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

The Tempest.

HOw is man parcell'd out? how ev'ry hour Shews him himself, or somthing he should see? This late, long hea•• may his Instruction be, And tempests have more in them than a showr.

When nature on her bosome saw Her Infants die, And all her flowres wither'd to straw, Her brests grown dry; She made the Earth their nurse, & tomb, Sigh to the sky, 'Til to those sighes fetch'd from her womb Rain did reply, So in the midst of all her scars And faint requests Her Earnest sighes procur'd her tears And fill'd her brests.

O that man could do so! that he would hear The world read to him! all the vast expence In the Creation shed, and slav'd to sence Makes up but lectures for his eie, and ear.

Sure, mighty love foreseeing the discent Of this poor Creature, by a gracious art Hid in these low things snares to gain his heart, And layd surprizes in each Element.

All things here shew him heaven; waters that fall Chide, and fly up; Mists of corruptest some Quit their first beds & mount; trees, herbs, flowres, all Strive upwards stil, and point him the way home.

How do they cast off grossness? only Earth, And Man (like Issachar) in lodes delight, Water's refin'd to Motion, Aire to Light, Fire to all * 1.1 three, but man hath no such mirth.

Plants in the root with Earth do most Comply, Their Leafs with water, and humiditie, The Flowres to air draw neer, and subtiltie, And seeds a kinred fire have with the sky.

All have their keyes, and set ascents; but man Though he knows these, and hath more of his own, Sleeps at the ladders foot; alas! what can These new discoveries do, except they drown?

Thus groveling in the shade, and darkness, he Sinks to a dead oblivion; and though all He sees, (like Pyramids,) shoot from this ball And less'ning still grow up invisibly,

Yet hugs he stil his durt; The stuffe he wears And painted trimming take down both his eies, Heaven hath less beauty than the dust he spies, And money better musick than the Spheres.

Life's but a blast, he knows it; what? shal straw, And bul-rush-fetters temper his short hour? Must he nor sip, nor sing? grows ne'r a flowr To crown his temples? shal dreams be his law?

O foolish man! how hast thou lost thy sight? How is it that the Sun to thee alone Is grown thick darkness, and thy bread, a stone? Hath flesh no softness now? mid-day no light?

Lord! thou didst put a soul here; If I must Be broke again, for flints will give no fire Without a steel, O let thy power cleer Thy gift once more, and grind this flint to dust!

Notes

• * 1.1

  Light, Motion, heat.