All now are stirring, every field Full hymns doth yield; The whole creation shakes off night, And for Thy shadow looks the light; Stars now vanish without number, Sleepy planets set and slumber, The pursy clouds disband and scatter, All expect some sudden matter; Not one beam triumphs, but from far That morning star. O at what time soever Thou, Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, And, with Thy angels in the van, Descend to judge poor careless man, Grant I may not like puddle lie In a corrupt security, Where, if a traveller water crave, He finds it dead, and in a grave; But as this restless vocal spring All day and night doth run and sing, And, though here born, yet is acquainted Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted; So let me all my busy age In Thy free services engage; And though—while here—of force I must Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, And in my flesh, though vile and low, As this doth in her channel flow, Yet let my course, my aim, my love, And chief acquaintance be above; So when that day and hour shall come, In which Thy Self will be the sun, Thou’lt find me dressed and on my way, Watching the break of Thy great day.

I cannot reach it; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity.

Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven.

Why should men love A wolf, more than a lamb or dove? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God’s own beams? Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living—fie on men!— Are, when dead, medicinal then; If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise; Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself? Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul.

And yet the practice worldlings call Business, and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would God’s face see; Which angels guard, and with it play; Angels! which foul men drive away.

How do I study now, and scan Thee more than e’er I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light! O for thy centre and mid-day! For sure that is the narrow way!

Sure it was so. Man in those early days Was not all stone and earth; He shined a little, and by those weak rays Had some glimpse of his birth. He saw heaven o’er his head, and knew from whence He came, condemned, hither; And, as first-love draws strongest, so from hence His mind sure progressed thither. Things here were strange unto him; sweat and till; All was a thorn or weed; Nor did those last, but—like himself—died still As soon as they did seed; They seemed to quarrel with him; for that act, That fell him, foiled them all; He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked The whole frame with his fall. This made him long for home, as loth to stay With murmurers and foes; He sighed for Eden, and would often say, ‘Ah! what bright days were those!’ Nor was heaven cold unto him; for each day The valley or the mountain Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay In some green shade or fountain. Angels lay leiger here; each bush, and cell, Each oak and highway knew them: Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well, And he was sure to view them. Almighty Love! where art Thou now? mad man Sits down and freezeth on; He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan, But bids the thread be spun. I see Thy curtains are close-drawn; Thy bow Looks dim, too, in the cloud; Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below The centre, and his shroud. All’s in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies And hatcheth o’er Thy people— But hark! what trumpet’s that? what angel cries ‘Arise! thrust in Thy sickle’?

Through that pure virgin shrine, That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine, And face the moon: Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night.

Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun!

O, who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower; Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity?

No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch, and peep, And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

Dear night! this world’s defeat; The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ’s progress, and His prayer-time; The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.

God’s silent, searching flight; When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night; His still, soft call; His knocking-time; the soul’s dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch.

Were my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel’s 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 tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire; And by this world’s ill-guiding light, Err more than 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!

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 crossed? 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!

Happy those early days when I Shined in my angel infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walked 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 flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm-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.

They are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have shewed them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, Shining no where, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest, may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass; Or else remove me hence unto that hill Where I shall need no glass.