223

EASTER SONG

I GOT me flowers to strew Thy way,
I got me boughs off many a tree;
But Thou wast up by break of day,

And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee.

The sun arising in the East,

Though he give light and th' East perfume, If they should offer to contest

With Thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we miss:
There is but one, and that one ever.

224

THE PULLEY

WHEN God at first made Man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by-
Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way,

Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He)

Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

225

HENRY VAUGHAN

[1622-1695]

BEYOND THE VEIL

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 dressed,
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 glimmerings and decays.

O holy Hope, and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have showed them me,
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere 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.

226

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.

THE RETREAT

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 aught
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walk'd 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 felt my glorious train;
From whence th' enlighten'd 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.

227

FRANCIS BACON, VISCOUNT ST. ALBAN

[1561-1626]

LIFE

THE world's a bubble and the life of Man

Less than a span;

In his conception wretched, from the womb
So to the tomb;

Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.

Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
What life is best?

Courts are but only superficial schools
To dandle fools:

The rural parts are turn'd into a den
Of savage men:

And where's a city from foul vice so free,

But may be termed the worst of all the three?

228

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pains his head:

Those that live single, take it for a curse
Or do things worse:

Some would have children: those that have them moan
Or wish them gone:

What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
But single thraldom or a double strife?

But our affections still at home to please
Is a disease:

To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
Peril and toil:

Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease,
We are worse in peace;—

What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, or being born, to die?

JAMES SHIRLEY
[1596-1666]

THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.