Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist Part 25

Man's life and vigour keep within, Lodg'd in the centre, not the skin.

Those piercing charms and poisons, which His inward parts taint and bewitch, More fatal are, than such, which can Outwardly only spoil the man.

Those change his shape and make it foul, But these deform and kill his soul.

LIB. III. METRUM VI.

All sorts of men, that live on Earth, Have one beginning and one birth.

For all things there is one Father, Who lays out all, and all doth gather.

He the warm sun with rays adorns, And fills with brightness the moon's horns.

The azur'd heav'ns with stars He burnish'd, And the round world with creatures furnish'd.

But men--made to inherit all-- His own sons He was pleas'd to call, And that they might be so indeed, He gave them souls of divine seed.

A n.o.ble offspring surely then Without distinction are all men.

O, why so vainly do some boast Their birth and blood and a great host Of ancestors, whose coats and crests Are some rav'nous birds or beasts!

If extraction they look for, And G.o.d, the great Progenitor, No man, though of the meanest state, Is base, or can degenerate, Unless, to vice and lewdness bent, He leaves and taints his true descent.

THE OLD MAN OF VERONA OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA II.]

_Felix, qui propriis avum transegit in arvis, Una domus puerum, &c._

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields Spent all his time; to whom one cottage yields In age and youth a lodging; who, grown old, Walks with his staff on the same soil and mould Where he did creep an infant, and can tell Many fair years spent in one quiet cell!

No toils of fate made him from home far known, Nor foreign waters drank, driv'n from his own.

No loss by sea, no wild land's wasteful war Vex'd him, not the brib'd coil of gowns at bar.

Exempt from cares, in cities never seen, The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green.

The year's set turns by fruits, not consuls, knows; Autumn by apples, May by blossom'd boughs.

Within one hedge his sun doth set and rise, The world's wide day his short demesnes comprise; Where he observes some known, concrescent twig Now grown an oak, and old, like him, and big.

Verona he doth for the Indies take, And as the Red Sea counts Benacus' Lake.

Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he, A l.u.s.ty grandsire, three descents doth see.

Travel and sail who will, search sea or sh.o.r.e; This man hath liv'd, and that hath wander'd more.

THE SPHERE OF ARCHIMEDES OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA XVIII.]

_Jupiter in parvo c.u.m cerneret aethera vitro_ _Risit, et ad superos, &c._

When Jove a heav'n of small gla.s.s did behold, He smil'd, and to the G.o.ds these words he told.

"Comes then the power of man's art to this?

In a frail orb my work new acted is, The poles' decrees, the fate of things, G.o.d's laws, Down by his art old Archimedes draws.

Spirits inclos'd the sev'ral stars attend, And orderly the living work they bend.

A feigned Zodiac measures out the year, Ev'ry new month a false moon doth appear.

And now bold industry is proud, it can Wheel round its world, and rule the stars by man.

Why at Salmoneus' thunder do I stand?

Nature is rivall'd by a single hand."

THE PH[OE]NIX OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [IDYLL I.]

_Oceani summo circ.u.mfluus aequore lucus_ _Trans Indos, Eurumque viret, &c._

A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd, Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind, Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam, Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team; When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day, And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.

This the bless'd Ph[oe]nix' empire is, here he, Alone exempted from mortality, Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign, And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain.

A bird most equal to the G.o.ds, which vies For length of life and durance with the skies, And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age His appet.i.te he never doth a.s.suage With common food. Nor doth he use to drink When thirsty on some river's muddy brink.

A purer, vital heat shot from the sun Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need; On such abstracted diet doth he feed.

A secret light there streams from both his eyes, A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise.

His crest grows up into a glorious star Giv'n t' adorn his head, and s.h.i.+nes so far, That piercing through the bosom of the night It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.

His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings --More swift than winds are--have sky-colour'd rings Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd Their utmost borders glister all with gold.

He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth, But is himself the parent, and the birth.

None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves Old age, and by his funerals he lives.

For when the tedious Summer's gone about A thousand times: so many Winters out, So many Springs: and May doth still restore Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before; Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline, Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight, Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain Part is consum'd, and part with age again; So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight The cloudy moon is, having spent her light.

And now his wings, which used to contend With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend.

He knows his time is out! and doth provide New principles of life; herbs he brings dried From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames.

On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some Of his own fire, that quickly may restore The youth and vigour, which he had before.

Whom, soon as Ph[oe]bus spies, stopping his reins, He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.

O thou that buriest old age in thy grave, And art by seeming funerals to have A new return of life, whose custom 'tis To rise by ruin, and by death to miss Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take, And that thy wither'd body now forsake!

Better thyself by this thy change! This said He shakes his locks, and from his golden head Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire The willing bird; to burn is his desire, That he may live again: he's proud in death, And goes in haste to gain a better breath.

The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays Doth burn the aged Ph[oe]nix, when straight stays The chariot of th' amazed moon; the pole Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole Fabric of Nature at a stand remains, Till the old bird a new young being gains.

All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they Suffer not Nature's glory to decay.

By this time, life which in the ashes lurks Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works; The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part a.s.sumes Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes; The parent in the issue now revives, But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives, With very little s.p.a.ce between the same, Were parted only by the middle flame.

To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away Into a distant land, and doth convey The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend His journey without number, and defend His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky Is clouded with the army, as they fly.

Nor is there one of all those thousands dares Affront his leader: they with solemn cares Attend the progress of their youthful king; Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease; The miracle enacts a common peace.

So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride In pearls and habit; he adorns his head With royal tires: his steed with gold is led; His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought, With rare a.s.syrian needle-work are wrought; And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands, He raves and triumphs in his large commands.

A city of Egypt, famous in all lands For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands There on a hundred pillars by account, Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.

Here, as the custom did require--they say-- His happy parent's dust down he doth lay; Then to the image of his lord he bends And to the flames his burden straight commends.

Unto the altars thus he destinates His own remains; the light doth gild the gates; Perfumes divine the censers up do send: While th' Indian odour doth itself extend To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale, To which compar'd nectar itself is vile, Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile.

O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!

Death, to whose force all other creatures must Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise; 'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.

Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run Thou art as great a witness as the sun.

Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.

What year the straggling Phaeton did fire The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire Against thy life; alone thou dost arise Above mortality; the destinies Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue; They have no law, to which thy life is due.

PIOUS THOUGHTS AND e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.nS.

TO HIS BOOKS.