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,
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
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;
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,

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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

With whom he sported ere the day
Budded forth its tender ray.
And now Apollo leaves his lays,
And puts on cypress for his bays;
The sacred Sisters tune their quills
Only to the blubbering rills,

And while his doom they think upon,
Make their own tears their Helicon;
Leaving the two-topt mount divine
To turn votaries to his shrine.

Think not, reader, me less blest,
Sleeping in this narrow chest,
Than if my ashes did lie hid
Under some stately pyramid.

If a rich tomb makes happy, then
That bee was happier far than men,
Who, busy in the thymy wood,

Was fettered by the golden flood,

ΙΟ

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Which from the amber-weeping tree
Distilleth down so plenteously;

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While my more pure and nobler part
Lies entomb'd in every heart.

Then pass on gently, ye that mourn,

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Touch not this mine hollowed urn;
These ashes which do here remain
A vital tincture still retain ;

A seminal form within the deeps
Of this little chaos sleeps ;
The thread of life untwisted is
Into its first consistencies;

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Infant nature cradled here

In its principles appear;

This plant thus calcined into dust

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In its ashes rest it must,

Until sweet Psyche shall inspire
A softening and prolific fire,
And in her fostering arms enfold
This heavy and this earthy mould.
Then as I am I'll be no more,
But bloom and blossom as before,

When this cold numbness shall retreat

By a more than chymick heat,

Anon.

CXXXV

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,

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Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,

If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of peace,

The rose that cannot wither,
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.

Henry Vaughan.

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CXXXVI

THE ROCK.

NUM. XX. II.

What wonder's this, that there should spring Streams from a rock to quench a people's thirst? What man alive did e'er see such a thing,

That waters out of stone should burst,

Yet rather than with drowth should Israel die,
God by a miracle will them supply.

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What wonder's this, that from Christ's side

Water and blood should run to cleanse our sin ?
This is that fountain which was opened wide
To purge all our uncleanness in ;
But this the greater wonder is by far,
As substances beyond the shadows are.

Christ is that spiritual Rock from whence
Two sacraments derivèd are to us :
Being the objects of our faith and sense,

Both receive comfort from them thus ;
Rather than we should faint our Rock turns Vine,
And stays our thirst with water and with wine.

But here's another rock, my heart,

Harder than adamant; yet by and by,
If by a greater Moses struck, 'twill part,
And stream forth tears abundantly.
Strike then this rock, my God, double the blow,
That for my sins, my eyes with tears may flow!

My sins that pierced thy hands, thy feet,

Thy head, thy heart, and every part of Thee,
And on the cross made life and death to meet,
Death to Thyself, and life to me;

Thy very fall does save; O happy strife,
That struck God dead, but raisèd man to life.

Thomas Washbourne.

ΙΟ

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CXXXVII

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

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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;
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance;
Make my sleep a holy trance,
That I may, my rest being wrought,
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 :
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

Securely, or to wake or die.

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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.

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Sir Thomas Browne.