VANITY OF SPIRIT.|
by Henry Vaughan
QUITE spent with thoughts,
I left my cell, and lay
Where a shrill spring tun'd to the early day.
I begg'd here long, and groan'd to know
Who gave the clouds so brave a bow,
Who bent the spheres, and circled in
Corruption with this glorious ring ;
What is His name, and how I might
Descry some part of His great light.
I summon'd Nature ; pierc'd through all her store ;
Broke up some seals, which none had touch'd before
Her womb, her bosom, and her head,
Where all her secrets lay abed,
I rifled quite ; and having past
Through all the creatures, came at last
To search my self, where I did find
Traces, and sounds of a strange kind.
Here of this mighty spring I found some drills,
With echoes beaten from th' eternal hills.
Weak beams and fires flash'd to my sight,
Like a young East, or moonshine night,
Which show'd me in a nook cast by
A piece of much antiquity,
With hieroglyphics quite dismember'd,
And broken letters scarce remember'd.
I took them up, andómuch joy'dówent about
T' unite those pieces, hoping to find out
The mystery ; but this ne'er done,
That little light I had was gone.
It griev'd me much. At last,
Since in these veils my eclips'd eye
May not approach Theefor at night
Who can have commerce with the light ?
I'll disapparel, and to buy
But one half-glance, most gladly die.
Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 57-58.
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