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By the full kingdom of that final kiss

That seized thy parting soul and sealed thee his.

By all the heav'ns thou hast in him,

Fair sister of the seraphim,

By all of him we have in thee,
Leave nothing of myself in me!
Let me so read thy life that I
Unto all life of mine may die!
Before 1643.

1646.

105

HENRY VAUGHAN

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 aught
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;
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 dispence

A sev'ral sin to ev'ry 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 th' enlightened spirit sees
That shady City of Palm Trees;

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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,

Like a vast shadow moved, in which the World

And all her train were hurled.

The doating lover in his quaintest strain

Did there complain;

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

Wit's sour delights,

With gloves and knots, the silly snares of pleasure;

Yet his dear treasure

All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour

Upon a flow'r.

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, scowl

Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without

Pursued him with one shout;

Yet digged the mole, and, lest his ways be found,
Worked under ground,

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Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see

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That policy:

Churches and altars fed him; perjuries

Were gnats and flies;

It rained about him blood and tears; but he
Drank them as free.

The fearful miser on a heap of rust

Sate 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.

Thousands there were as frantic as himself,

And hugged each one his pelf:

The downright epicure placed heav'n in sense,
And scorned pretence;

While others, slipt into a wide excess,

Said little less;

The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,

Who think them brave;

And poor, despised Truth sate counting by

Their victory.

Yet some, who all this time did weep and sing,
And sing and weep, soared up into the ring.
But most would use no wing.

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

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

More bright than he!"

But as I did their madness so discuss,

One whispered thus:

“This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide

But for His bride."

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1650.

THEY ARE ALL GONE INTO THE WORLD OF LIGHT

They are all gone into the world of light,

And I alone sit ling'ring 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 glimmerings and decays.

O holy hope and high humility,

High as the heavens above,

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ΤΟ

These are your walks, and you have showed them me 15
To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just,

Shining nowhere but in the dark,

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

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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.

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O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under Thee,

Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall

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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.

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1655.

FROM

THE TIMBER

Sure thou didst flourish once; and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Passed o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodged in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;

Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot

Towards the old and still enduring skies,

While the low violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy line

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Of death dost waste, all senseless, cold, and dark; ΙΟ Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,

Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.

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