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to have been inadequate to his support. Besides, he was a poet, one of that race of whom he playfully says himself,
Take each clime,
"Thou shalt not find a rich one.
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 chambers of the aire are mine, those three
I hold them ail in capite, and stand
Propt by my fancy there. I scorn your land,
How all the sacred stars do circle me."
"Get up, my disentangled soul! thy fire
Is now refined, and nothing left to tire
Then, after casting off all the grosser parts of
nature, he proceeds: —
Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight
Hath brought me to the empyrean light.
I am a separate essence, and can see
And how they pass the seraphims, and run
And shall I then forsake the stars and signs,
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 eighty-eight; while every burgesse foots
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,
Sweet as the flowre's first breath, and close
As th' unseen spreadings of the rose,
Of the Lady Elizabeth, daughter of James I.,
"Thou seem'st a rose-bud born in snow,
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
Purchase, and cheat, and who can let them pay,
Shall wear out our short lease, and leave the obtuse
Another poem, the "Christian Politician," thus
"Come, then, rare politicians of the time,
These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
We can only afford room for one specimen of the translations :
BOETHIUS, METRUM 4.
"Whose calme soule in a settled state
Nor burning thunderbolt, that can
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