Silex Scintillans or Sacred Poems and Priuate Eiaculations: By Henry Vaughan |
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[Thou that know'st for whom I mourne] |
 | Silex Scintillans |  |
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[Thou that know'st for whom I mourne]
Thou that know'st for whom I mourne,And why these teares appeare,
That keep'st account, till he returne
Of all his dust left here;
As easily thou mightst prevent
As now produce these teares,
And adde unto that day he went
A faire supply of yeares.
But 'twas my sinne that forc'd thy hand
To cull this Prim-rose out,
That by thy early choice forewarn'd
My soule might looke about.
O what a vanity is man!
How like the Eyes quick winke
His Cottage failes; whose narrow span
Begins even at the brink!
Nine months thy hands are fashioning us,
And many yeares (alas!)
E're we can lisp, or ought discusse
Concerning thee, must passe;
Yet have I knowne thy slightest things
A feather, or a shell,
A stick, or Rod which some Chance brings
The best of us excell,
Yea, I have knowne these shreds out last
A faire-compacted frame
And for one Twenty we have past
Almost outlive our name.
Thus hast thou plac'd in mans outside
Death to the Common Eye,
That heaven within him might abide,
And close eternitie;
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Are put unto the slaughter,
And serious thoughts begin to tame
The wise-mans-madnes Laughter;
Dull, wretched wormes! that would not keepe
Within our first faire bed,
But out of Paradise must creepe
For ev'ry foote to tread;
Yet, had our Pilgrimage bin free,
And smooth without a thorne,
Pleasures had foil'd Eternitie,
And tares, had choakt the Corne.
Thus by the Crosse Salvation runnes,
Affliction is a mother,
Whose painefull throws yield many sons,
Each fairer than the other;
A silent teare can peirce thy throne,
When lowd Joyes want a wing,
And sweeter aires streame from a grone,
Than any arted string;
Thus, Lord, I see my gaine is great,
My losse but little to it,
Yet something more I must intreate
And only thou canst doe it.
O let me (like him,) know my End!
And be as glad to find it,
And whatsoe'r thou shalt Commend,
Still let thy Servant mind it!
Then make my soule white as his owne,
My faith as pure, and steddy,
And deck me, Lord, with the same Crowne
Thou hast crownd him already!
| Silex Scintillans | |