Henry Vaughan (1621–1695)

AND do they so? have they a sense

Of ought but influence?

Can they their heads lift, and expect,

And groan too? why th’ elect

Can do no more; my volumes said

They were all dull, and dead;

They judg’d them senseless, and their state

Wholly inanimate.

Go, go; seal up thy looks,

And burn thy books!

I would I were a stone, or tree,

Or flower by pedigree,

Or some poor highway herb, or spring

To flow, or bird to sing!

Then should I—tied to one sure state—

All day expect my date;

But I am sadly loose, and stray

A giddy blast each way;

O let me not thus change!

Thou canst not change.

Sometimes I sit with Thee, and tarry

An hour or so, then vary.

Thy other creatures in this scene

Thee only aim, and mean;

Some rise to seek Thee, and with heads

Erect, peep from their beds;

Others, whose birth is in the tomb,

And cannot quit the womb,

Sigh there, and groan for Thee,

Their liberty.

O let not me do less! shall they

Watch, while I sleep or play?

Shall I Thy mercies still abuse

With fancies, friends, or news?

O brook it not! Thy blood is mine,

And my soul should be Thine;

O brook it not! why wilt Thou stop

After whole showers one drop?

Sure, Thou wilt joy to see

Thy sheep with Thee.