Thalia Rediviva The Pass-times and Diversions of a Countrey-muse, In Choice Poems on several Occasions. With Some Learned Remains of the Eminent Eugenius Philalethes. Never made Publick till now [by Henry Vaughan] |
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The Bee.
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The Bee.
From fruitful beds and flowry borders
Parcell'd to wastful Ranks and Orders.
Where state grasps more than plain Truth needs
And wholesome Herbs are starv'd by Weeds:
To the wild Woods I will be gone,
And the course Meals of great Saint John.
Parcell'd to wastful Ranks and Orders.
Where state grasps more than plain Truth needs
And wholesome Herbs are starv'd by Weeds:
To the wild Woods I will be gone,
And the course Meals of great Saint John.
When truth and piety are mist
Both in the Rulers and the Priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the Poor like bread;
While factious heads with open Coile
And force first make, then share the spoile:
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the Desart grows the Rose.
Hail Christal Fountains and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades.
No busie worldling hunts away
The sad Retirer all the day:
Haile happy harmless solitude,
Our Sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world: the calm recess
Of faith, and hope and holiness!
Here something still like Eden looks,
Hony in Woods, Julips in Brooks:
And Flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled Sweets
With a chast kiss the cool dew greets.
When the toyls of the Day are done
And the tir'd world sets with the Sun,
Here flying winds and flowing Wells
Are the wise, watchful Hermits Bells;
Their buisie murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite,
And with an awful sound arrest
And piously employ his breast.
Both in the Rulers and the Priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the Poor like bread;
While factious heads with open Coile
And force first make, then share the spoile:
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the Desart grows the Rose.
Hail Christal Fountains and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades.
No busie worldling hunts away
The sad Retirer all the day:
Haile happy harmless solitude,
Our Sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world: the calm recess
Of faith, and hope and holiness!
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Hony in Woods, Julips in Brooks:
And Flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled Sweets
With a chast kiss the cool dew greets.
When the toyls of the Day are done
And the tir'd world sets with the Sun,
Here flying winds and flowing Wells
Are the wise, watchful Hermits Bells;
Their buisie murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite,
And with an awful sound arrest
And piously employ his breast.
When in the East the Dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh Spirits the air brush;
Herbs (strait) get up, Flow'rs peep and spread:
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head.
Birds from the shades of night releast
Look round about, then quit the neast,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The Hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their Joys:
Then prays, that all the world may be
Blest with as sweet an unity.
Here cool, fresh Spirits the air brush;
Herbs (strait) get up, Flow'rs peep and spread:
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head.
Birds from the shades of night releast
Look round about, then quit the neast,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The Hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their Joys:
Then prays, that all the world may be
Blest with as sweet an unity.
If sudden storms the day invade,
They flock about him to the shade:
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage Crow.
They flock about him to the shade:
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage Crow.
O purer years of light, and grace!
The diff'rence is great, as the space
'Twixt you and us: who blindly run
After false-fires, and leave the Sun.
Is not fair Nature of her self
Much richer than dull paint, or pelf?
And are not streams at the Spring-head
More sweet than in carv'd Stone, or Lead?
But fancy and some Artist's tools
Frame a Religion for fools.
The diff'rence is great, as the space
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After false-fires, and leave the Sun.
Is not fair Nature of her self
Much richer than dull paint, or pelf?
And are not streams at the Spring-head
More sweet than in carv'd Stone, or Lead?
But fancy and some Artist's tools
Frame a Religion for fools.
The truth, which once was plainly taught,
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold Fables spotted,
Some by strange Comments wildly blotted:
And discord (old Corruption's Crest,)
With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
So Snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness, like pure heav'n presents,
When touch'd by Man is quickly soil'd
And after trodden down, and spoil'd:
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold Fables spotted,
Some by strange Comments wildly blotted:
And discord (old Corruption's Crest,)
With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
So Snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness, like pure heav'n presents,
When touch'd by Man is quickly soil'd
And after trodden down, and spoil'd:
O lead me, where I may be free
In truth and Spirit to serve thee!
Where undisturb'd I may converse
With thy great self, and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks, and from thy store
Who art all blessings, beg much more!
Give me the Wisdom of the Bee,
And her unwearied Industry:
That from the wild Gourds of these days
I may extract Health and thy praise;
Who can'st turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness shew thy might!
In truth and Spirit to serve thee!
Where undisturb'd I may converse
With thy great self, and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks, and from thy store
Who art all blessings, beg much more!
Give me the Wisdom of the Bee,
And her unwearied Industry:
That from the wild Gourds of these days
I may extract Health and thy praise;
Who can'st turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness shew thy might!
Suffer me not in any want
To seek refreshment from a Plant.
Thou did'st not set! since all must be
Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from thee.
'Tis not the garden and the Bowrs,
Nor fense and forms that give to flow'rs
Their wholsomness: but thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still.
To seek refreshment from a Plant.
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Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from thee.
'Tis not the garden and the Bowrs,
Nor fense and forms that give to flow'rs
Their wholsomness: but thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still.
Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence
Thy kind and saving Influence,
And Balm is no more to be had
In all the Coasts of Gilead:
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where thy best Servants once did dwell.
There let me know thy Will, and see
Exil'd Religion own'd by thee.
For thou can'st turn dark Grots to Halls,
And make Hills blossome like the vales:
Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs
And fresh delights for all sad hours:
Till from them, like a laden Bee,
I may fly home, and hive with thee.
Thy kind and saving Influence,
And Balm is no more to be had
In all the Coasts of Gilead:
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where thy best Servants once did dwell.
There let me know thy Will, and see
Exil'd Religion own'd by thee.
For thou can'st turn dark Grots to Halls,
And make Hills blossome like the vales:
Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs
And fresh delights for all sad hours:
Till from them, like a laden Bee,
I may fly home, and hive with thee.
| Thalia Rediviva | |