HENRY VAUGHAN.

BORN 1614; DIED 1695.

THIS truly "sacred" poet was styled by himself and his contemporaries, "the Silurist," from having been born on the banks of the Esk, in Brecknockshire, a part of Britain once inhabited by the Silures.

With less delicacy of feeling, as well as of intellectual perception, there is much in Vaughan not unworthy of George Herbert-the same fervour and tenderness of piety; the same concentrated earnestness, but expressed in a terser style. His principal works are, "Olor Iscanus, a collection of some select Poems;" "Silex Scintillans, or Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations," and "The Mount of Olives, or Salutary Meditations."

Vaughan is said, by those contemporary panegyrists, who admired not only the beauty of his verse, but the "charming rigour" of his subjects to have

"Restor❜d the golden age, when verse was law."

This praise, at least, is his-that he devoted his powers, without reserve, to the worthiest objects." O si sic omnes!"

1 Katherine Phillips.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

THE RAINBOW.

STILL young
and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new;
How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye
Thy burning, flaming arch did first descry;
When Zerah, Nahor, Haram, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot,
Did, with intentive looks, watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower.
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and

fair;

Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air; Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure

tie

Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye!
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see Him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt All and One.

HEAVEN IN PROSPECT.

THEY are all gone into a world of light,
And I alone sit lingering 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 the 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!

These are your walks, and you have show'd them

me

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!

He that hath found some fledged bird's-nest, may know

At first sight if the bird be flown;

But what fair field 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 flame must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock'd her up gave room
She'd shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

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.

THE SEARCH.

'Tis now clear day: I see a rose
Bud in the bright east, and disclose
The pilgrim-sun; all night have I
Spent in a roving ecstasy

To find my Saviour; I have been
As far as Bethlem, and have seen
His inn and cradle: being there,
I met the wise men; asked them where
He might be found, or what star can
Now point him out, grown up a man?

Y