HENRY VAUGHAN (1622–1695)

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 ought
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
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.

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If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that can not 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.

Wit's four delights,

pleasure;

Yet his dear treasure,

All scattered lay, while he his eyes did

O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain, | With gloves and knots, the silly snares of 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.

pour
Upon a flower.

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THE WORLD

I saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;

And round beneath it, Time, in hours,
days, years,

Driv'n by the spheres

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Like a vast shadow moved; in which the world

And all her train were hurled.

The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain;

Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his
flights,

IO

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scowl

Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without
Pursued him with one shout;

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The darksome statesman, hung with
weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so
slow,

He did not stay nor go;

Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses,

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The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sat pining all his life there, did scarce

trust

His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives

In fear of thieves.

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Thousands there were as frantic as himself,

And hugged each one his pelf; The downright epicure placed heaven in sense,

And scorned pretence; While others, slipped into a wide excess,

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Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,

And sing and weep, soared up into the ring;

But most would use no wing.

O fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night
Before true light!

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To live in grots and caves, and hate the day

Because it shows the way,

The way, which from this dead and dark abode

Leads up to God;

A way where you might tread the sun, and be

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Said little less;

The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave,

Who think them brave;

And poor, despised Truth sat counting by Tell her that's young,

Their victory.

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It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 5
The pale which held that lovely deer;
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.

A narrow compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; 10
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!

GO, LOVELY ROSE!

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

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The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing:

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ANDREW MARVELL (1621–1678)

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROM-
WELL'S RETURN FROM IRE-
LAND

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5
And oil the unused armor's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corselet of the hall.

Within, Love's foes, his greatest foes, Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts,