Poem: The World

Like a Great Ring of Pure and Endless Light

The World is by the Welch physician, author, and poet, Henry Vaughan (1621-1695). It was first published in his 1650 collection: Silex Scintillans (The Flaming Flint) and is included in the Poems for All Seasons Appendix of the Divine Office (1974).


Reading

THE WORLD by Henry Vaughan, 1650 (Public Domain)  

I Saw Eternity the other night,
Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
       All calm, as it was bright;
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years
       Driv'n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow mov'd; in which the world
       And all her train were hurl's.
The doting lover in his quaintest strain
       Did there complain;
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,
       Wit's sour delights;
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
       Yet his dear treasure,
All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour
       Upon a flow'r.

The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog, mov'd there so slow,
       He did nor stay, nor go;
Condemning thoughts—like sad eclipses—scowl
       Upon his soul,
And clouds of crying witnesses without
       Pursued him with one shout.
Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found,
       Work'd under ground,
Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
       That policy:
Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
       Were gnats and flies;
It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he
       Drank them as free.

The fearful miser on a heap of rust
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
       His own hands with the dust,
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives
       In fear of thieves.
Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
       And hugg'd each one his pelf;
The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,
       And scorn'd pretence;
While others, slipp'd into a wide excess
       Said little less;
The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,
       Who think them brave;
And poor, despisèd Truth sate counting by
       Their victory.

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring;
       But most would use no wing.
O fools—said I—thus to prefer dark night
       Before true light!
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day
       Because it shows the way;
The way, which from this dead and dark abode
       Leads up to God;
A way where you might tread the sun, and be
       More bright than he!
But as I did their madness so discuss,
       One whisper'd thus,
“This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,
       But for His bride.”

Poem: Peace

Mosaic from the Hagia Sophia, Istanbul - Courtesy of Wikipedia  

Peace is by the Welch physician, author, and poet, Henry Vaughan (1621-1695). It was first published in his 1650 collection: Silex Scintillans (The Flaming Flint) and is included in the Poems for All Seasons Appendix of the Divine Office (1974).


Reading

PEACE by Henry Vaughan, 1650 (Public Domain)

My soul, there is a country
     Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry
     All skillful in the wars :
There, above noise and danger,
     Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles,
And One born in a manger
     Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious Friend,
     And—O my soul awake !—
Did in pure love descend,
     To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
     There grows the flower of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
     Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges ;
     For none can thee secure,
But One, who never changes,
     Thy God, thy life, thy cure.


Choral setting by Hubert Parry

Poem: The Morning-Watch

Prayer is the World in Tune, a Spirit Voice

The Morning-Watch is by the Welch physician, author, and poet, Henry Vaughan (1621-1695). It was first published in his 1650 collection: Silex Scintillans (The Flaming Flint) and is included in the Poems for All Seasons Appendix of the Divine Office (1974).


Read by poet, Brian Nellist


THE MORNING-WATCH by Henry Vaughan, 1650 (Public Domain)

O joys! infinite sweetness! with what flower’s
And shoots of glory my soul breaks and buds!
              All the long hours
              Of night, and rest,
              Through the still shrouds
              Of sleep, and clouds,
       This dew fell on my breast;
       Oh, how it bloods
And spirits all my earth! Hark! In what rings
And hymning circulations the quick world
              Awakes and sings;
              The rising winds
              And falling springs,
              Birds, beasts, all things
       Adore him in their kinds.
              Thus all is hurl’d
In sacred hymns and order, the great chime
And symphony of nature. Prayer is
              The world in tune,
              A spirit voice,
              And vocal joys
       Whose echo is heav’n’s bliss.
              O let me climb
When I lie down! The pious soul by night
Is like a clouded star whose beams, though said
              To shed their light
              Under some cloud,
              Yet are above,
              And shine and move
       Beyond that misty shroud.
              So in my bed,
That curtain’d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide
My lamp and life, both shall in thee abide.