Chapter V: Part THE SECOND: LXII (3)

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges this complaint;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,
Receive a strew of weeping verse
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see 5
Quite melted into tears for thee.
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee: thou art the book,
The library whereon I look, 10
Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay,
I languish out, not live, the day,
Using no other exercise
But what I practise with mine eyes:
By which wet glasses I find out 15
How lazily time creeps about
To one that mourns; this, only this,
My exercise and business is:
So I compute the weary hours
With sighs dissolvèd into showers. 20
Nor wonder if my time go thus
Backward and most preposterous;
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (though overcast 25
Before thou hadst thy noontide past),
And I remember must in tears,
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run; 30
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion,
Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone,
And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish 35
The earth now interposèd is,
Which such a strange eclipse doth make
As ne’er was read in almanack.
I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime; 40
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then;
And all that space my mirth adjourn.
So thou wouldst promise to return;
And putting off thy ashy shroud 45
At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry 50
A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world like thine,
My little world! That fit of fire 55
Once off, our bodies shall aspire
To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise,
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region, where no night
Can hide us from each other’s sight. 60
Meantime, thou hast her, earth: much good
May my harm do thee. Since it stood
With Heaven’s will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-lived right and interest 65
In her, whom living I loved best:
With a most free and bounteous grief,
I give thee what I could not keep.
Be kind to her, and prithee look
Thou write into thy Doomsday book 70
Each parcel of this rarity,
Which in thy casket shrined doth lie:
See that thou make thy reckoning straight,
And yield her back again by weight;
For thou must audit on thy trust 75
Each grain and atom of this dust,
As thou wilt answer him that lent,
Not gave, thee, my dear monument.
So close the ground, and ’bout her shade
Black curtains draw; my bride is laid. 80
Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!
My last good night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sickness must 85
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there; I will not fail
To meet thee in that hallow vale. 90
And think not much of my delay;
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree, 95
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 100
Thus from the sun my bottom steers,
And my day’s compass downward bears:
Nor labour I to stem the tide,
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 105
Thou, like the van, first took’st the field,
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave. 110
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe’er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on, 115
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime) I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part. 120
_Henry King._

CXXII

_EPITAPH._

Our life is only death! time that ensu’th
Is but the death of time that went before;
Youth is the death of childhood, age of youth;
Die once to God, and then thou diest no more.
_Anon._

CXXIII

_SONNET._

As due by many titles, I resign
Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made
By Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed,
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine:
I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine; 5
Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed
Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine.
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?
Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that’s thy right? 10
Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight,
Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see
That Thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.
_John Donne._

CXXIV

_SONNET._

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 5
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; 10
And poppy’ or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally;
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
_John Donne._

CXXV

_LYCIDAS._

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude;
And, with forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: 5
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 10
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, 15
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn; 20
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared 25
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright, 30
Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Tempered to the oaten flute;
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long; 35
And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.
But, oh the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown, 40
And all their echoes, mourn:
The willows and the hazel copses green
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose, 45
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds’ ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep 50
Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream: 55
Ay me! I fondly dream!
Had ye been there--for what could that have done
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal Nature did lament, 60
When by the rout that made the hideous roar
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus, to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade, 65
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise-- 70
That last infirmity of noble mind--
To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorrèd shears, 75
And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’
Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears;
‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies; 80
But lives, and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, 85
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune’s plea. 90
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beakèd promontory:
They knew not of his story; 95
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
‘Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?’
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, 110
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake,
‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies’ sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold! 115
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least 120
That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 125
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Beside what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
But that two-handed engine at the door 130
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. 135
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet, 145
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, 150
To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled, 155
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old, 160
Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; 165
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore 170
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above
In solemn troops and sweet societies,
That sing and, singing, in their glory move, 180
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 185
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 190
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
_John Milton._

CXXVI

_THE CHRISTIAN’S REPLY TO THE PHILOSOPHER._

The good in graves as heavenly seed are sown;
And at the saints’ first spring, the general doom,
Will rise, not by degrees, but fully blown;
When all the angels to their harvest come.

Cannot Almighty Heaven (since flowers which pass 5
Thawed through a still, and there melt mingled too,
Are raised distinct in a poor chymist’s glass)
Do more in graves than men in limbecs do?

God bred the arts, to make us more believe
(By seeking nature’s covered mysteries,) 10
His darker works, that faith may thence conceive
He can do more than what our reason sees.

O coward faith! religion’s trembling guide!
Whom ev’n the dim-eyed arts must lead to see
What nature only from our sloth does hide, 15
Causes remote, which faith’s dark dangers be.

Religion, ere imposed, should first be taught;
Not seem to dull obedience ready laid,
Then swallowed straight for ease, but long be sought;
And be by reason counselled, though not swayed. 20

God has enough to human kind disclosed;
Our fleshly garments He a while received,
And walked as if the Godhead were deposed,
Yet could be then but by a few believed.

The faithless Jews will this at doom confess, 25
Who did suspect Him for his low disguise:
But, if He could have made his virtue less,
He had been more familiar to their eyes.

Frail life! in which, through mists of human breath
We grope for truth, and make our progress slow, 30
Because by passion blinded; till, by death
Our passions ending, we begin to know.

O reverend death! whose looks can soon advise
Even scornful youth, whilst priests their doctrine waste;
Yet mocks us too; for he does make us wise, 35
When by his coming our affairs are past.

O harmless death! whom still the valiant brave,
The wise expect, the sorrowful invite,
And all the good embrace, who know the grave
A short dark passage to eternal light.
_Sir William Davenant._

CXXVII

_MORTIFICATION._

How soon doth man decay!
When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets
To swaddle infants, whose young breath
Scarce knows the way;
Those clouts are little winding-sheets, 5
Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,
They step into their voluntary graves;
Sleep binds them fast; only their breath
Makes them not dead. 10
Successive nights, like rolling waves,
Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free,
And calls for music, while his veins do swell,
All day exchanging mirth and breath 15
In company;
That music summons to the knell,
Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise,
Getting a house and home, where he may move 20
Within the circle of his breath,
Schooling his eyes;
That dumb inclosure maketh love
Unto the coffin, that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak, 25
Marking his grave, and thawing every year,
Till all do melt, and drown his breath,
When he would speak;
A chair or litter shows the bier
Which shall convey him to the house of death. 30

Man, ere he is aware,
Hath put together a solemnity,
And dressed his hearse, while he has breath
As yet to spare.
Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die, 35
That all these dyings may be life in death.
_George Herbert._

CXXVIII

_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 5
But a white celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first Love,
And looking back, at that short space,
Could see a glimpse of his bright face; 10
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 15
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. 20
Oh how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence the enlightened spirit sees 25
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; 30
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came return.
_Henry Vaughan._

CXXIX

_A DROP OF DEW._

See, how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born, 5
Round in itself incloses,
And in its little globe’s extent,
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies; 10
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere;
Restless it rolls, and unsecure, 15
Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day, 20
Could it within the human flower be seen,
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express 25
The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day; 30
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below, 35
It all about does upward bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew distil,
White and entire, although congealed and chill;
Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the almighty Sun. 40
_Andrew Marvell._

CXXX

_PEACE._

My soul, there is a country,
Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry,
All skilful in the wars.
There, above noise and danger, 5
Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious friend,
And (O my soul, awake!) 10
Did in pure love descend,
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither, 15
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure,
But One who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. 20
_Henry Vaughan._

CXXXI

_EVENING HYMN._

The night is come, like to the day;
Depart not Thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep still in my horizon; for to me 5
The sun makes not the day, but Thee.
Thou whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep!
Guard me ’gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close; 10
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob’s temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance;
Make me to sleep a holy trance.
That I may, my rest being wrought, 15
Awake into some holy thought;
And with as active vigour run
My course as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; oh! make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die: 20
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe’er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with Thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie 25
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again:
Oh! come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake for ever. 30
_Sir Thomas Browne._

CXXXII

_THE VALEDICTION._

Vain world, what is in thee?
What do poor mortals see,
Which should esteemèd be
Worthy their pleasure?
Is it the mother’s womb, 5
Or sorrows which soon come,
Or a dark grave and tomb,
Which is their treasure?
How dost thou man deceive
By thy vain glory? 10
Why do they still believe
Thy false history?

Is it children’s book and rod,
The labourer’s heavy load,
Poverty undertrod, 15
The world desireth?
Is it distracting cares,
Or heart-tormenting fears,
Or pining grief and tears,
Which man requireth? 20
Or is it youthful rage,
Or childish toying;
Or is decrepit age
Worth man’s enjoying?

Is it deceitful wealth, 25
Got by care, fraud, or stealth,
Or short uncertain health,
Which thus befool men?
Or do the serpent’s lies,
By the world’s flatteries 30
And tempting vanities,
Still overrule them?
Or do they in a dream
Sleep out their season?
Or borne down by lust’s stream, 35
Which conquers reason?

The silly lambs to-day
Pleasantly skip and play,
Whom butchers mean to slay
Perhaps to-morrow; 40
In a more brutish sort
Do careless sinners sport,
Or in dead sleep still snort,
As near to sorrow;
Till life, not well begun, 45
Be sadly ended,
And the web they have spun
Can ne’er be mended.

What is the time that’s gone,
And what is that to come? 50
Is it not now as none?
The present stays not.
Time posteth, oh how fast!
Unwelcome death makes haste;
None can call back what’s past-- 55
Judgment delays not.
Though God bring in the light,
Sinners awake not;
Because hell’s out of sight
They sin forsake not. 60

Man walks in a vain show;
They know, yet will not know;
Sit still, when they should go;
But run for shadows;
While they might taste and know 65
The living streams that flow,
And crop the flowers that grow,
In Christ’s sweet meadows.
Life’s better slept away
Than as they use it; 70
In sin and drunken play
Vain men abuse it.

Malignant world, adieu!
Where no foul vice is new--
Only to Satan true, 75
God still offended;
Though taught and warned by God,
And his chastising rod,
Keeps still the way that’s broad,
Never amended. 80
Baptismal vows some make,
But ne’er perform them;
If angels from heaven spake,
’Twould not reform them.

They dig for hell beneath, 85
They labour hard for death,
Run themselves out of breath
To overtake it.
Hell is not had for naught,
Damnation’s dearly bought, 90
And with great labour sought;
They’ll not forsake it.
Their souls are Satan’s fee--
He’ll not abate it;
Grace is refused that’s free, 95
Mad sinners hate it.

Is this the world men choose,
For which they heaven refuse,
And Christ and grace abuse,
And not receive it? 100
Shall I not guilty be
Of this in some degree,
If hence God would me free,
And I’d not leave it;
My soul, from Sodom fly, 105
Lest wrath there find thee;
Thy refuge-rest is nigh;
Look not behind thee!

There’s none of this ado, 110
None of the hellish crew;
God’s promise is most true,
Boldly believe it.
My friends are gone before,
And I am near the shore; 115
My soul stands at the door,
O Lord, receive it!
It trusts Christ and his merits,
The dead He raises;
Join it with blessed spirits, 120
Who sing thy praises.
_Richard Baxter._

CXXXIII

_HYMN FOR ADVENT; OR CHRIST’S COMING TO JERUSALEM IN TRIUMPH._

Lord, come away,
Why dost Thou stay?
Thy road is ready: and thy paths, made strait,
With longing expectation wait
The consecration of thy beauteous feet. 5
Ride on triumphantly; behold we lay
Our lusts and proud wills in thy way.
Hosanna! welcome to our hearts. Lord, here
Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear
As that of Sion; and as full of sin; 10
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein,
Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor;
Crucify them, that they may never more
Profane that holy place,
Where Thou hast chose to set thy face. 15
And then if our stiff tongues shall be
Mute in the praises of thy Deity,
The stones out of the temple wall
Shall cry aloud, and call
Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet. 20
_Jeremy Taylor._

CXXXIV

_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, 5
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days; 10
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility!
High as the heavens above! 15
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, 20
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 dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown. 25

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, 30
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, 35
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My pérspective still as they pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 40
Where I shall need no glass.
_Henry Vaughan._