Till the warm sun pities its pain, So the soul, that drop, that ray, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express Every way it turns away! To the world excluding round, How girt and ready to ascend! In all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chillCongealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the Almighty sun. HENRY VAUGHAN. HENRY VAUGHAN, styled "the Silurist" by his contemporaries, from being of the Silures, a people of South Wales, was descended from the ancient Cambrian kings, and was born in Brecknockshire, in 1621. In his seventeenth year he was entered of Jesus College, Oxford, whence after two years he was removed to London. He was intended for the bar, but at the commencement of the civil war he relinquished it, and became eminent both as a poet and a physician. His sacred poems are remarkable for originality and picturesque grace, though it must be confessed they are sullied with many conceits unworthy of the theme. He died in 1695. He wrote "Silex Scintillans," "Sacred Poems," and "Private Ejaculations," of which a fine edition was published in London by Pickering, in 1847. LORD! what a busy, restless thing Each day and hour he is on wing, Then having lost the sun and light, He keeps a commerce in the night Hadst thou given to this active dust The lost son had not left the husk, That was thy secret, and it is Thy mercy too; For when all fails to bring to bliss, Then this must do. Ah! Lord! and what a purchase will that be, To take us sick, that sound would not take thee! THOU art not Truth! for he that tries Which like a viper lodged in flowers, Its venom through that sweetness pours; Or for convenience, then away. Thou art not Riches! for that trash, Which one age hoards, the next doth wash, That few remember where it lay. And shifting channels here restore, There break down, what they banked before. Which, if not cropped, will quickly shed, Thou art the sand which fills one glass, And then doth to another pass; And could I put thee to a stay, Thou art but dust! Then go thy way, And leave me clean and bright, though poor; 1 Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours, Enriched with sunshine and with showers! Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares, The not to be repented shares Of time and business, the sure road The circle, centre, and abyss Nor leave that path which leads to thee, I hear, I see, all the long day The noise and pomp of the "broad way." I observe only poverty, And despised things; and all along |