INTRODUCTION (continued 2)
Reading edition
How, like an Angel came I down,
and Vaughan's reference to his "angel infancy" is probably no more than an accidental coincidence. Though their points of view were similar in many respects, Traherne possessed a much stronger personality than Vaughan, and therefore had little or nothing to learn from him. It is likely enough that he owed something to Donne, as most of the poets of his time did; but I do not find any clear indications of that poet's influence in his writings. Traherne's style, indeed, is that of his age, but as to his matter, few poets, I think, can boast of more originality.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Traherne's poetry is that it anticipates so much that seems to belong to much later periods of our literary history. Traherne, indeed, is likely to suffer to some extent in his reputation because ideas which with him were certainly original—or at least as much so as any ideas in any poets can be said to be original—have since become commonplaces in our literature. The praise of the beauty and innocence of childhood is familiar enough to us now, and has, perhaps, in some instances been carried to a rather ridiculous extreme. That certainly was not the case in Traherne's time. So far as I know, he was the first who dwelt upon those ideas in any other than an incidental and allusive manner. It is true that we find in Vaughan some passages of a similar tendency, but they are few and slight in comparison with those which we find in Traherne. If there are similar passages in other poets previous to, or contemporary with, the latter, I must confess that I am unacquainted with them. Nor were the poetical possibilities of the theme discovered until more than a century afterwards, when William Blake, who by the light of genius—or shall we say lunacy?—discovered so much else, discovered them. It was fitting, indeed, that Blake, whose youthful experiences seem to have more nearly resembled Traherne's than those of any other poet, should have followed all unknowingly in the elder writer's footsteps. Had he ever sat down to record the events of his infancy and childhood, Blake's narrative, I think, however different in detail, must have been like that of his predecessor in its chief features. I do not believe that there is any point out of all those which I have quoted respecting Traherne's childhood which Blake might not also have recorded of himself. Much as they differed in matters of faith, there was a deep and fundamental agreement in character and temperament between the two poets. To both of them the things seen by their imaginations were more real than the things seen with the eye, and to neither of them was there any dividing line between the natural and the supernatural. Their faiths were founded upon intuition rather than reason, and they were no more troubled by doubt or disbelief than a mountain is. Their capacity for faith was infinite, and stopped short only when their imagination failed them—if it ever did fail them.
Another poet with whom Traherne has some remarkable affinities is Wordsworth—not the Wordsworth of later life, when his poetic vein, if not exhausted, had at least grown thin and unproductive, but the Wordsworth of the magnificent ode "Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." Let the reader once more peruse that poem, and note carefully the leading points in it. Then let him, bearing in mind the foregoing extracts from Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations," go carefully through the various poems in which the earlier poet celebrates the happiness of his infancy and childhood. When he has done this, let him ask himself if he would have believed that Wordsworth was unacquainted with Traherne's writings, supposing that they had been published before the later poet's time? I cannot think myself that it would have been easy in that case to think that the modern poet was entirely unindebted to the older one. It is hardly too much to say that there is not a thought of any value in Wordsworth's Ode which is not to be found in substance in Traherne. Of course, I do not say this with any view of disparaging Wordsworth, whose Ode, even if it had been, as we know it was not, derived from Traherne, would still have been a masterpiece. Its merit, like that of Gray's "Elegy," depends at least as much upon its form as upon its substance, and that, of course, was all Wordsworth's own. It is in a measure a testimony to the authentic character of their inspiration when two poets, unknown to each other, produce works which are so nearly identical in substance and spirit.
The reader will remember that Traherne in his youth determined to follow the bent of his own inclination at whatever cost of poverty or want of worldly success. That was the case also with Wordsworth. Another point in which, as it seems to me, they resembled each other was in the matter of poetic style. At first sight, indeed, there does not appear to be any likeness between them in this respect; yet, allowing for the difference in their times and their temperaments, I think we may find a good deal of similarity. Traherne's style, allowing for the nature of his subjects, is always simple and direct. His aim is to affect the minds of his readers by the weight of his thought and the enthusiasm of his utterance, not to astonish them by far-fetched metaphors or delight them with dulcet melodies. He has no ornament for ornament's sake, and he never attempts to clothe his "naked simple thought" in silken raiment or cloth of gold. He does not indulge in the metaphysical conceits and ingenuities with which the works of Donne and Cowley are so plentifully besprinkled. "Poetic diction" was as little sought for by him as by Wordsworth. He did not, however, fall into the error that Wordsworth sometimes did, of mistaking puerility for simplicity. I do not wish to press this point too far. I only desire to show that both poets were more solicitous about the substance than the form of their poetry. Wordsworth would have heartily endorsed the doctrine of Traherne that the best things are the commonest, and that natural objects and not artificial inventions are the true well-springs of delight.
Though the reader will, I hope, have agreed with my contention that Traherne anticipated a good many poetical ideas which have been thought to belong to much later dates, I can hardly expect him to accept without demur the claim I am now about to make on the poet's behalf. That Traherne had a considerable genius for metaphysics will be evident to any one who reads his "Christian Ethicks," or who studies at all carefully the contents of the present volume. But to claim that he was the originator of the metaphysical system which, since it was first made known, has created more discussion and exercised more influence than any other has done, will probably seem at first to be a very extravagant assertion. Yet that he had at least a clear prevision of that famous system which is known as the Berkeleian philosophy is, I think, incontestable. That theory, it seems to me, could hardly be stated in a clearer or more precise manner than it is in Traherne's poem entitled "My Spirit." I am much mistaken if the theory of "the non-existence of independent matter," which is the essence of Berkeley's system, is not to be found in this poem—not, it is true, stated as a philosophical dogma, but yet clearly implied, and not merely introduced as a flight of poetical fancy. It seems to me that if the following stanza from that poem is not altogether meaningless, no other construction can be placed upon it than that its author was a Berkeleian before Berkeley was born:
This made me present evermore With whatsoe'er I saw. An object, if it were before My eyes, was by Dame Nature's law Within my soul. Her store Was all at once within me: all Her treasures Were my immediate and internal pleasures, Substantial joys which did inform my Mind. With all She wrought My Soul was fraught And every object in my Heart a Thought Begot or was; I could not tell Whether the things did there Themselves appear, Which in my Spirit truly seem'd to dwell; Or whether my conforming Mind Were not even all that therein shin'd.
The idea that matter has no existence, apart from its existence in the Spirit of the Eternal, or in the soul of man, is surely clearly, if not positively, advanced in the last six lines of the above stanza. The thought, so strangely fascinating to a poet—and Berkeley no less than Traherne was one—that the whole exterior universe is not really a thing apart from and independent of man's consciousness of it, but something which exists only as it is perceived, is undeniably to be found in "My Spirit." I have quoted only one stanza of it, but the whole poem should be carefully studied, for it is throughout an assertion of the supremacy of mind over matter, and an averment that it is the former and not the latter which has a real existence. If it be thought that it is going too far to say that the Berkeleian system is to be found in the poem—which of course it is not as a reasoned-out and complete theory—it yet cannot be denied that it is there in germ and in such a form that it only required to be seized upon by an acute intellect to be developed in the way Berkeley developed it. That the latter knew nothing of Traherne's poem is certain, and therefore I am not attempting to detract in any way from the credit which belongs to him. I am only anxious to give the poet his due as the first who caught a glimpse of so notable a truth or error—which ever it may be.[F]
Deeply as Traherne was penetrated with a sense of the glory of the universe, and of the infinite greatness of its Creator, it was with no sense of abasement that he contemplated them. He felt that in his own soul, so capable of the sublimest conceptions and the most exalted aspirations, there must needs be a divine element. He was no outcast thrust out of Eden into a wilderness of spiritual destitution, but the son of a loving Father, born to a splendid inheritance, and at least as necessary to the Deity as servants and dependents are to keep up the state and dignity of a king. If God confers benefits on man it is in order that He may witness man's delight in them and gratitude for them. To see this is a supreme delight to Him, and without it there would be something wanting to His felicity. But I must quote a stanza from "The Recovery," lest the reader should think that I am misrepresenting the poet:
For God enjoy'd is all His End. Himself He then doth comprehend When He is blessed, magnified, Extoll'd, exalted, prais'd and glorified, Honor'd, esteem'd, belov'd, enjoy'd, Admired, sanctified, obey'd, That is received. For He Doth place His whole Felicity In that, who is despised and defied, Undeified almost if once denied.
Matthew Arnold said of Goethe that he
Neither made man too much a God Nor God too much a man.
That could hardly be said of Traherne. It is scarcely possible, I think, to deny that in the above-quoted passage he committed the fault of making "God too much a man." That, however, was a fault which he shared with most of the theologians of his time. Perhaps it is a fault which is almost inseparable from a sincere and fervent faith. Without refining away the conception of God to a mere abstraction, it is impossible to think of Him otherwise than as an infinitely magnified and glorified man. Since the human mind is so constituted, it is surely vain to attempt to set limits within which we are to think of Him. Every man will do this according to the law of his own temperament. The man of cool reason and well-controlled passions will form a very different conception of the Deity from the man of enthusiastic disposition and ardent emotions. To think of the Deity as "a power not ourselves which makes for righteousness" is no more possible for a Traherne, than it is for an Arnold to think of God as One
who is despised and defied, Undeified almost if once denied.
To make all men think alike, whether on political, moral, or theological subjects, is now seen by all but a very few reactionaries to be an impossible task. It is needless to defend Traherne for the views he took regarding the relations between God and man; I have only thought it expedient to show that the line he followed was that to which he was impelled by the character of his individuality.
An excellent poet, a prose-writer of equal or perhaps greater excellence, an exemplary preacher and teacher, who gave in his own person an example of the virtues which he inculcated, one with whom religion was not a garment to be put on, but the life of his life and the spring of all his actions—such was Thomas Traherne. Much as I dissent from his opinions, and much as my point of view as regards the meaning and the purpose of life differs from his, I have yet found it easy to appreciate the fineness of his character, and the charm of his writings. It is not necessary that we should believe as Traherne believed in order to derive benefit from his works. Men of all faiths may study them with profit, and derive from them a new impulse towards that "plain living and high thinking" by which alone happiness can be reached and peace of mind assured.
It remains for me to tell the strange story of the fate of Traherne's manuscripts after his death. They passed, we may reasonably suppose, together with his books, into the hands of his brother Philip, as directed in his will. Philip Traherne, I imagine, was in some way—perhaps by marriage—connected with a family named Skipp, which dwelt at Ledbury, in Herefordshire. These Skipps appear to have become the owners and custodians of the poet's remains; and in their hands they probably rested down to the year 1888, when it seems that the property belonging to the family was dispersed. Into what hands the Traherne manuscripts then fell cannot now be ascertained; but it was certainly into hands that were ignorant of their value. In the latter part of 1896, or the early months of 1897, some of them had descended to the street bookstall, that last hope of books and manuscripts in danger of being consigned to the waste-paper mills. Here, most fortunately, two of them were discovered by my friend, Mr. William T. Brooke, who acquired them at the price of a few pence. They could hardly have fallen into better hands, for Mr. Brooke's knowledge of our poetical literature, and especially of sacred poetry and hymnology, is no less remarkable for its extent than for its exactness. As soon as he could find time to examine the manuscripts he at once saw that they were of great interest and value. He could hardly imagine that writings so admirable could be the work of an unknown author; and he at length came to the conclusion, from the fact that the poems resembled those of Henry Vaughan in their subjects and partly in their sentiments, that they must be his. This was an unfortunate idea, since it caused a considerable delay in the tracing out of the real author. Mr. Brooke communicated his discovery to the late Dr. Grosart, who became so much interested in the matter that he purchased the two manuscripts. He, too, after some waverings of opinion, during which he was disposed to attribute the manuscripts, first to Theophilus Gale, and secondly to Thomas Vaughan, became convinced that they must be Henry Vaughan's. Under this persuasion he prepared for the press a most elaborate edition of Vaughan's works, in which the matter contained in the manuscripts was to be included. This edition he was, at the time of his death, endeavouring to find means to publish. That the work thus projected was not actually published must, I think, be regarded as a fortunate circumstance. Whether the poems, on the authority of Dr. Grosart, would have been accepted as Vaughan's, can only be conjectured; but it seems probable that they would, since it is unlikely that any critic, however much he might have doubted their imputed authorship, would have been able to trace out the real author. An irreparable injury would thus have been inflicted upon Traherne, while Vaughan would have received an unneeded accession of fame, at the expense of puzzling all readers of a critical disposition by the exhibition of inconsistent and irreconcilable qualities.
Upon Dr. Grosart's death his library was purchased by the well-known bookseller, Mr. Charles Higham, of Farringdon Street. Included in it were the two Traherne manuscript volumes. Having learned from Mr. Brooke the story of the manuscripts, and that they were in Mr. Higham's hands, I became interested in the matter, and ultimately purchased them. Afterwards, when a part of Dr. Grosart's library was sold at Sotheby's, I became the possessor of the third manuscript volume, which their late owner appears not to have known to be Traherne's, though nothing is needed but to compare it with the other volumes in order to see that all three are in the same handwriting.
It is due to Mr. Higham to say that he most liberally allowed me to examine the manuscripts before purchasing them, so that I might form my own opinion as to their authorship. I need not say that I should have been delighted if I could have come to the same conclusion that Mr. Brooke and Dr. Grosart had arrived at. Inclination and interest alike impelled me to take their view. But when I sat down to read the poems and to compare them with the acknowledged writings of Henry Vaughan, I soon began to doubt, and it required but a little time for that doubt to develop into a conviction that whoever might have been their author, they were assuredly not written by the Silurist. It is true that the poems deal, as most of Vaughan's do, solely with religious or moral subjects, and that the author dwells continually, as Vaughan did, upon the subjects of childhood and innocence; and that both authors display the same love of nature and of a simple and natural life. It is true also that we find both poets making use of some rather uncommon words and phrases, and that we find in both the same free use of defective rhymes. These resemblances, however, are merely superficial. In all the deeper matters of style, thought, and temperament, Traherne and Vaughan were as far apart as any two men, animated as both were by a deep spirit of piety and beneficence, could well be. To me, had there been no other difference, one striking note of dissimilarity would have sufficed to prove that the poems in manuscript and those of Vaughan could not have proceeded from the same pen. In the manuscript poems an ever-present quality is a passionate fervour of thought, an intense ardour of enthusiasm, which is not to be found, or at least only rarely, in Vaughan's works. Restrained emotion, expressed in verse which moves slowly and not without effort, is, it seems to me, the leading characteristic of Vaughan's poetry; emotion in full flood, expressed in lively and energetic diction, is that of Traherne's. With Traherne all nature is bathed in warmth and light: with Vaughan we feel sensible of a certain coolness of temperament, and are conscious that he rejoices rather in the twilight than in the radiance of noonday.
With the conviction that the poems could not be Vaughan's, while yet it seemed unlikely that they could be the work of an altogether unknown or unpractised writer, I began to search for indications by which their author might possibly be discovered. Here again I found Mr. Brooke's assistance most valuable. To an edition of Giles Fletcher's "Christ's Victory and Triumph," which he had edited, he had appended a number of previously uncollected seventeenth-century poems. Among these was one entitled "The Ways of Wisdom." To this poem he now drew my attention, as he had previously drawn Dr. Grosart's. It was at once evident to me that its style was very similar to that of the manuscript poems. In fact, that poem, as any reader will see who cares to study it in comparison with the other poems in this volume, presents such strong resemblances and parallels with them that it is hardly too much to say that the question as to their common authorship might have been rested entirely upon it. However, it was of course desirable to find further evidence. Mr. Brooke told me that he had found the poem in a little book in the British Museum, entitled "A Serious and Patheticall Contemplation of the Mercies of God, in several most Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings for the same."[G] The book, Mr. Brooke also told me, contained other pieces in verse. These I desired him to copy out. When he had done so it at once became evident to me that the author of the manuscript poems and of the "Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings" must be, beyond all doubt, one and the same person. The fact was as clearly demonstrated to my mind as the truths of the multiplication table. That point being settled, the next thing was to discover, if possible, who was the author of the "Devout and Sublime Thanksgivings." That might have remained unknown to the end of time, but for one clue which the book luckily afforded. This was, as the reader has seen, the statement in the "Address to the Reader" that the author was private chaplain to Sir Orlando Bridgeman. This clue had only to be patiently followed up to lead to the discovery of the author's name. This Mr. Brooke at last found to be Thomas Traherne. It was from Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses that the information was obtained, and from that we also learned that Traherne was the author of two books, "Roman Forgeries" and "Christian Ethicks." The next step was to examine these works to see if any evidence could be found which would connect them with the author of the manuscripts. That evidence was found in "Christian Ethicks." This was the poem which the reader will find on p. 157. The same poem, though in a shorter form and with a good many textual variations, appears in the manuscript "Centuries of Meditations" (see p. 134). Here then was proof positive that Traherne and no other was the author of the manuscripts in my possession. Though I did not require this evidence myself, it was fortunate it was found, since its discovery put the matter beyond all doubt. Will the reader accuse me of undue vanity if I say that it was with a good deal of self-satisfaction, and no little rejoicing, that I welcomed this confirmation of the opinion which I had formed solely upon critical grounds? One might be tempted to think that the whole train of circumstances by which Traherne was discovered, first to be the author of the anonymous "Thanksgivings," and through that of the more important manuscripts, has the appearance of being something more than the work of chance, were it not that their long concealment, their narrow escape from entire destruction, and the fact that the verses printed in the present volume form only a part of Traherne's poetical works, seem to forbid us to entertain such an idea.[H]
The manuscripts from which the contents of this book have been derived are three in number. They consist of one folio and two octavo volumes. The folio volume contains all the poems from "The Salutation" to "Goodness" which are here printed. The same volume contains a large number of prose essays and memoranda alphabetically arranged so as to form a kind of commonplace book. The greater part of these are in a handwriting which differs from Traherne's. They appear to have been written by a friend of the poet's, since Traherne has in many cases added remarks of his own to those in the other writer's handwriting. I believe it was Dr. Grosart's intention to print the whole of this material; but although it certainly has a curious interest, it does not appear to me that it is worth while to publish it at present. Some parts of this commonplace book appear to have been used as material for "Christian Ethicks" and "Centuries of Meditations"; and the whole of it, as might be expected, is more like the notes of a student than the finished work of an essayist.
The second manuscript volume contains Traherne's "Centuries of Meditations," which I have already described and quoted largely from. The third volume contains Traherne's private religious meditations, devotions, and prayers. It is in this latter volume that the "Hymn on St. Bartholomew's Day," a facsimile of which is given as a frontispiece to the present volume, is found.
I must not conclude without thanking my friends, G. Thorn Drury and E. V. Lucas, to both of whom I am indebted for many valuable suggestions. I have also to thank the Rev. Canon Beeching for similar and not less appreciated assistance. Thanks are due also to the Rev. J. C. Foster, who drew my attention to the passage in Aubrey's "Miscellanies" relating to Traherne's visions, and to Miss Isabel Southall, who searched diligently, though without success, to find out the time and place of Traherne's birth. I have already acknowledged my obligations to Mr. W. T. Brooke, Mr. E. H. W. Dunkin, and Mr. Gordon Goodwin.
THE SALUTATION
I
These little limbs, These eyes and hands which here I find, These rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins, Where have ye been? behind What curtain were ye from me hid so long, Where was, in what abyss, my speaking tongue?
II
When silent I So many thousand, thousand years Beneath the dust did in a chaos lie, How could I smiles or tears, Or lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? Welcome ye treasures which I now receive.
III
I that so long Was nothing from eternity, Did little think such joys as ear or tongue To celebrate or see: Such sounds to hear, such hands to feel, such feet, Beneath the skies on such a ground to meet.
IV
New burnisht joys! Which yellow gold and pearls excel! Such sacred treasures are the limbs in boys, In which a soul doth dwell; Their organised joints and azure veins More wealth include than all the world contains.
V
From dust I rise, And out of nothing now awake, These brighter regions which salute mine eyes, A gift from God I take. The earth, the seas, the light, the day, the skies, The sun and stars are mine; if those I prize.
VI
Long time before I in my mother's womb was born, A God preparing did this glorious store, The world for me adorn. Into this Eden so divine and fair, So wide and bright, I come His son and heir.
VII
A stranger here Strange things doth meet, strange glories see; Strange treasures lodg'd in this fair world appear, Strange all and new to me; But that they mine should be, who nothing was, That strangest is of all, yet brought to pass.
WONDER
I
How like an Angel came I down! How bright are all things here! When first among His works I did appear O how their Glory me did crown! The world resembled His Eternity, In which my soul did walk; And every thing that I did see Did with me talk.
II
The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air; Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense, And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever must endure In my esteem.
III
A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all his Glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all Spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine; I nothing in the world did know But 'twas divine.
IV
Harsh ragged objects were concealed, Oppressions, tears and cries, Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes Were hid, and only things revealed Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize. The state of Innocence And bliss, not trades and poverties, Did fill my sense.
V
The streets were paved with golden stones, The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! The sons of men were holy ones, In joy and beauty they appeared to me, And every thing which here I found, While like an angel I did see, Adorned the ground.
VI
Rich diamond and pearl and gold In every place was seen; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green, Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great Wonders clothed with glory did appear, Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was everywhere; No joy to this!
VII
Cursed and devised proprieties, With envy, avarice And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Paradise, Flew from the splendour of mine eyes, And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, I dreamed not aught of those, But wandered over all men's grounds, And found repose.
VIII
Proprieties themselves were mine And hedges ornaments, Walls, boxes, coffers, and their rich contents Did not divide my joys, but all combine. Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed My joys by others worn: For me they all to wear them seemed When I was born.
EDEN
I
A learned and a happy ignorance Divided me From all the vanity, From all the sloth, care, pain, and sorrow that advance The madness and the misery Of men. No error, no distraction I Saw soil the earth or overcloud the sky.
II
I knew not that there was a serpent's sting, Whose poison shed On men, did overspread The world; nor did I dream of such a thing As sin, in which mankind lay dead. They all were brisk and living wights to me, Yea, pure and full of immortality.
III
Joy, pleasure, beauty, kindness, glory, love, Sleep, day, life, light, Peace, melody, my sight, My ears and heart did fill and freely move. All that I saw did me delight. The Universe was then a world of treasure, To me an universal world of pleasure.
IV
Unwelcome penitence was then unknown, Vain costly toys, Swearing and roaring boys, Shops, markets, taverns, coaches, were unshown; So all things were that drowned my joys: No thorns choked up my path, nor hid the face Of bliss and beauty, nor eclipsed the place.
V
Only what Adam in his first estate, Did I behold; Hard silver and dry gold As yet lay under ground; my blessed fate Was more acquainted with the old And innocent delights which he did see In his original simplicity.
VI
Those things which first his Eden did adorn My infancy Did crown. Simplicity Was my protection when I first was born. Mine eyes those treasures first did see Which God first made. The first effects of Love My first enjoyments upon earth did prove;
VII
And were so great, and so divine, so pure, So fair and sweet, So true; when I did meet Them here at first, they did my soul allure, And drew away my infant feet Quite from the works of men; that I might see The glorious wonders of the Deity.
INNOCENCE
I
But that which most I wonder at, which most I did esteem my bliss, which most I boast, And ever shall enjoy, is that within I felt no stain nor spot of sin. No darkness then did overshade, But all within was pure and bright, No guilt did crush nor fear invade, But all my soul was full of light. A joyful sense and purity Is all I can remember, The very night to me was bright, 'Twas Summer in December.
II
A serious meditation did employ My soul within, which taken up with joy Did seem no outward thing to note, but fly All objects that do feed the eye, While it those very objects did Admire and prize and praise and love, Which in their glory most are hid, Which presence only doth remove. Their constant daily presence I Rejoicing at, did see, And that which takes them from the eye Of others offered them to me.
III
No inward inclination did I feel To avarice or pride; my soul did kneel In admiration all the day. No lust, nor strife, Polluted then my infant life. No fraud nor anger in me mov'd No malice, jealousy, or spite; All that I saw I truly lov'd: Contentment only and delight Were in my soul. O Heav'n! what bliss Did I enjoy and feel! What powerful delight did this Inspire! for this I daily kneel.
IV
Whether it be that Nature is so pure, And custom only vicious; or that sure God did by miracle the guilt remove, And made my soul to feel his Love So early: or that 'twas one day, Wherein this happiness I found, Whose strength and brightness so do ray, That still it seems me to surround, Whate'er it is, it is a Light So endless unto me That I a world of true delight Did then, and to this day do see.
V
That prospect was the gate of Heaven, that day The ancient Light of Eden did convey Into my soul: I was an Adam there, A little Adam in a sphere Of joys! O there my ravisht sense Was entertained in Paradise, And had a sight of Innocence, Which was beyond all bound and price. An antepast of Heaven sure! I on the Earth did reign, Within, without me, all was pure: I must become a child again.
THE PREPARATIVE
I
My body being dead, my limbs unknown; Before I skill'd to prize Those living stars mine eyes, Before my tongue or cheeks were to me shown, Before I knew my hands were mine, Or that my sinews did my members join, When neither nostril, foot nor ear As yet was seen, or felt, or did appear: I was within A house I knew not, newly cloth'd with skin.
II
Then was my soul my only all to me, A living endless eye, Just bounded with the sky. Whose power, whose act, whose essence, was to see: I was an inward Sphere of Light, Or an interminable Orb of Sight, An endless and a living day, A vital Sun that round about did ray All life, all sense, A naked simple pure Intelligence.
III
I then no thirst nor hunger did perceive, No dull necessity, No want was known to me; Without disturbance then I did receive The fair ideas of all things, And had the honey even without the stings. A meditating inward eye Gazing at quiet did within me lie, And every thing Delighted me that was their heavenly King.
IV
For sight inherits beauty, hearing sounds, The nostril sweet perfumes, All tastes have hidden rooms Within the tongue; and feeling feeling wounds With pleasure and delight; but I Forgot the rest, and was all sight or eye: Unbodied and devoid of care, Just as in Heaven the holy Angels are, For simple sense Is Lord of all created excellence.
V
Being thus prepared for all felicity, Not prepossest with dross, Nor stiffly glued to gross And dull materials that might ruin me, Nor fettered by an iron fate With vain affections in my earthly state To any thing that might seduce My sense, or else bereave it of its use, I was as free As if there were nor sin, nor misery.
VI
Pure empty powers that did nothing loath, Did like the fairest glass, Or spotless polished brass, Themselves soon in their object's image clothe. Divine impressions when they came Did quickly enter and my soul inflame. 'Tis not the object, but the light That maketh Heaven: 'tis a purer sight. Felicity Appears to none but them that purely see.
VII
A disentangled and a naked sense, A mind that's unpossest, A disengaged breast, An empty and a quick intelligence Acquainted with the golden mean, An even spirit pure and serene, Is that where beauty, excellence, And pleasure keep their Court of Residence. My soul retire, Get free, and so thou shalt even all admire.
THE INSTRUCTION
I
Spue out thy filth, thy flesh abjure; Let not contingents thee defile, For transients only are impure, And aery things thy soul beguile.
II
Unfelt, unseen, let those things be Which to thy spirit were unknown, When to thy blessed infancy The world, thyself, thy God was shown.
III
All that is great and stable stood Before thy purer eyes at first: All that in visibles is good Or pure, or fair, or unaccurst. Whatever else thou now dost see In custom, action, or desire, 'Tis but a part of misery In which all men at once conspire.
THE VISION
I
Flight is but the preparative. The sight Is deep and infinite, Ah me! 'tis all the glory, love, light, space, Joy, beauty and variety That doth adorn the Godhead's dwelling-place, 'Tis all that eye can see. Even trades themselves seen in celestial light, And cares and sins and woes are bright.
II
Order the beauty even of beauty is, It is the rule of bliss, The very life and form and cause of pleasure; Which if we do not understand, Ten thousand heaps of vain confused treasure Will but oppress the land. In blessedness itself we that shall miss, Being blind, which is the cause of bliss.
III
First then behold the world as thine, and well Note that where thou dost dwell. See all the beauty of the spacious case, Lift up thy pleas'd and ravisht eyes, Admire the glory of the Heavenly place And all its blessings prize. That sight well seen thy spirit shall prepare, The first makes all the other rare.
IV
Men's woes shall be but foils unto thy bliss, Thou once enjoying this: Trades shall adorn and beautify the earth, Their ignorance shall make thee bright, Were not their griefs Democritus his mirth? Their faults shall keep thee right: All shall be thine, because they all conspire, To feed and make thy glory higher.
V
To see a glorious fountain and an end, To see all creatures tend To thy advancement, and so sweetly close In thy repose: to see them shine In use, in worth, in service, and even foes Among the rest made thine: To see all these unite at once in thee Is to behold felicity.
VI
To see the fountain is a blessed thing, It is to see the King Of Glory face to face: but yet the end, The glorious, wondrous end is more; And yet the fountain there we comprehend, The spring we there adore: For in the end the fountain best is shewn, As by effects the cause is known.
VII
From one, to one, in one to see all things, To see the King of Kings But once in two; to see His endless treasures Made all mine own, myself the end Of all his labours! 'Tis the life of pleasures! To see myself His friend! Who all things finds conjoined in Him alone, Sees and enjoys the Holy One.
THE RAPTURE
I
Sweet Infancy! O fire of heaven! O sacred Light! How fair and bright! How great am I, Whom all the world doth magnify!
II
O Heavenly joy! O great and sacred blessedness Which I possess! So great a joy Who did into my arms convey!
III
From God above Being sent, the Heavens me enflame: To praise his Name The stars do move! The burning sun doth shew His love.
IV
O how divine Am I! To all this sacred wealth, This life and health, Who raised? Who mine Did make the same? What hand divine?
THE IMPROVEMENT
I
'Tis more to recollect, than make. The one Is but an accident without the other. We cannot think the world to be the Throne Of God, unless His Wisdom shine as Brother Unto His Power, in the fabric, so That we the one may in the other know.
II
His goodness also must in both appear, And all the children of His love be found In the creation of the starry sphere, And in the forming of the fruitful ground; Before we can that happiness descry Which is the Daughter of the deity.
III
His wisdom shines in spreading forth the sky, His power's great in ordering the Sun, His goodness very marvellous and high Appears, in every work His hand hath done: And all His works in their variety United or asunder please the eye.
IV
But neither goodness, wisdom, power, nor love, Nor happiness itself in things could be, Did they not all in one fair order move, And jointly by their service end in me: Had He not made an eye to be the Sphere Of all things, none of these would e'er appear.
V
His wisdom, goodness, power, as they unite, All things in one, that they may be the treasures Of one enjoyer, shine in the utmost height They can attain; and are most glorious pleasures, When all the universe conjoined in one, Exalts a creature as if that alone.
VI
To bring the moisture of far-distant seas Into a point, to make them present here, In virtue, not in bulk; one man to please With all the powers of the Highest Sphere From East, from West, from North and South, to bring The pleasing influence of every thing,
VII
Is far more great than to create them there Where now they stand; His wisdom more doth shine In that His might and goodness more appear In recollecting; He is more divine In making every thing a gift to one Than in the sev'ral parts of all His spacious Throne.
VIII
Herein we see a marvellous design, And apprehending clearly the great skill Of that great Architect, whose love doth shine In all His works, we find His Life and Will: For lively counsels do the Godhead shew, And these His love and goodness make us know.
IX
By wise contrivance He doth all things guide, And so dispose them, that while they unite For man He endless pleasures doth provide, And shows that happiness is His delight, His creatures' happiness as well as His: For that in truth He seeks, and 'tis His bliss.
X
O rapture! wonder! ecstasie! delight! How great must then His glory be, how great Our blessedness! How vast and infinite Our pleasure, how transcendent, how complete, If we the goodness of our God possess, And all His joy be in our blessedness.
XI
Almighty power when it is employed For one, that He with glory might be crown'd; Eternal wisdom when it is enjoyed By one whom all its pleasures do surround, Produce a creature that must, all his days, Return the sacrifice of endless praise.
XII
But Oh! the vigour of mine infant sense Drives me too far: I had not yet the eye, The apprehension, or intelligence Of things so very great, divine, and high. But all things were eternal unto me, And mine, and pleasing which mine eye did see.
XIII
That was enough at first: eternity, Infinity, and love were silent joys; Power, wisdom, goodness, and felicity; All these which now our care and sin destroys, By instinct virtually were well discern'd, And by their representatives were learn'd.
XIV
As sponges gather moisture from the earth Whereon there is scarce any sign of dew; As air infecteth salt: so at my birth All these were unperceiv'd, yet near and true: Not by reflexion, and distinctly known, But by their efficacy all mine own.
THE APPROACH[I]
I
That childish thoughts such joys inspire, Doth make my wonder and His glory higher: His bounty and my wealth more great, It shows His Kingdom and His Work complete: In which there is not anything Not meet to be the joy of Cherubim.
II
He in our childhood with us walks, And with our thoughts mysteriously he talks; He often visiteth our minds, But cold acceptance in us ever finds: We send Him often grieved away; Else would He shew us all His Kingdom's joy.
III
O Lord, I wonder at Thy Love, Which did my Infancy so early move: But more at that which did forbear, And move so long, tho' slighted many a year: But most of all, at last that Thou Thyself shouldst me convert I scarce know how.
IV
Thy Gracious motions oft in vain Assaulted me: my heart did hard remain Long time: I sent my God away, Grieved much that He could not impart His joy. I careless was, nor did regard The end for which He all those thoughts prepar'd;
V
But now with new and open eyes, I see beneath as if above the skies; And as I backward look again, See all His thoughts and mine most clear and plain. He did approach, He me did woo; I wonder that my God this thing would do.
VI
From nothing taken first I was; What wondrous things His glory brought to pass! Now in this world I Him behold, And me enveloped in more than gold; In deep abysses of delights, In present hidden precious benefits.
VII
Those thoughts His goodness long before Prepared as precious and celestial store, With curious art in me inlaid, That Childhood might itself alone be said My tutor, teacher, guide to be, Instructed then even by the Deity.
DUMBNESS
Sure Man was born to meditate on things, And to contemplate the eternal springs Of God and Nature, glory, bliss, and pleasure; That life and love might be his Heavenly treasure; And therefore speechless made at first, that He Might in himself profoundly busied be: And not vent out, before he hath ta'en in Those antidotes that guard his soul from sin. Wise Nature made him deaf, too, that He might Not be disturbed, while he doth take delight In inward things, nor be deprav'd with tongues, Nor injured by the errors and the wrongs That mortal words convey. For sin and death Are most infused by accursed breath, That flowing from corrupted entrails, bear Those hidden plagues which souls may justly fear. This, my dear friends, this was my blessed case; For nothing spoke to me but the fair face Of Heaven and Earth, before myself could speak, I then my Bliss did, when my silence, break. My non-intelligence of human words Ten thousand pleasures unto me affords; For while I knew not what they to me said, Before their souls were into mine convey'd, Before that living vehicle of wind Could breathe into me their infected mind, Before my thoughts were leaven'd with theirs, before There any mixture was; the Holy Door, Or gate of souls was close, and mine being one Within itself to me alone was known. Then did I dwell within a world of light, Distinct and separate from all men's sight, Where I did feel strange thoughts, and such things see That were, or seem'd, only reveal'd to me, There I saw all the world enjoyed by one; There I was in the world myself alone; No business serious seemed but one; no work But one was found; and that did in me lurk. D'ye ask me what? It was with clearer eyes To see all creatures full of Deities; Especially one's self: And to admire The satisfaction of all true desire: 'Twas to be pleased with all that God hath done; 'Twas to enjoy even all beneath the sun: 'Twas with a steady and immediate sense To feel and measure all the excellence Of things; 'twas to inherit endless treasure, And to be filled with everlasting pleasure: To reign in silence, and to sing alone, To see, love, covet, have, enjoy and praise, in one: To prize and to be ravish'd; to be true, Sincere and single in a blessed view Of all His gifts. Thus was I pent within A fort, inpregnable to any sin: Until the avenues being open laid Whole legions entered, and the forts betrayed: Before which time a pulpit in my mind, A temple and a teacher I did find, With a large text to comment on. No ear But eyes themselves were all the hearers there, And every stone, and every star a tongue, And every gale of wind a curious song. The Heavens were an oracle, and spake Divinity: the Earth did undertake The office of a priest; and I being dumb (Nothing besides was dumb), all things did come With voices and instructions; but when I Had gained a tongue, their power began to die. Mine ears let other noises in, not theirs, A noise disturbing all my songs and prayers. My foes pulled down the temple to the ground; They my adoring soul did deeply wound And casting that into a swoon, destroyed The Oracle, and all I there enjoyed: And having once inspired me with a sense Of foreign vanities, they march out thence In troops that cover and despoil my coasts, Being the invisible, most hurtful hosts. Yet the first words mine infancy did hear The things which in my dumbness did appear, Preventing all the rest, got such a root Within my heart, and stick so close unto 't, It may be trampled on, but still will grow And nutriment to soil itself will owe. The first Impressions are Immortal all, And let mine enemies hoop, cry, roar, or call, Yet these will whisper if I will but hear, And penetrate the heart, if not the ear.
SILENCE
A quiet silent person may possess All that is great or high in Blessedness. The inward work is the supreme: for all The other were occasioned by the fall. A man that seemeth idle to the view Of others, may the greatest business do. Those acts which Adam in his innocence Performed, carry all the excellence. Those outward busy acts he knew not, were But meaner matters of a lower sphere. Building of churches, giving to the poor, In dust and ashes lying on the floor, Administering of justice, preaching peace, Ploughing and toiling for a forct increase, With visiting the sick, or governing The rude and ignorant: this was a thing As then unknown. For neither ignorance Nor poverty, nor sickness did advance Their banner in the world, till sin came in. Those therefore were occasioned all by sin. The first and only work he had to do, Was in himself to feel his bliss, to view His sacred treasures, to admire, rejoice, Sing praises with a sweet and heavenly voice, See, prize, give hourly thanks within, and love, Which is the high and only work above Them all. And this at first was mine; these were My exercises of the highest sphere. To see, approve, take pleasure, and rejoice Within, is better than an empty voice. No melody in words can equal that; The sweetest organ, lute, or harp is flat And dull, compared thereto. And O that still I might admire my Father's love and skill! This is to honour, worship, and adore, This is to love Him: nay, it is far more, It is to enjoy Him, and to imitate The life and glory of His high Estate. 'Tis to receive with holy reverence, To understand His gifts, and with a sense Of pure devotion and humility, To prize His works, His Love to magnify. O happy ignorance of other things Which made me present with that King of Kings! And like Him too! All spirit, life, and power, All love and joy, in His Eternal Bower, A world of innocence as then was mine, In which the joys of Paradise did shine: And while I was not here I was in Heaven, Not resting one, but every, day in seven, For ever minding with a lively sense, The universe in all its excellence. No other thoughts did intervene, to cloy, Divert, extinguish, or eclipse my joy, No other customs, new-found wants, or dreams Invented here polluted my pure streams, No aloes or drugs, no wormwood star Was seen to fall into the sea from far; No rotten soul, did like an apple near My soul approach. There's no contagion here. An unperceived donor gave all pleasures, There nothing was but I, and all my treasures. In that fair world, one only was the Friend, One golden stream, one spring, one only end. There only one did sacrifice and sing To only one Eternal Heavenly King. The union was so strait between them two, That all was either's which my soul could view: His gifts and my possessions, both our treasures; He mine, and I the ocean of His pleasures. He was an ocean of delights from Whom The living springs and golden streams did come: My bosom was an ocean into which They all did run. And me they did enrich. A vast and infinite capacity, Did make my bosom like the Deity, In whose mysterious and celestial mind All ages and all worlds together shin'd, Who tho' He nothing said did always reign, And in Himself Eternity contain. The world was more in me, than I in it. The King of Glory in my soul did sit, And to Himself in me he always gave All that He takes delight to see me have, For so my spirit was an endless Sphere, Like God Himself, and Heaven, and Earth was there.
MY SPIRIT
I
My naked simple Life was I; That Act so strongly shin'd Upon the earth, the sea, the sky, It was the substance of my mind; The sense itself was I. I felt no dross nor matter in my Soul, No brims nor borders, such as in a bowl We see. My essence was capacity, That felt all things; The thought that springs Therefrom's itself. It hath no other wings To spread abroad, nor eyes to see, Nor hands distinct to feel, Nor knees to kneel. But being simple like the Deity In its own centre is a sphere Not shut up here, but everywhere.
II
It acts not from a centre to Its object as remote, But present is when it doth view, Being with the Being it doth note Whatever it doth do. It doth not by another engine work, But by itself; which in the act doth lurk. Its essence is transformed into a true And perfect act, And so exact Hath God appeared in this mysterious fact, That 'tis all eye, all act, all sight, And what it please can be, Not only see, Or do; for 'tis more voluble than light: Which can put on ten thousand forms, Being cloth'd with what itself adorns.
III
This made me present evermore With whatsoe'er I saw. An object, if it were before My eye, was by Dame Nature's law, Within my soul. Her store Was all at once within me; all Her treasures Were my immediate and internal pleasures, Substantial joys, which did inform my mind. With all she wrought My soul was fraught, And every object in my heart a thought Begot, or was; I could not tell, Whether the things did there Themselves appear, Which in my Spirit truly seem'd to dwell; Or whether my conforming mind Were not even all that therein shin'd.
IV
But yet of this I was most sure, That at the utmost length, (So worthy was it to endure) My soul could best express its strength. It was so quick and pure, That all my mind was wholly everywhere, Whate'er it saw, 'twas ever wholly there; The sun ten thousand legions off, was nigh: The utmost star, Though seen from far, Was present in the apple of my eye. There was my sight, my life, my sense, My substance, and my mind; My spirit shin'd Even there, not by a transient influence: The act was immanent, yet there: The thing remote, yet felt even here.
V
O Joy! O wonder and delight! O sacred mystery! My Soul a Spirit infinite! An image of the Deity! A pure substantial light! That Being greatest which doth nothing seem! Why, 'twas my all, I nothing did esteem But that alone. A strange mysterious sphere! A deep abyss That sees and is The only proper place of Heavenly Bliss. To its Creator 'tis so near In love and excellence, In life and sense, In greatness, worth, and nature; and so dear, In it, without hyperbole, The Son and friend of God we see.
VI
A strange extended orb of Joy, Proceeding from within, Which did on every side, convey Itself, and being nigh of kin To God did every way Dilate itself even in an instant, and Like an indivisible centre stand, At once surrounding all eternity. 'Twas not a sphere, Yet did appear, One infinite. 'Twas somewhat everywhere, And tho' it had a power to see Far more, yet still it shin'd And was a mind Exerted for it saw Infinity. 'Twas not a sphere, but 'twas a might Invisible, and yet gave light.
VII
O wondrous Self! O sphere of light, O sphere of joy most fair; O act, O power infinite; O subtile and unbounded air! O living orb of sight! Thou which within me art, yet me! Thou eye, And temple of His whole infinity! O what a world art Thou! A world within! All things appear All objects are Alive in Thee! Supersubstantial, rare, Above themselves, and nigh of kin To those pure things we find In His great mind Who made the world! Tho' now eclipsed by sin There they are useful and divine, Exalted there they ought to shine.
THE APPREHENSION
If this I did not every moment see, And if my thoughts did stray At any time, or idly play, And fix on other objects, yet This Apprehension set In me Was all my whole felicity.
FULLNESS
That light, that sight, that thought, Which in my soul at first He wrought, Is sure the only act to which I may Assent to-day: The mirror of an endless life, The shadow of a virgin wife, A spiritual world standing within, An Universe enclosed in skin, My power exerted, or my perfect Being, If not enjoying, yet an act of seeing. My bliss Consists in this, My duty too In this I view. It is a fountain or a spring, Refreshing me in everything. From whence those living streams I do derive, By which my thirsty soul is kept alive. The centre and the sphere Of my delights are here. It is my David's tower Where all my armour lies, The fountain of my power, My bliss, my sacrifice: A little spark That shining in the dark, Makes and encourages my soul to rise, The root of hope, the golden chain, Whose end is, as the poets feign, Fastened to the very throne Of Jove. It is a stone, On which I sit, An endless benefit, That being made my regal throne, Doth prove An Oracle of His Eternal Love.
NATURE
That Custom is a second Nature, we Most plainly find by Nature's purity. For Nature teacheth nothing but the truth; I'm sure that mine did in my virgin youth: The very Day my Spirit did inspire, The world's fair beauty set my soul on fire. My senses were informers to my heart, The conduits of His glory, power, and art. His greatness, wisdom, goodness, I did see, His glorious Love, and His Eternitie, Almost as soon as born; and every sense Was in me like to some Intelligence. I was by nature prone and apt to love All light and beauty, both in Heaven above, And Earth beneath, prone even to admire, Adore, and praise as well as to desire. My inclinations raised me up on high, And guided me to all Infinity. A secret self I had enclosed within, That was not bounded with my clothes or skin, Or terminated with my sight, the sphere Of which was bounded with the Heavens here: But that did rather, like the subtile light, Secured from rough and raging storms by night, Break through the lanthorn's sides, and freely ray Dispersing and dilating every way: Whose steady beams too subtile for the wind, Are such that we their bounds can scarcely find. It did encompass, and possess rare things, But yet felt more, and on its angel's wings Pierced through the skies immediately, and sought For all that could beyond all worlds be thought. It did not move, nor one way go, but stood, And by dilating of itself, all good It strove to see, as if 'twere present there, Even while it present stood conversing here: And more suggested than I could discern, Or ever since by any means could learn. Vast, unaffected wonderful desires, Like inward, native, uncaus'd hidden fires, Sprang up with expectations very strange, Which into new desires did quickly change: For all I saw beyond the azure round, Was endless darkness with no beauty crown'd. Why beauty should not there, as well as here, Why goodness should not likewise there appear, Why treasures and delights should bounded be, Since there is such a wide Infinitie; These were the doubts and troubles of my Soul, By which I do perceive without control, A world of endless joys by Nature made, That needs must flourish ever, never fade. A wide, magnificent and spacious sky, So rich 'tis worthy of the Deity, Clouds here and there like winged charets flying, Flowers ever flourishing, yet always dying, A day of glory where I all things see, As 'twere enrich'd with beams of light for me, And drown'd in glorious rays of purer light, Succeeded with a black, yet glorious night; Stars sweetly shedding to my pleased sense, On all things their nocturnal influence, With secret rooms in times and ages more, Past and to come enlarging my great store: These all in order present unto me My happy eyes did in a moment see, With wonders there-too, to my Soul unknown, Till they by men and reading first were shewn. All which were made that I might ever be With some great workman, some Great Deity. But yet there were new rooms and spaces more, Beyond all these, new regions o'er and o'er, Into all which my pent-up Soul like fire Did break, surmounting all I here admire. The spaces fill'd were like a cabinet Of joys before me most distinctly set: The empty like to large and vacant room For fancy to enlarge in, and presume A space for more, remov'd, but yet adorning Those near at hand, that pleased me every morning. Here I was seated to behold new things, In the fair fabric of the King of Kings. All, all was mine. The fountain tho' not known, Yet that there must be one was plainly shewn, Which fountain of delights must needs be Love, As all the goodness of the things did prove. It shines upon me from the highest skies, And all its creatures for my sake doth prize, Of whose enjoyment I am made the end, While how the same is so I comprehend.
EASE
I
How easily doth Nature teach the soul How irresistible is her infusion! There's nothing found that can her force control But sin. How weak and feeble's all delusion!
II
Things false are forc'd and most elaborate, Things pure and true are obvious unto sense; The first impressions in our earthly state Are made by things most great in excellence.
III
How easy is it to believe the sky Is wide and great and fair! How soon may we Be made to know the Sun is bright and high, And very glorious, when its beams we see!
IV
That all the Earth is one continued globe, And that all men therein are living treasures, That fields and meadows are a glorious robe Adorning it with smooth and heavenly pleasures.
V
That all we see is ours, and every one Possessor of the whole; that every man Is like a God Incarnate on the Throne, Even like the first for whom the world began;
VI
Whom all are taught to honour, serve, and love, Because he is belov'd of God unknown; And therefore is on Earth itself above All others, that His wisdom might be shewn.
VII
That all may happy be, each one most blest, Both in himself and others; all most high, While all by each, and each by all possest Are intermutual joys beneath the sky.
VIII
This shows a wise contrivance, and discovers Some great Creator sitting on the Throne, That so disposeth things for all His lovers, That every one might reign like God alone.
SPEED
I
The liquid pearl in springs, The useful and the precious things Are in a moment known. Their very glory does reveal their worth (And that doth set their glory forth); As soon as I was born they all were shewn.
II
True living wealth did flow In crystal streams below My feet, and trilling down In pure, transparent, soft, sweet, melting pleasures, Like precious and diffusive treasures, At once my body fed, and soul did crown.
III
I was as high and great As Kings are in their seat. All other things were mine. The world my house, the creatures were my goods, Fields, mountains, valleys, woods, Men and their arts to make me rich combine.
IV
Great, lofty, endless, stable, Various and Innumerable, Bright, useful, fair, divine. Immovable and sweet the treasures were, The sacred objects did appear More rich and beautiful, as well as mine.
V
New all! new-burnisht joys; Tho' now by other toys Eclipst: new all and mine. Great Truth so sacred seemed for this to me, Because the things which I did see Were such, my state I knew to be divine.
VI
Nor did the Angels' faces, The glories and the graces, The beauty, peace and joy Of Heaven itself, more sweetness yield to me. Till filthy sin did all destroy Those were the offspring of the Deity.
THE CHOICE
I
When first Eternity stoop'd down to nought And in the Earth its likeness sought, When first it out of nothing fram'd the skies, And form'd the moon and sun That we might see what it had done, It was so wise, That it did prize Things truly greatest, brightest, fairest, best, All which it made, and left the rest.
II
Then did it take such care about the Truth, Its daughter, that even in her youth, Her face might shine upon us, and be known, That by a better fate, It other toys might antedate As soon as shewn; And be our own, While we were hers; and that a virgin love Her best inheritance might prove.
III
Thoughts undefiled, simple, naked, pure; Thoughts worthy ever to endure, Our first and disengaged thoughts it loves, And therefore made the truth, In infancy and tender youth So obvious to Our easy view That it doth prepossess our Soul, and proves The cause of what it all ways moves.
IV
By merit and desire it doth allure; For truth is so divine and pure, So rich and acceptable, being seen, (Not parted, but in whole) That it doth draw and force the soul, As the great Queen Of bliss, between Whom and the Soul, no one pretender ought Trust in to captivate a thought.
V
Hence did Eternity contrive to make The truth so fair for all our sake That being truth, and fair and easy too, While it on all doth shine, We might by it become divine, Being led to woo The thing we view, And as chaste virgins early with it join, That with it we might likewise shine.
VI
Eternity doth give the richest things To every man, and makes all Kings. The best and richest things it doth convey To all, and every one, It raised me unto a throne! Which I enjoy, In such a way, That truth her daughter is my chiefest bride, Her daughter truth's my chiefest pride.
VII
All mine! And seen so easily! How great, how blest! How soon am I of all possest! My infancy no sooner opes its eyes, But straight the spacious Earth Abounds with joy, peace, glory, mirth, And being wise The very skies, And stars do mine become; being all possest Even in that way that is the best.
THE PERSON
I
Ye Sacred limbs, A richer blazon I will lay On you than first I found: That like celestial kings, Ye might with ornaments of joy Be always crown'd. A deep vermilion on a red, On that a scarlet I will lay, With gold I'll crown your head, Which like the Sun shall ray. With robes of glory and delight I'll make you bright. Mistake me not, I do not mean to bring New robes, but to display the thing: Nor paint, nor clothe, nor crown, nor add a ray, But glorify by taking all away.
II
The naked things Are most sublime, and brightest show, When they alone are seen: Men's hands than Angels' wings Are truer wealth even here below: For those but seem. Their worth they then do best reveal, When we all metaphors remove, For metaphors conceal, And only vapours prove. They best are blazon'd when we see The anatomy, Survey the skin, cut up the flesh, the veins Unfold: the glory there remains: The muscles, fibres, arteries, and bones Are better far than crowns and precious stones.
III
Shall I not then Delight in those most sacred treasures Which my great Father gave, Far more than other men Delight in gold? Since these are pleasures That make us brave! Far braver than the pearl and gold That glitter on a lady's neck! The rubies we behold, The diamonds that deck The hands of queens, compared unto The hands we view; The softer lilies and the roses are Less ornaments to those that wear The same, than are the hands, and lips and eyes Of those who those false ornaments so prize.
IV
Let verity Be thy delight; let me esteem True wealth far more than toys: Let sacred riches be, While falser treasures only seem, My real joys. For golden chains and bracelets are But gilded manacles, whereby Old Satan doth ensnare, Allure, bewitch the eye. Thy gifts, O God, alone I'll prize, My tongue, my eyes, My cheeks, my lips, my ears, my hands, my feet; Their harmony is far more sweet; Their beauty true. And these in all my ways Shall themes become and organs of Thy praise.
THE ESTATE
I
But shall my soul no wealth possess, No outward riches have? Shall hands and eyes alone express Thy bounty? Which the grave Shall strait devour. Shall I become Within myself a living tomb Of useless wonders? Shall the fair and brave And great endowments of my soul lie waste, Which ought to be a fountain, and a womb Of praises unto Thee? Shall there no outward objects be, For these to see and taste? Not so, my God, for outward joys and pleasures Are even the things for which my limbs are treasures.
II
My palate is a touch-stone fit To taste how good Thou art, And other members second it Thy praises to impart. There's not an eye that's fram'd by Thee, But ought Thy life and love to see: Nor is there, Lord, upon mine head an ear, But that the music of Thy works should hear. Each toe, each finger, framed by Thy skill, Ought ointments to distil. Ambrosia, nectar, wine should flow From every joint I owe, Or things more rich; while they Thy holy will Are instruments adapted to fulfill.
III
They ought, my God, to be the pipes And conduits of Thy praise. Men's bodies were not made for stripes, Nor anything but joys. They were not made to be alone: But made to be the very throne Of Blessedness, to be like Suns, whose rays, Dispersed, scatter many thousand ways. They drink in nectars, and disburse again In purer beams, those streams, Those nectars which are caus'd by joys, And as the spacious main Doth all the rivers, which it drinks, return, Thy love receiv'd doth make the soul to burn.
IV
Elixirs richer are than dross, And ends are more divine Than are the means; but dung and loss Materials (tho' they shine Like gold and silver) are, compar'd To what Thy Spirit doth regard, Thy will require, Thy love embrace, Thy mind Esteem, Thy nature most illustrious find. These are the things wherewith we God reward. Our love He more doth prize, Our gratitude is in His eyes Far richer than the skies. And those affections which we do return, Are like the love which in Himself doth burn.
V
We plough the very skies, as well As earth; the spacious seas Are ours; the stars all gems excel. The air was made to please The souls of men: devouring fire Doth feed and quicken man's desire. The orb of light in its wide circuit moves, Corn for our food springs out of very mire, Our fuel grows in woods and groves; Choice herbs and flowers aspire To kiss our feet: beasts court our loves.[J] How glorious is man's fate! The laws of God, the works He did create, His ancient ways, are His and my Estate.
THE ENQUIRY
I
Men may delighted be with springs, While trees and herbs their senses please, And taste even living nectar in the seas: May think their members things Of earthly worth at least, if not divine, And sing because the earth for them doth shine:
II
But can the Angels take delight, To see such faces here beneath? Or can perfumes indeed from dung-hills breathe? Or is the world a sight Worthy of them? Then may we mortals be Surrounded with eternal Clarity.
III
Even holy angels may come down To walk on Earth, and see delights, That feed and please, even here, their appetites. Our joys may make a crown For them. And in His Tabernacle men may be Like palms we mingled with the Cherubs see.
IV
Men's senses are indeed the gems, Their praises the most sweet perfumes, Their eyes the thrones, their hearts the Heavenly rooms, Their souls the diadems, Their tongues the organs which they love to hear, Their cheeks and faces like to theirs appear.
V
The wonders which our God hath done, The glories of His attributes, Like dangling apples or like golden fruits, Angelic joys become. His wisdom shines on Earth; His love doth flow, Like myrrh or incense, even here below.
VI
And shall not we such joys possess, Which God for man did chiefly make? The Angels have them only for our sake! And yet they all confess His glory here on Earth to be divine, And that His Godhead in His works doth shine.
THE CIRCULATION
I
As fair ideas from the sky, Or images of things, Unto a spotless mirror fly, On unperceived wings, And lodging there affect the sense, As if at first they came from thence; While being there, they richly beautify The place they fill, and yet communicate Themselves, reflecting to the seer's eye; Just such is our estate. No praise can we return again, No glory in ourselves possess, But what derived from without we gain, From all the mysteries of blessedness.
II
No man breathes out more vital air Than he before sucked in: Those joys and praises must repair To us, which 'tis a sin To bury in a senseless tomb. An earthly wight must be the heir Of all those joys the holy Angels prize, He must a king before a priest become, And gifts receive or ever sacrifice. 'Tis blindness makes us dumb: Had we but those celestial eyes, Whereby we could behold the sum Of all His bounties, we should overflow With praises did we but their causes know.
III
All things to Circulations owe Themselves; by which alone They do exist; they cannot shew A sigh, a word, a groan, A colour or a glimpse of light, The sparkle of a precious stone, A virtue, or a smell, a lovely sight, A fruit, a beam, an influence, a tear, But they another's livery must wear, And borrow matter first, Before they can communicate. Whatever's empty is accurst: And this doth shew that we must some estate Possess, or never can communicate.
IV
A sponge drinks in the water, which Is afterwards exprest. A liberal hand must first be rich: Who blesseth must be blest. The thirsty earth drinks in the rain, The trees suck moisture at their roots, Before the one can lavish herbs again, Before the other can afford us fruits. No tenant can raise corn or pay his rent, Nor can even have a lord, That has no land. No spring can vent, No vessel any wine afford Wherein no liquor's put. No empty purse, Can pounds or talents of itself disburse.
V
Flame that ejects its golden beams Sups up the grosser air; To seas that pour out their streams In springs, those streams repair; Receiv'd ideas make even dreams. No fancy painteth foul or fair But by the ministry of inward light, That in the spirits cherisheth its sight. The moon returneth light, and some men say The very sun no ray Nor influence could have, did it No foreign aids, no food admit. The earth no exhalations would afford, Were not its spirits by the sun restored.
VI
All things do first receive, that give: Only 'tis God above, That from and in Himself doth live; Whose all-sufficient love Without original can flow And all the joys and glories shew Which mortal man can take delight to know. He is the primitive eternal spring The endless ocean of each glorious thing. The soul a vessel is, A spacious bosom, to contain All the fair treasures of His bliss, Which run like rivers from, into the main, And all it doth receive returns again.
AMENDMENT
I
That all things should be mine, This makes His bounty most divine: But that they all more rich should be, And far more brightly shine, As used by me; It ravisheth my soul to see the end, To which this work so wonderful doth tend.
II
That we should make the skies More glorious far before Thine eyes Than Thou didst make them, and even Thee Far more Thy works to prize, As used they be Than as they're made, is a stupendous work, Wherein Thy wisdom mightily doth lurk.
III
Thy greatness, and Thy love, Thy power, in this, my joy doth move; Thy goodness, and felicity In this exprest above All praise I see: While Thy great Godhead over all doth reign, And such an end in such a sort attain.
IV
What bound may we assign, O God, to any work of thine! Their endlessness discovers thee In all to be Divine; A Deity That will for evermore exceed the end Of all that creature's wit can comprehend.
V
Am I a glorious spring Of joys and riches to my King? Are men made Gods? And may they see So wonderful a thing As God in me? And is my soul a mirror that must shine Even like the sun and be far more divine?
VI
Thy Soul, O God, doth prize The seas, the earth, our souls, the skies; As we return the same to Thee They more delight Thine eyes, And sweeter be As unto thee we offer up the same, Than as to us from Thee at first they came.
VII
O how doth Sacred Love His gifts refine, exalt, improve! Our love to creatures makes them be In Thine esteem above Themselves to Thee! O here His goodness evermore admire! He made our souls to make His creatures higher.
THE DEMONSTRATION
I
The highest things are easiest to be shewn, And only capable of being known. A mist involves the eye While in the middle it doth live; And till the ends of things are seen The way's uncertain that doth stand between. As in the air we see the clouds Like winding sheets or shrouds, Which, though they nearer are, obscure The sun, which, higher far, is far more pure.
II
Its very brightness makes it near the eye, Tho' many thousand leagues beyond the sky. Its beams by violence Invade, and ravish distant sense. Only extremes and heights are known, No certainty, where no perfection's, shewn. Extremities of blessedness Compel us to confess A God indeed, Whose excellence In all His works must needs exceed all sense.
III
And for this cause incredibles alone May be by demonstration to us shewn. Those things that are most bright Sun-like appear in their own light, And nothing's truly seen that's mean: Be it a sand, an acorn, or a bean, It must be cloth'd with endless glory, Before its perfect story (Be the spirit ne'er so clear) Can in its causes and its ends appear.
IV
What can be more incredible than this, Where may we find a more profound abyss? What Heavenly height can be Transcendent to this Summity! What more desirable object can Be offered to the soul of hungering man! His gifts as they to us come down Are infinite and crown The soul with strange fruitions; yet Returning from us they more value get.
V
And what than this can be more plain and clear? What truth than this more evident appear? The Godhead cannot prize The sun at all, nor yet the skies, Or air, or earth, or trees, or seas, Or stars, unless the soul of man they please. He neither sees with human eyes, Nor needs Himself seas, skies, Or earth, or any thing: He draws No breath, nor eats or drinks by Nature's laws.
VI
The joy and pleasure which His soul doth take In all His works is for His creatures' sake. So great a certainty We in this holy doctrine see That there could be no worth at all In any thing material, great, or small, Were not some creature more alive, Whence it might worth derive. God is the spring whence things come forth, Souls are the fountains of their real worth.
VII
The joy and pleasure which His soul doth take In all His works is for His creatures' sake. Yet doth He take delight That's altogether infinite In them even as they from Him come, For such His love and goodness is, the sum Of all His happiness doth seem, At least in His esteem, In that delight and joy to lie Which is His blessed creatures' melody.
VIII
In them He sees, and feels, and smells, and lives, In them affected is to whom He gives: In them ten thousand ways, He all His work again enjoys All things from Him to Him proceed By them: are His in them: as if indeed His Godhead did itself exceed. To them He all conveys; Nay, even Himself! He is the End To whom in them Himself, and all things tend.
THE ANTICIPATION
I
My contemplation dazzles in the End Of all I comprehend, And soars above all heights, Diving into the depths of all delights. Can He become the End, To whom all creatures tend, Who is the Father of all Infinites? Then may He benefit receive from things, And be not Parent only of all springs.
II
The End doth want the means, and is the cause, Whose sake, by Nature's laws, Is that for which they are. Such sands, such dangerous rocks we must beware: From all Eternity A perfect Deity Most great and blessed he doth still appear; His essence perfect was in all its features, He ever blessed in His joys and creatures.
III
From everlasting He those joys did need, And all those joys proceed From Him eternally. From everlasting His felicity Complete and perfect was, Whose bosom is the glass, Wherein we all things everlasting see. His name is Now, His Nature is Forever: None can His creatures from their Maker sever.
IV
The End in Him from everlasting is The fountain of all bliss: From everlasting it Efficient was, and influence did emit, That caused all. Before The world, we do adore This glorious End. Because all benefit From it proceeds: both are the very same, The End and Fountain differ but in Name.
V
That so the End should be the very Spring Of every glorious thing; And that which seemeth last, The fountain and the cause; attained so fast That it was first; and mov'd The Efficient, who so lov'd All worlds and made them for the sake of this; It shews the End complete before, and is A perfect token of His perfect bliss.
VI
The End complete, the means must needs be so, By which we plainly know, From all Eternity, The means whereby God is, must perfect be. God is Himself the means Whereby He doth exist: And as the Sun by shining's cloth'd with beams, So from Himself to all His glory streams, Who is a Sun, yet what Himself doth list.
VII
His endless wants and His enjoyments be From all Eternity Immutable in Him: They are His joys before the Cherubim. His wants appreciate all, And being infinite, Permit no being to be mean or small That He enjoys, or is before His sight: His satisfactions do His wants delight.
VIII
Wants are the fountains of Felicity; No joy could ever be Were there no want. No bliss, No sweetness perfect were it not for this. Want is the greatest pleasure Because it makes all treasure. O what a wonderful profound abyss Is God! In whom eternal wants and treasures Are more delightful, since they both are pleasures.
IX
He infinitely wanteth all His joys; (No want the soul e'er cloys.) And all those wanted pleasures He infinitely hath. What endless measures, What heights and depths may we In His felicity Conceive! Whose very wants are endless pleasures. His life in wants and joys is infinite, And both are felt as His Supreme Delight.
X
He's not like us; possession doth not cloy, Nor sense of want destroy; Both always are together; No force can either from the other sever. Yet there's a space between That's endless. Both are seen Distinctly still, and both are seen for ever. As soon as e'er He wanteth all His bliss, His bliss, tho' everlasting, in Him is.
XI
His Essence is all Act: He did that He All Act might always be. His nature burns like fire; His goodness infinitely does desire To be by all possesst; His love makes others blest. It is the glory of His high estate, And that which I for evermore admire, He is an Act that doth communicate.
XII
From all to all Eternity He is That Act: an Act of bliss: Wherein all bliss to all That will receive the same, or on him call, Is freely given: from whence 'Tis easy even to sense To apprehend that all receivers are In Him, all gifts, all joys, all eyes, even all At once that ever will or shall appear.
XIII
He is the means of them, they not of Him. The Holy Cherubim, Souls, Angels from Him came Who is a glorious bright and living Flame, That on all things doth shine, And makes their face divine. And Holy, Holy, Holy is His Name: He is the means both of Himself and all, Whom we the Fountain, Means, and End do call.
THE RECOVERY
I
To see us but receive, is such a sight As makes His treasures infinite! Because His goodness doth possess In us, His own, and our own Blessedness. Yea more, His love doth take delight To make our glory infinite; Our blessedness to see Is even to the Deity A Beatific vision! He attains His Ends while we enjoy. In us He reigns.
II
For God enjoy'd is all His End. Himself He then doth comprehend When He is blessed, magnified, Extoll'd, exalted, prais'd, and glorified, Honor'd, esteem'd, belov'd, enjoy'd, Admired, sanctified, obeyed, That is received. For He Doth place His whole felicity In that: who is despised and defied, Undeified almost if once denied.
III
In all His works, in all His ways, We must His glory see and praise; And since our pleasure is the end, We must His goodness, and His love attend. If we despise His glorious works, Such sin and mischief in it lurks That they are all made vain; And this is even endless pain To Him that sees it: Whose diviner grief Is hereupon (ah me!) without relief.
IV
We please His goodness that receive: Refusers Him of all bereave. As bridegrooms know full well that build A palace for their bride. It will not yield Any delight to him at all If she for whom he made the hall Refuse to dwell in it, Or plainly scorn the benefit. Her act that's woo'd yields more delight and pleasure If she receives, than all the pile of treasure.
V
But we have hands, and lips, and eyes, And hearts and souls can sacrifice; And souls themselves are made in vain If we our evil stubbornness retain. Affections, praises, are the things For which He gave us all those springs; They are the very fruits Of all those trees and roots, The fruits and ends of all His great endeavours, Which He abolisheth whoever severs.
VI
'Tis not alone a lively sense, A clear and quick intelligence, A free, profound, and full esteem; Tho' these elixirs all and ends do seem: But gratitude, thanksgiving, praise, A heart returned for all those joys, These are the things admired, These are the things by Him desired: These are the nectar and the quintessence, The cream and flower that most affect His sense.
VII
The voluntary act whereby These are repaid is in His eye More precious than the very sky. All gold and silver is but empty dross, Rubies and sapphires are but loss, The very sun, and stars and seas Far less His spirit please: One voluntary act of love Far more delightful to His soul doth prove, And is above all these as far as love.
ANOTHER
I
He seeks for ours as we do seek for His; Nay, O my Soul, ours is far more His bliss Than His is ours; at least it so doth seem Both in His own and our esteem:
II
His earnest love, His infinite desires, His living, endless, and devouring fires, Do rage in thirst and fervently require A love 'tis strange it should desire.
III
We cold and careless are, and scarcely think Upon the glorious spring whereat we drink. Did He not love us we could be content: We wretches are indifferent!
IV
He courts our love with infinite esteem, And seeks it so that it doth almost seem Even all His blessedness. His love doth prize It as the only Sacrifice.
V
'Tis death, my soul, to be indifferent, Set forth thyself unto thy whole extent, And all the glory of His passion prize, Who for thee lives, who for thee dies.
VI
His goodness made thy love so great a pleasure, His goodness made thy soul so great a treasure To thee and Him: that thou mightst both inherit, Prize it according to its merit.
VII
There is no goodness nor desert in thee, For which thy love so coveted should be; His goodness is the fountain of thy worth; O live to love and set it forth.
VIII
Thou nothing giv'st to Him, He gave all things To thee, and made thee like the King of Kings: His love the fountain is of Heaven and Earth, The cause of all thy joy and mirth.
IX
Thy love is nothing but itself, and yet So infinite is His that He doth set A value infinite upon it. Oh! This, canst thou careless be, and know!
X
Let that same goodness, which being infinite, Esteems thy love with infinite delight, Tho' less than His, tho' nothing, always be An object infinite to thee.
XI
And as it is the cause of all esteem, Of all the worth which in thy love doth seem, So let it be the cause of all thy pleasure, Causing its being and its treasure.
LOVE
I
O nectar! O delicious stream! O ravishing and only pleasure! Where Shall such another theme Inspire my tongue with joys or please mine ear! Abridgment of delights! And queen of sights! O mine of rarities! O Kingdom wide! O more! O cause of all! O glorious Bride! O God! O Bride of God! O King! O soul and crown of everything!
II
Did not I covet to behold Some endless monarch, that did always live In palaces of gold, Willing all kingdoms, realms, and crowns to give Unto my soul! Whose love A spring might prove Of endless glories, honors, friendships, pleasures, Joys, praises, beauties and celestial treasures! Lo, now I see there's such a King, The fountain-head of everything!
III
Did my ambition ever dream Of such a Lord, of such a love! Did I Expect so sweet a stream As this at any time! Could any eye Believe it? Why all power Is used here; Joys down from Heaven on my head do shower, And Jove beyond the fiction doth appear Once more in golden rain to come To Danæ's pleasing fruitful womb.
IV
His Ganimede! His life! His Joy! Or He comes down to me, or takes me up That I might be His boy, And fill, and taste, and give, and drink the cup. But those (tho' great) are all Too short and small, Too weak and feeble pictures to express The true mysterious depths of Blessedness. I am His image, and His friend, His son, bride, glory, temple, end.
THOUGHTS.—I
I
Ye brisk, divine and living things, Ye great exemplars, and ye heavenly springs, Which I within me see; Ye machines great, Which in my spirit God did seat, Ye engines of felicity; Ye wondrous fabrics of His hands, Who all possesseth that He understands; That ye are pent within my breast, Yet rove at large from East to West, And are invisible, yet infinite, Is my transcendent and my best delight.
II
By you I do the joys possess Of yesterday's-yet-present blessedness; As in a mirror clear, Old objects I Far distant do even now descry, Which by your help are present here. Ye are yourselves the very pleasures, The sweetest, last, and most substantial treasures: The offsprings and effects of bliss By whose return my glory is Renew'd and represented to my view: O ye delights, most pure, divine, and true!