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prose, it seems highly probable, from the brief specimens which we have of his capabilities, that he would have excelled in this species of composition likewise. The subjects, however, on which he employed his pen appear to have had no interest for the public at this period. Indeed, translations from the Fathers were not likely at such a time to meet with many sympathizing readers. The world had been deluged by the Puritans with their weak and washy publications. Still their crude theology was that generally in vogue. Those who had been disposed to go up, and drink at the stream a little nearer to its source, had passed away with the exiled Cosins and Bramhalls of a former generation. The court party was soon to come back from France vitiated alike in taste and principles, and ready to make a jest of every thing religious. This, then, was not a time at which treatises, such as those now published by Henry Vaughan, were likely to become popular. They were accordingly never reprinted, and their very existence is almost unknown to ordinary English readers. The following verses close this little volume, of which the last thirty-four lines are very striking.

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ST. PAULINUS TO HIS WIFE THERASIA.

Come, my true consort in my joyes and care,
Let this uncertaine and still wasting share
Of our fraile life be given to God! you see
How the swift dayes drive hence incessantlie;

And the fraile, drooping world, though still thought gay,
In secret slow consumption weares away.

All that we have passe from us, and, once past,
Returne no more. Like clouds they seeme to last,
And so delude loose greedy mindes. But where
Are now those trim deceits? To what dark sphere
Are all those false fires sunk, which once so shined,
They captivated soules and ruled mankind?

And what, Therasia, doth it us availe,

That spatious streames shall flow and never faile,
That aged forrests live to tyre the winds,

And flowers each spring returne and keepe their kinds?
Those still remaine; but all our fathers dyed,

And we ourselves but for few dayes abide.

This short tyme, then, was not given us in vaine,
To whom tyme dyes, in which we dying gaine;
But that in tyme eternall life should be
Our care, and endlesse rest our industrie.
And yet this taske, which the rebellious deeme

Too harsh, who God's mild lawes for chaines esteem,
Suites with the meeke and harmlesse heart so right,
That 'tis all ease, all comfort, and delight.
'To love our God with all our strength and will;

To covet nothing; to devise no ill

Against our neighbours; to procure or doe
Nothing to others which we would not to
Our very selves; not to revenge our wrong;
To be content with little; not to long
For wealth and greatnesse; to despise or jeare
No man; and, if we be despised, to bear:
To feed the hungry; to hold fast our crown;
To take from others nought to give our owne.'
These are his precepts; and, alas! in these
What is so hard but faith may doe with ease?
He that the holy prophets doth beleeve,
And on God's words relies (words that still live,
And cannot dye), that in his heart hath writ
His Saviour's death and triumph; and doth yet,
With constant care admitting no neglect,

His second dreadfull coming still expect;
To such a liver, earthy things are dead;

With heaven alone, and hopes of heaven, hee's fed.
He is no vassall unto worldly trash,

Nor that black knowledge which pretends to wash,
But doth defile; a knowledge by which men
With studied care lose Paradise again.

Commands and titles, the vaine world's device,
With gold, the forward seed of sin and vice,
He never minds. His ayme is farre more high,
And stoopes to nothing lower than the skye.
Nor griefs nor pleasures breede him any pain:
He nothing feares to lose; would nothing gaine.
Whatever hath not God he doth detest.

He lives to Christ; is dead to all the rest.
This Holy One, sent hither from above,

A Virgin brought forth, shadowed by the Dove.
A crown of thornes his blessed head did wound,
Nayles pierced his hands and feet; and he, fast bound,
Stuck to the painfull crosse, where, hanged till dead,
With a cold speare his heart's dear blood was shed.
All this for man, for bad, ungratefull man,
The true God suffered: not that suffering can
Adde to his glory aught, who can receive
Accesse from nothing; whom none can bereave
Of his all-fulnesse: but the blest designe
Of his sad death was to save me from mine.
He dying bore my sins; and, the third day,
His early rising raised me from the clay.
To such great mercies, what shall I preferre,
Or who from loving God shall mee deterre?
Burne mee alive with curious, skilfull paine;
Cut up and search each warme and breathing vein;
When all is done, death brings a quick release,
And the poore mangled body sleepes in peace.
Hale mee to prisons; shut me up in brasse:
My still free soule from thence to God shall passe.
Banish or bind me; I can be no where
A stranger or alone; my God is there.

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To starve, who feedes upon the living bread?

And yet this courage springs not from my store.
Christ gave it mee, who can give much, much more.
I of myself can nothing dare or doe;

He bids mee fight, and makes mee conquer too.
If, like great Abraham, I should have command
To leave my father's house and native land,
I would with joy to unknown regions run,
Bearing the banner of his blessed Son.

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On worldly goods I will have no designe;
But use my owne, as if mine were not mine.
Wealth I'll not wonder at, nor greatnesse seeke;
But chuse, though laughed at, to be poore and meake.
In woe and wealth, I'll keepe the same stayed mind;
Grief shall not breake me, nor joyes make me blind!
Then come, my faithfull consort, joyne with me
In this good fight, and my true helper be!
Cheer me when sad, advise me when I stray;

Let us be each the other's guide and stay.

Be your Lord's guardian. Give joynt ayde and due;
Helpe him when falne; rise when he helpeth you.
That so we may not onely one flesh bee,

But in one spirit and one will agree!

It would be gratifying to be able to state, that Henry Vaughan's poetry, replete as it is with beauty and originality, had met with a better reception than his prose. But we cannot in honesty say that this was the case. That he had his admirers among the discerning few, there can be no doubt. His friends at Oxford, more especially, seem to have treasured up carefully every scrap of verse that fell from his pen. But with the public at large, and particularly with reference to his religious poetry, it was far otherwise. It

might at first sight appear that his "Silex Scintillans" had at least found readers enough to carry it through a second edition. A volume so designated by the publisher was sent forth in the year 1655, containing all the poems printed in the year 1651, together with a second part, almost equal in extent to the former, and the whole preceded by a very interesting preface, full of just thoughts and pious sentiments. But, on closer inspection, it is evident that we have here only the unsold copies of the volume before published, with the preface and second part added to them, and a new title prefixed to the whole. All this is discernible from the paging of this nominally second edition, and it speaks loudly of the neglect which the previous volume had experienced. The poems contained in this second part are in no respect inferior to those before published. Indeed, in some points, they present rather an improvement on them. They seem to exhibit more of Vaughan's own natural vein, and less of that of his excellent master. Preserving all the piety of George Herbert, they have less of his quaint and fantastic turns, with a much larger infusion of poetic feeling and expression. Their merits, however, seem to have been but ill appreciated by the tasteless and godless generation for whom Vaughan wrote, and his little volume accordingly soon sank into oblivion. We learn from its contents that the author was still a sufferer, his body still labouring under the

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