to have been inadequate to his support. Besides, he was a poet, one of that race of whom he playfully says himself, —

"Thou shalt not find a rich one. Take each clime,

And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time,

Thou'lt meet them poor, and everywhere descrie
A threadbare, gold-less genealogie."

That this lot was not indeed a very distressing one to him, we may conjecture from a passage already quoted, as well as from other lines of his, in which, addressing Fortune, he says:

"I care not for your wondrous hat and purse!
The world's my palace. I'le contemplate there,
And make my progress into every sphere.
The chambers of the aire are mine, those three
Well-furnished stories my possession be.

I hold them ail in capite, and stand

Propt by my fancy there. I scorn your land,
It lies so far below me. Here I see

How all the sacred stars do circle me."

Then, after casting off all the grosser parts of

nature, he proceeds:―

"Get up, my disentangled soul! thy fire

Is now refined, and nothing left to tire

Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight

Hath brought me to the empyrean light.

I am a separate essence, and can see

The emanations of the Deitie;

And how they pass the seraphims, and run
Through every throne and domination.
With angels now and spirits do I dwell;
And here it is my nature to do well.

And shall I then forsake the stars and signs,
To dote upon thy dark and curse

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All this, however, though fine in the way of poetic speculation, would not do for every-day practice. Accordingly, Henry Vaughan, having no taste for the church (indeed there was not much to attract him thither in such times), turned his attention to medical pursuits; and, leaving Oxford without graduating there, he went to London, and, in due time, became M.D., and retired to practice at Brecknock (now Brecon), the county town, a few miles distant from his native place. He found things greatly changed there under the republican regime, and not very congenial, it would seem, to his own feelings.

"Here's brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight
Of high monumental hats, tane at the fight

Of eighty-eight; while every burgesse foots
The mortal pavement in eternall boots."

We find him accordingly soon migrating from thence to his native residence, Newton, where he continued to pursue his profession, and to employ his leisure hours in various literary occupations.

About this time it was that he prepared for the press his little volume, entitled "Olor Iscanus," the swan of the Usk, the dedication of which, to the Lord Kildare Digby, bears date December 17, 1647. This volume, however, he never himself published. It appears to have been consigned to the hands of his brother, when he returned to Oxford, on his ejection from the living of Llansaint

fread; and in 1651, three years afterwards, it was printed by him, with an apologetic advertisement, and commendatory verses from himself and other Oxford friends. Thomas Vaughan, in his address to the reader, expressly says: "I have not the author's approbation to the fact" (viz. of publication); "but I have the law on my side,” (as) "I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house." It would appear, therefore, that Henry Vaughan wished to have destroyed these ebullitions of his youthful muse, as he had many others of the same kind; and that they were, in the end, published contrary to his desire. Yet there is really nothing objectionable in the volume. The poems contained in it are not of a strictly religious character; yet they are full of just and noble sentiments, and I am not aware of a line that any one need have been ashamed of. The volume, when complete, has a curious frontispiece, engraved by Robert Vaughan, (qu. a relation?) with the swan of the Usk very conspicuous in the centre of it, and some Latin verses, "ad Posteros," before it, giving, in enigmatical language, a slight sketch of the author's life and opinions. The matter consists of original poems, many of them addressed to persons of the author's acquaintance, together with translations from Ovid's Tristia, Boethius, and Casimir; and a brief specimen or two will suffice to show that they are not without their beauties.

In an Epithalamium occur these lines,

"Fresh as the houres may all your pleasures be,

And healthfull as eternitie!

Sweet as the flowre's first breath, and close

As th' unseen spreadings of the rose,
When he unfolds his curtained head,

And makes his bosome the sun's bed!

Of the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of James I.,

"Thou seem'st a rose-bud born in snow,

A flowre of purpose sprung to bow
To heedless tempests, and the rage
Of an incensed stormie age.

And yet, as balm-trees gently spend
Their tears for those that doe them rend,

Thou did'st not murmure nor revile,

But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile."

In a different strain, he thus concludes an invitation to a friend to Brecknock :

"Come, then! and while the slow isìcle hangs
At the stiffe thatch, and winter's frostie pangs
Benumme the year, blithe as of old let us,
'Mid noise and war, of peace and mirth discusse.
This portion thou wert born for. Why should we
Vex at the time's ridiculous miserie?

An age that thus hath fooled itself, and will,
Spite of thy teeth and mine, persist so still.
Let's sit, then, at this fire; and, while wee steal
A revell in the town, let others seal,
Purchase, and cheat, and who can let them pay,
Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.
Innocent spenders wee! a better use

Shall wear out our short lease, and leave the obtuse
Rout to their husks. They and their bags, at best,
Have cares in earnest. Wee care for a jest!"

Another poem, the "Christian Politician," thus

ends:

"Come, then, rare politicians of the time,

Brains of some standing, elders-in our clime,
See here the method. A wise, solid state
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Joynt in advice, in resolutions just,
Mild in successe, true to the common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allayes the heat and burnings of a land.
Religion guides it; and in all the tract
Designes so twist, that Heaven confirms the act.
If from these lists you wander, as you steere,
Look back, and catechise your actions here.
These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
And greatness here with goodness hath one end."

We can only afford room for one specimen of the translations :

BOETHIUS, MEtrum 4.

"Whose calme soule in a settled state
Kicks under foot the frowns of fate,
And in his fortunes, bad or good,
Keep the same temper in his bloud,
Not him the flaming clouds above,
Nor Ætna's fierie tempests, move.
No fretting seas from shore to shore,
Boyling with indignation o'er,
Nor burning thunderbolt, that can

A mountain shake, can stirre this man!"

At the close of this volume are inserted four prose translations, all of them bearing more or less on the author's pursuits or circumstances. The first, "On the Benefit we may get by our Enemies," from Plutarch; the second, "Of the Dis