Silex scintillans, or, Sacred poems and priuate eiaculations by Henry Vaughan ...

The Check.

PEace, peace! I blush to hear thee; when thou art A dusty story A speechlesse heap, and in the midst my heart In the same livery drest Lyes tame as all the rest; When six years thence digg'd up, some youthfull Eie Seeks there for Symmetry But finding none, shal leave thee to the wind, Or the next foot to Crush, Scatt'ring thy kind And humble dust, tell then dear flesh Where is thy glory?

2.

As he that in the midst of day Expects The hideous night, Sleeps not, but shaking off sloth, and neglects, Works with the Sun, and sets Paying the day its debts; That (for Repose, and darknes bound,) he might Rest from the fears i'th' night; So should we too. All things teach us to die And point us out the way While we passe by And mind it not; play not away Thy glimpse of light.

3.

View thy fore-runners: Creatures giv'n to be Thy youths Companions, Take their leave, and die; Birds, beasts, each tree All that have growth, or breath Have one large language, Death. O then play not! but strive to him, who Can Make these sad shades pure Sun, Turning their mists to beams, their damps to day, Whose pow'r doth so excell As to make Clay A spirit, and true glory dwell In dust, and stones.

4.

Heark, how he doth Invite thee! with what voice Of Love, and sorrow He begs, and Calls; O that in these thy days Thou knew'st but thy own good! Shall not the Crys of bloud, Of Gods own bloud awake thet? He bids beware Of drunknes, surfeits, Care, But thou sleep'st on; wher's now thy protestation, Thy Lines, thy Love? Away, Redeem the day, The day that gives no observation, Perhaps to morrow.