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VANITY OF SPIRIT.
by Henry Vaughan
QUITE spent with thoughts,
I left my cell, and lay
Where a shrill spring tun'd to the early day.
I begg'd here long, and groan'd to know
Who gave the clouds so brave a bow,
Who bent the spheres, and circled in
Corruption with this glorious ring ;
What is His name, and how I might
Descry some part of His great light.
I summon'd Nature ; pierc'd through all her store ;
Broke up some seals, which none had touch'd before
Her womb, her bosom, and her head,
Where all her secrets lay abed,
I rifled quite ; and having past
Through all the creatures, came at last
To search my self, where I did find
Traces, and sounds of a strange kind.
Here of this mighty spring I found some drills,
With echoes beaten from th' eternal hills.
Weak beams and fires flash'd to my sight,
Like a young East, or moonshine night,
Which show'd me in a nook cast by
A piece of much antiquity,
With hieroglyphics quite dismember'd,
And broken letters scarce remember'd.
I took them up, and—much joy'd—went about
T' unite those pieces, hoping to find out
The mystery ; but this ne'er done,
That little light I had was gone.
It griev'd me much. At last,
said I,
Since in these veils my eclips'd eye
May not approach Theefor at night
Who can have commerce with the light ?
I'll disapparel, and to buy
But one half-glance, most gladly die.
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Source:
Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 57-58.
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