Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

ANDREW Marvell.

THE RETREAT

Henry Vaughan is one of the most spiritual poets of the great rich seventeenth century. Childhood in one poem, the happy dead in the next, and daily life in the two following, are to him most beautiful mysteries of poetry, prayer, and sacred regret and hope.

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 ought
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 flow'r,
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 left my glorious train;
From whence the 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.

HENRY VAUGHAN,

THE WORLD OF LIGHT

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 drest,
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 glimmering 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 no where, 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.

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.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

MORNING

WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun

The spirit's duty true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun :

Give Him thy first thoughts, then, so shalt thou keep

Him company all day, and in Him sleep.

Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should

Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours 'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good After sunrising: far day sullies flowers: Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

S.P.

E

PEACE

My soul, there is a country
Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry
All skilful in the wars.

There, above noise and danger,

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 !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,
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.