THE DAWNING.

Ah! what time wilt thou come? When shall that cry, _The Bridegroom's coming_, fill the sky?

Shall it in the evening run When our words and works are done?

Or will thy all-surprising light Break at midnight, When either sleep or some dark pleasure Possesseth mad man without measure?

Or shail these early, fragrant hours Unlock thy bowers,[151]

And with their blush of light descry Thy locks crowned with eternity?

Indeed, it is the only time That with thy glory doth best chime: All now are stirring; every field Full hymns doth yield; The whole creation shakes off night, And for thy shadow looks the light;[152]

Stars now vanish without number; Sleepy planets set and slumber; The pursy clouds disband and scatter;-- All expect some sudden matter; Not one beam triumphs, but, from far, That morning-star.

O, at what time soever thou, Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, And, with thy angels in the van, Descend to judge poor careless man, Grant I may not like puddle lie In a corrupt security, Where, if a traveller water crave, He finds it dead, and in a grave; But as this restless, vocal spring All day and night doth run and sing, And though here born, yet is acquainted Elsewhere, and, flowing, keeps untainted, So let me all my busy age In thy free services engage; And though, while here, of force,[153] I must Have commerce sometimes with poor dust,[154]

And in my flesh, though vile and low, As this doth in her channel, flow, Yet let my course, my aim, my love, And chief acquaintance be above.

So when that day and hour shall come, In which thyself will be the sun, Thou'lt find me drest and on my way, Watching the break of thy great day.

I do not think that description of the dawn has ever been surpa.s.sed. The verse "All expect some sudden matter," is wondrously fine. The water "dead and in a grave," because stagnant, is a true fancy; and the "acquainted elsewhere" of the running stream, is a masterly phrase. I need not point out the symbolism of the poem.

I do not know a writer, Wordsworth not excepted, who reveals more delight in the visions of Nature than Henry Vaughan. He is a true forerunner of Wordsworth, inasmuch as the latter sets forth with only greater profundity and more art than he, the relations between Nature and Human Nature; while, on the other hand, he is the forerunner as well of some one that must yet do what Wordsworth has left almost unattempted, namely--set forth the sympathy of Nature with the aspirations of the spirit that is born of G.o.d, born again, I mean, in the recognition of the child's relation to the Father. Both Herbert and Vaughan have thus read Nature, the latter turning many leaves which few besides have turned. In this he has struck upon a deeper and richer lode than even Wordsworth, although he has not wrought it with half his skill. In any history of the development of the love of the present age for Nature, Vaughan, although I fear his influence would be found to have been small as yet, must be represented as the Phosphor of coming dawn. Beside him, Thomson is cold, artistic, and gray: although larger in scope, he is not to be compared with him in sympathetic sight. It is this insight that makes Vaughan a mystic. He can see one thing everywhere, and all things the same--yet each with a thousand sides that radiate crossing lights, even as the airy particles around us. For him everything is the expression of, and points back to, some fact in the Divine Thought. Along the line of every ray he looks towards its radiating centre--the heart of the Maker.

I could give many instances of Vaughan's power in reading the heart of Nature, but I may not dwell upon this phase. Almost all the poems I give and have given will afford such.

I walked the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flower; But winter now had ruffled all the bower And curious store I knew there heretofore.

Yet I whose search loved not to peep and peer I' th' face of things, Thought with myself, there might be other springs Besides this here, Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; And so the flower Might have some other bower.

Then taking up what I could nearest spy, I digged about That place where I had seen him to grow out; And by and by I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, Where fresh and green He lived of us unseen.

Many a question intricate and rare Did I there strow; But all I could extort was, that he now Did there repair Such losses as befell him in this air, And would ere long Come forth most fair and young.

This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head; And, stung with fear Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear Upon his bed; Then sighing, whispered, _Happy are the dead!

What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!_

And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs From a poor root Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things, But is still trod By every wandering clod!

O thou, whose spirit did at first inflame And warm the dead!

And by a sacred incubation fed With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name!

Grant I may so Thy steps track here below,

That in these masks and shadows I may see Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day Which breaks from thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly: Show me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease.

And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move Without all pain: There, hid in thee, show me his life again At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn.

There are several amongst his poems lamenting, like this, the death of some dear friend--perhaps his twin-brother, whom he outlived thirty years.

According to what a man is capable of seeing in nature, he becomes either a man of appliance, a man of science, a mystic, or a poet.

I must now give two that are simple in thought, construction, and music.

The latter ought to be popular, from the nature of its rhythmic movement, and the holy merriment it carries. But in the former, note how the major key of gladness changes in the third stanza to the minor key of aspiration, which has always some sadness in it; a sadness which deepens to grief in the next stanza at the consciousness of unfitness for Christ's company, but is lifted by hope almost again to gladness in the last.

CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

Awake, glad heart! Get up, and sing!

It is the birthday of thy king!

Awake! awake!

The sun doth shake Light from his locks, and, all the way Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake! awake! Hark how the wood rings Winds whisper, and the busy springs A concert make: Awake! awake!

Man is their high-priest, and should rise To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird or star, Fluttering in woods, or lifted far Above this inn And road of sin!

Then either star or bird should be Shining or singing still to thee.

I would I had in my best part Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart Were so clean as Thy manger was!

But I am all filth, and obscene; Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then. Let no more This leper haunt and soil thy door.

Cure him, ease him; O release him!

And let once more, by mystic birth, The Lord of life be born in earth.

The fitting companion to this is his

EASTER HYMN.

Death and darkness, get you packing: Nothing now to man is lacking.

All your triumphs now are ended, And what Adam marred is mended.

Graves are beds now for the weary; Death a nap, to wake more merry; Youth now, full of pious duty, Seeks in thee for perfect beauty; The weak and aged, tired with length Of days, from thee look for new strength; And infants with thy pangs contest, As pleasant as if with the breast.

Then unto him who thus hath thrown Even to contempt thy kingdom down, And by his blood did us advance Unto his own inheritance-- To him be glory, power, praise, From this unto the last of days!

We must now descend from this height of true utterance into the Valley of Humiliation, and cannot do better than console ourselves by listening to the boy in mean clothes, of the fresh and well-favoured countenance, whom Christiana and her fellow-pilgrims hear singing in that valley.

He that is down, needs fear no fall; He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have G.o.d to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much; And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because thou savest[155] such.

Fulness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

I could not have my book without one word in it of John Bunyan, the tinker, probably the gipsy, who although born only and not made a poet, like his great brother, John Milton, has uttered in prose a wealth of poetic thought. He was born in 1628, twenty years after Milton. I must not, however, remark on this n.o.ble Bohemian of literature and prophecy; but leaving at length these flowery hills and meadows behind me, step on my way across the desert.--England had now fallen under the influence of France instead of Italy, and that influence has never been for good to our literature, at least. Thence its chief aim grew to be a desirable trimness of speech and logical arrangement of matter--good external qualities purchased at a fearful price with the loss of all that makes poetry precious. The poets of England, with John Dryden at their head, ceased almost for a time to deal with the truths of humanity, and gave themselves to the facts and relations of society. The nation which could recall the family of the Stuarts must necessarily fall into such a decay of spiritual life as should render its literature only respectable at the best, and its religious utterances essentially vulgar. But the decay is gradual.

Bishop Ken, born in 1637, is known chiefly by his hymns for the morning and evening, deservedly popular. He has, however, written a great many besides--too many, indeed, for variety or excellence. He seems to have set himself to write them as acts of worship. They present many signs of a perversion of taste which, though not in them so remarkable, rose to a height before long. He annoys us besides by the constant recurrence of certain phrases, one or two of which are not admirable, and by using, in the midst of a simple style, odd Latin words. Here are portions of, I think, one of his best, and good it is.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS.

Lord, 'tis thyself who hast impressed In native light on human breast, That their Creator all Mankind should Father call: A father's love all mortals know, And the love filial which they owe.