Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

SURE, it was so. Man in those early days

Was not all stone and earth:

He shin’d a little, and by those weak rays

Had some glimpse of his birth.

He saw heaven o’er his head, and knew from whence

He came, condemnèd, thither;

And, as first love draws strongest, so from hence

His mind sure progress’d thither.

Things here were strange unto him; sweat and till;

All was a thorn or weed;

Nor did those last, but—like himself—died still

As soon as they did seed;

They seem’d to quarrel with him; for that act,

They fell him, foil’d them all;

He drew the curse upon the world, and crack’d

The whole frame with his fall.

This made him long for home, as loth to stay

With murmurers and foes;

He sighed for Eden, and would often say

‘Ah! what bright days were those!’

Nor was heav’n cold unto him; for each day

The valley or the mountain

Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay

In some green shade or fountain.

Angels lay leiger here; each bush, and cell,

Each oak, and highway knew them;

Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well,

And he was sure to view them.

Almighty Love! where art Thou now? mad man

Sits down and freezeth on;

He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan,

But bids the thread be spun.

I see, Thy curtains are close-drawn; Thy bow

Looks dim too in the cloud;

Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below

The centre, and his shroud.

All’s in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies

And hatcheth o’er Thy people—

But hark! what trumpet’s that? what angel cries

‘Arise! thrust in Thy sickle?’