HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695)

THE RETREAT

5

Happy those early days, when I
Shined in my angel-infancy;"
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back-at that short space-
Could see a glimpse of His bright face; 10
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense,
A several sin to every sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.

15

20

O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence the enlightened spirit sees 25
That shady city of palm trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,

But I by backward steps would move; 30
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.

He did not stay nor go;

Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses,

scowl

Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout;

20

Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be

found,

Worked under ground,

Where he did clutch his prey. But one

did see

That policy:

Churches and altars fed him; perjuries

Were gnats and flies;

25

It rained about him blood and tears, but he

The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave,

Who think them brave;

Their victory.

45

And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Bid her come forth,
Of beauty from the light retired;

Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

ANDREW MARVELL (1621–1678)

ΙΟ

15

20

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND

The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing:

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 And oil the unused armor's rust, Removing from the wall

The corselet of the hall.