Reverend Father | _EUCHERIUS_, | Bishop of _Lyons_, to his Kinsman |
_VALERIANUS_. | [Texts] | _London_, Printed for _Humphrey Moseley_ [etc.].
(c) Primitive Holiness, | Set forth in the | LIFE | of blessed |
PAULINUS, | The most Reverend, and | Learned BISHOP of | _NOLA_: |
Collected out of his own Works, | and other Primitive Authors by |
_Henry Vaughan_, Silurist. | 2 Kings _cap._ 2. _ver._ 12 | _My Father,
my Father, the Chariot of_ | Israel, _and the Horsmen thereof._ |
_LONDON_, | Printed for _Humphry Moseley_ [etc.].
(6)
Silex Scintillans: | SACRED | POEMS | And private | EJACULATIONS. | The
second Edition, In two Books; | By _Henry Vaughan_, Silurist. | Job
chap. 35 ver. 10, 11. | [quoted in full] | _London_, Printed for _Henry
Crips_, and _Lodo-_ | _wick Lloyd_, next to the Castle in _Cornhil_, |
and in _Popes-head Alley_. 1655. [8^vo^.]
A reissue, with additions and a fresh title-page, of (2). The Preface is
dated "Newton by Usk, near Sketh-rock Septem. 30, 1654."
(7)
HERMETICAL | PHYSICK: | _OR_, | The right way to pre-| serve, and to
restore | HEALTH | _BY_ | That famous and faith-| full Chymist, | _HENRY
NOLLIUS_. | Englished by | HENRY UAUGHAN, Gent. | _LONDON._ | Printed
for _Humphrey Moseley_, and | are to be sold at his shop, at the |
_Princes Armes_, in S^t _Pauls Church-Yard_, 1655. [12^mo^.]
(8)
_Thalia Rediviva:_ | THE | _Pass-Times_ and _Diversions_ | OF A |
COUNTREY-MUSE, | In Choice | POEMS | On several Occasions. | WITH | Some
Learned _Remains_ of the Eminent | _Eugenius Philalethes_. | Never made
Publick till now. |--Nec erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia. _Virgil._ |
Licensed, _Roger L'Estrange_. | _London_, Printed for _Robert Pawlet_ at
the Bible in | _Chancery-lane_, near _Fleetstreet_, 1678 [8^vo^.]
The Remains of Eugenius Philalethes [Thomas Vaughan] have a separate
title-page.
_Eugenii Philalethis_, | VIRI | INSIGNISSIMI | ET | Poetarum | Sui
Saeculi, merito Principis: | _VERTUMNUS_ | ET | _CYNTHIA_, &c. | Q.
Horat. |--_Qui praegravat artes Infra se positas,_ | _extinctus
am[a]bitur._--| _LONDINI_, | Impensis _Roberti Pawlett_, M.DC.LXXVIII.
[12^mo^.]
(9)
Olor Iscanus. A collection of some Select Poems, Together with these
Translations following, etc. All Englished by H. Vaughan, Silurist.
London: Printed and are to be sold by Peter Parker ... 1679. [8^vo^.]
A reissue, according to Dr. Grosart (ii. 59) and W. C. Hazlitt
(_Supplement to Third Series Of Collections_, p. 106), of the 1651 _Olor
Iscanus_, with a fresh title-page. I have not seen a copy.
(10)
[Miss L. I. Guiney writes in her essay on _Henry Vaughan, the Silurist_
(Atlantic Monthly, May, 1894): "Mr. Carew Hazlitt has been fortunate
enough to discover the advertisement of an eighteenth-century Vaughan
reprint."
As to this Mr. Hazlitt writes to me: "I cannot tell where Miss Guiney
heard about the Vaughan--not certainly from me. But there is an edition
of his 'Spiritual Songs,' 8^vo^, 1706, of which, however, I don't at
present know the whereabouts."]
(11)
Silex Scintillans: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry
Vaughan, with Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. London: William Pickering,
1847. [12^mo^.]
An edition of (6) and part of (8).
(12)
The Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry Vaughan, with a
Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Boston [U. S. A.]: Little, Brown and
Company, 1856. [8^vo^.]
A reprint of (11).
(13)
Silex Scintillans, etc.: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry
Vaughan. London: Bell and Daldy. 1858.
A reprint, with a revised text, of (11).
(14)
The Fuller Worthies' Library. The Works in Verse and Prose complete of
Henry Vaughan, Silurist, for the first time collected and edited: with
Memorial-Introduction: Essay on Life and Writings: and Notes: by the
Rev. Alexander B. Grosart, St. George's, Blackburn, Lancashire. In four
Volumes.... Printed for Private Circulation. 1871.
A reprint of the original editions, with biographical and critical
matter. Only 50 4^to^, 106 8^vo^, and 156 12^mo^ copies printed. In Vol.
II. are included the Poems of Thomas Vaughan, with a separate
title-page.
The English and Latin Verse-Remains of Thomas Vaughan ('Eugenius
Philalethes'), twin-brother of the Silurist. For the first time
collected and edited: with Memorial-Introduction and Notes: by the Rev.
Alexander B. Grosart [etc.].
(15)
Silex Scintillans, etc. Sacred Poems and Pious Ejaculations. By Henry
Vaughan, "Silurist." With a Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Job xxxv. 10,
11 [in full]. London: George Bell and Sons, York Street, Covent Garden.
1883. [8^vo^.]
A reprint, with a text further revised, of (11) and (13), forming a
volume of the _Aldine Poets_. Since reprinted in 1891.
(16)
The Jewel Poets. Henry Vaughan. Edinburgh. Macniven and Wallace. 1884.
A selection, with a short preface by W. R. Nicoll.
(17)
Silex Scintillans. Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry
Vaughan (Silurist). Being a facsimile of the First Edition, published in
1650, with an Introduction by the Rev. William Clare, B.A. (Adelaide).
London: Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row. 1885. [12^mo^.]
A facsimile reprint of (2).
(18)
Secular Poems by Henry Vaughan, Silurist. Including a few pieces by his
twin-brother Thomas ("Eugenius Philalethes"). Selected and arranged,
with Notes and Bibliography, by J. R. Tutin, Editor of "Poems of Richard
Crashaw," etc. Hull: J. R. Tutin. 1893.
A selection from Vol. II. of (14).
(19)
The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. With an Introduction by H. C.
Beeching, Rector of Yattendon. [Publishers' Device.] London: Lawrence
and Bullen, 16, Henrietta Street, W.C. New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue. 1896. [Two vols. 8^vo^.]
The present edition. A hundred copies are printed on large paper.
POEMS,
WITH THE
TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL
ENGLISHED.
1646.
TO ALL INGENIOUS LOVERS OF POESY.
Gentlemen,
To you alone, whose more refined spirits out-wing these dull times, and
soar above the drudgery of dirty intelligence, have I made sacred these
fancies: I know the years, and what coarse entertainment they afford
poetry. If any shall question that courage that durst send me abroad so
late, and revel it thus in the dregs of an age, they have my silence:
only,
Languescente seculo, liceat aegrotari.
My more calm ambition, amidst the common noise, hath thus exposed me to
the world: you have here a flame, bright only in its own innocence, that
kindles nothing but a generous thought: which though it may warm the
blood, the fire at highest is but Platonic; and the commotion, within
these limits, excludes danger. For the satire, it was of purpose
borrowed to feather some slower hours; and what you see here is but the
interest: it is one of his whose Roman pen had as much true passion for
the infirmities of that state, as we should have pity to the
distractions of our own: honest--I am sure--it is, and offensive cannot
be, except it meet with such spirits that will quarrel with antiquity,
or purposely arraign themselves. These indeed may think that they have
slept out so many centuries in this satire and are now awakened; which,
had it been still Latin, perhaps their nap had been everlasting. But
enough of these,--it is for you only that I have adventured thus far,
and invaded the press with verse; to whose more noble indulgence I shall
now leave it, and so am gone.--
H. V.
TO MY INGENUOUS FRIEND, R. W.
When we are dead, and now, no more
Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score
Distracts the town; when all is spent
That the base niggard world hath lent
Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise
Of drawers, 'prentices and boys
Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar
Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star;
When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors,
To fright us with forgotten scores;
And such aged long bills carry,
As might start an antiquary;
When the sad tumults of the maze,
Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face
Of sergeants are not seen, and we
No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee:
When all these mulcts are paid, and I
From thee, dear wit, must part, and die;
We'll beg the world would be so kind,
To give's one grave as we'd one mind;
There, as the wiser few suspect,
That spirits after death affect,
Our souls shall meet, and thence will they,
Freed from the tyranny of clay,
With equal wings, and ancient love
Into the Elysian fields remove,
Where in those blessed walks they'll find
More of thy genius, and my mind.
First, in the shade of his own bays,
Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays
The learned ghosts admire, and throng
To catch the subject of his song.
Then Randolph in those holy meads,
His _Lovers_ and _Amyntas_ reads,
Whilst his Nightingale, close by,
Sings his and her own elegy.
From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads,
Through airy paths and sad abodes,
They'll come into the drowsy fields
Of Lethe, which such virtue yields,
That, if what poets sing be true,
The streams all sorrow can subdue.
Here, on a silent, shady green,
The souls of lovers oft are seen,
Who, in their life's unhappy space,
Were murder'd by some perjur'd face.
All these th' enchanted streams frequent,
To drown their cares, and discontent,
That th' inconstant, cruel sex
Might not in death their spirits vex.
And here our souls, big with delight
Of their new state, will cease their flight:
And now the last thoughts will appear,
They'll have of us, or any here;
But on those flow'ry banks will stay,
And drink all sense and cares away.
So they that did of these discuss,
Shall find their fables true in us.
LES AMOURS
Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize
And triumph of thy scornful eyes,
I sacrifice to heaven, and give
To quit my sins, that durst believe
A woman's easy faith, and place
True joys in a changing face.
Yet ere I go: by all those tears
And sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears;
By thy own glories, and that hour
Which first enslav'd me to thy power;
I beg, fair one, by this last breath,
This tribute from thee after death.
If, when I'm gone, you chance to see
That cold bed where I lodged be,
Let not your hate in death appear,
But bless my ashes with a tear:
This influx from that quick'ning eye,
By secret pow'r, which none can spy,
The cold dust shall inform, and make
Those flames, though dead, new life partake
Whose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bring
O'er all the tomb a sudden spring
Of crimson flowers, whose drooping heads
Shall curtain o'er their mournful beds:
And on each leaf, by Heaven's command,
These emblems to the life shall stand
Two hearts, the first a shaft withstood;
The second, shot and wash'd in blood;
And on this heart a dew shall stay,
Which no heat can court away;
But fix'd for ever, witness bears
That hearty sorrow feeds on tears.
Thus Heaven can make it known, and true
That you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you.
TO AMORET.
The Sigh.
Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings,
Take this message and depart;
Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings,
At what thy airy voyage brings,
That thou cam'st lately from my heart.
Tell my lovely foe that I
Have no more such spies to send,
But one or two that I intend,
Some few minutes ere I die,
To her white bosom to commend.
Then whisper by that holy spring,
Where for her sake I would have died,
Whilst those water-nymphs did bring
Flowers to cure what she had tried;
And of my faith and love did sing.
That if my Amoret, if she
In after-times would have it read,
How her beauty murder'd me,
With all my heart I will agree,
If she'll but love me, being dead.
TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.
Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath
Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death;
Doating idolater! can silence bring
Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try
This silent courtship of a sickly eye.
Witty to tyranny, she too well knows
This but the incense of thy private vows,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move,
The language of thy tears may make her love.
Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall
On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all,
By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie,
The much lov'd volume of my tragedy.
Where, if you win her not, may this be read,
The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.
SONG.
Amyntas go, thou art undone,
Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate;
That love is better not begun,
Where love is come to love too late.[43]
Had she professed[44] hidden fires,
Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart,
I could have quench'd my first desires,
And we had only met to part.
But, tyrant, thus to murder men,
And shed a lover's harmless blood,
And burn him in those flames again,
Which he at first might have withstood.
Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep
Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace;
Durst think them feigned tears, or seek
For treason in an angel's face.
This is her art, though this be true,
Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears,
Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew,
Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.
This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus
That face hath many servants slain,
Though th' end be not to ruin us,
But to seek glory by our pain.[48]
FOOTNOTES:
[43] MS. _Whose pure offering comes too late._
[44] MS. _profess'd her._
[45] MS. _the._
[46] MS. _such a._
[47] MS. _by._
[48]
MS. _Your aime is sure to ruine us._
_Seeking your glory by our paine_
TO AMORET.
Walking in a Starry Evening.
If, Amoret, that glorious eye,
In the first birth of light,
And death of Night,
Had with those elder fires you spy
Scatter'd so high,
Received form and sight;
We might suspect in the vast ring,
Amidst these golden glories,
And fiery stories;[49]
Whether the sun had been the king
And guide of day,
Or your brighter eye should sway.
But, Amoret, such is my fate,
That if thy face a star
Had shin'd from far,
I am persuaded in that state,
'Twixt thee and me,
Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]
For sure such two conspiring minds,
Which no accident, or sight,
Did thus unite;
Whom no distance can confine,
Start, or decline,
One for another were design'd.
FOOTNOTES:
[49] MS.
MS. _We may suspect in the vast ring_,
_Which rolls those fiery spheres_
_Thro' years and years._
[50] MS. _There would be perfect sympathy._
TO AMORET GONE FROM HIM.
Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,
And Amoret, of thee we talk'd;
The West just then had stolen the sun,
And his last blushes were begun:
We sate, and mark'd how everything
Did mourn his absence: how the spring
That smil'd and curl'd about his beams,
Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams:
The wanton eddies of her face
Were taught less noise, and smoother grace;
And in a slow, sad channel went,
Whisp'ring the banks their discontent:
The careless ranks of flowers that spread
Their perfum'd bosoms to his head.
And with an open, free embrace,
Did entertain his beamy face,
Like absent friends point to the West,
And on that weak reflection feast.
If creatures then that have no sense,
But the loose tie of influence,
Though fate and time each day remove
Those things that element their love,
At such vast distance can agree,
Why, Amoret, why should not we?
A SONG TO AMORET.
If I were dead, and in my place
Some fresher youth design'd
To warm thee with new fires, and grace
Those arms I left behind;
Were he as faithful as the sun,
That's wedded to the sphere;
His blood as chaste and temp'rate run,
As April's mildest tear;
Or were he rich, and with his heaps
And spacious share of earth,
Could make divine affection cheap,
And court his golden birth:
For all these arts I'd not believe,
--No, though he should be thine--
The mighty amorist could give
So rich a heart as mine.
Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,
And greater men than I:
But my true resolved mind
They never shall come nigh.[51]
For I not for an hour did love,
Or for a day desire,
But with my soul had from above
This endless, holy fire.
FOOTNOTES:
[51]
MS. _But with my true steadfast minde_
_None can pretend to vie._
AN ELEGY.
'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die,
I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy
To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me,
Those sickly flames which now benighted be,
Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove
In them the metempsychosis of love.
'Twas I--when others scorn'd--vow'd you were fair,
And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air,
Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring
Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring
To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart
A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,
To arm those eyes against myself; to me
Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony.
I courted angels from those upper joys,
And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice.
I made the Indian curse the hours he spent
To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent
His former folly, and confess a sin,
Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin.
I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing
Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring;
And made--to air those cheeks with fresher grace--
The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face.
_Oh! jam satis_ ...
A RHAPSODIS:
_Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the
Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and
some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills,
shepherds and sheep._
Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite
Our active fancies to believe it night:
For taverns need no sun, but for a sign,
Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine;
And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul,
With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl;
As though the pot and poet did agree,
Sack should to both illuminator be.
That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow,
Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below
Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break
In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak
The evening to the plains, where, shot from far,
They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star.
The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air
Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair.
Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts
To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts?
No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown
Musters his bleating herd and quits the down.
Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air,
Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair.
Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep,
Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep!
But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands
Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands
Of some base painter, that for gain hath made
Her face the landmark to the tippling trade.
This cup to her, that to Endymion give;
'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live.
Choke may the painter! and his box disclose
No other colours than his fiery nose;
And may we no more of his pencil see
Than two churchwardens, and mortality.
Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet
With catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street:
Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave,
Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave,
When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs
Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs
Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day;
And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way;
When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood
From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud,
Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels
'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels.
Come, take the other dish; it is to him
That made his horse a senator: each brim
Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast
Of all the herd--you'll say--was not the least.
Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth
I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth
Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon,
And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon,
And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly
Into Brundusium to consult, and lie.
This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said
We drink more to the living than the dead?
Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh
At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff
To honour others, do like those that sent
Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent.
Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine
Spirit of wit, to make us all divine,
That big with sack and mirth we may retire
Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire;
And by the influx of this painted sky,
And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly;
So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all,
After full cups, have dreams poetical.
Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink,
Till the drowsy day-star wink;
And in our merry, mad mirth run
Faster, and further than the sun;
And let none his cup forsake,
Till that star again doth wake;
So we men below shall move
Equally with the gods above.
TO AMORET, OF THE DIFFERENCE 'TWIXT HIM AND OTHER LOVERS,
AND WHAT TRUE LOVE IS.
Mark, when the evening's cooler wings
Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun,
Leaving undone,
What he begun,
Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earth
To their first, low birth,
Resigns, and brings.
They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities,
Threading with those false fires their way;
But as you stay
And see them stray,
You lose the flaming track, and subtly they
Languish away,
And cheat your eyes.
Just so base, sublunary lovers' hearts
Fed on loose profane desires,
May for an eye
Or face comply:
But those remov'd, they will as soon depart,
And show their art,
And painted fires.
Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd,
That my absent soul the same is,
Careless to miss
A glance or kiss,
Can with those elements of lust and sense
Freely dispense,
And court the mind.
Thus to the North the loadstones move,
And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires:
Thus Amoret
I do affect;
And thus by winged beams, and mutual fire,
Spirits and stars conspire:
And this is Love.
TO AMORET WEEPING.
Leave Amoret, melt not away so fast
Thy eyes' fair treasure; Fortune's wealthiest cast
Deserves not one such pearl; for these, well spent,
Can purchase stars, and buy a tenement
For us in heaven; though here the pious streams
Avail us not; who from that clue of sunbeams
Could ever steal one thread? or with a kind
Persuasive accent charm the wild loud wind?
Fate cuts us all in marble, and the Book
Forestalls our glass of minutes; we may look
But seldom meet a change; think you a tear
Can blot the flinty volume? shall our fear
Or grief add to their triumphs? and must we
Give an advantage to adversity?
Dear, idle prodigal! is it not just
We bear our stars? What though I had not dust
Enough to cabinet a worm? nor stand
Enslav'd unto a little dirt, or sand?
I boast a better purchase, and can show
The glories of a soul that's simply true.
But grant some richer planet at my birth
Had spied me out, and measur'd so much earth
Or gold unto my share: I should have been
Slave to these lower elements, and seen
My high-born soul flag with their dross, and lie
A pris'ner to base mud, and alchemy.
I should perhaps eat orphans, and suck up
A dozen distress'd widows in one cup;
Nay, further, I should by that lawful stealth,
Damn'd usury, undo the commonwealth;
Or patent it in soap, and coals, and so
Have the smiths curse me, and my laundress too;
Geld wine, or his friend tobacco; and so bring
The incens'd subject rebel to his king;
And after all--as those first sinners fell--
Sink lower than my gold, and lie in hell.
Thanks then for this deliv'rance! blessed pow'rs,
You that dispense man's fortune and his hours,
How am I to you all engag'd! that thus
By such strange means, almost miraculous,
You should preserve me; you have gone the way
To make me rich by taking all away.
For I--had I been rich--as sure as fate,
Would have been meddling with the king, or State,
Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit,
We know, that who hath wealth should have no wit,
But, above all, thanks to that Providence
That arm'd me with a gallant soul, and sense,
'Gainst all misfortunes, that hath breath'd so much
Of Heav'n into me, that I scorn the touch
Of these low things; and can with courage dare
Whatever fate or malice can prepare:
I envy no man's purse or mines: I know
That, losing them, I've lost their curses too;
And Amoret--although our share in these
Is not contemptible, nor doth much please--
Yet, whilst content and love we jointly vie,
We have a blessing which no gold can buy.
UPON THE PRIORY GROVE, HIS USUAL RETIREMENT.