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Title: The World
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
Can any tell me what it is? Can you
That wind your thoughts into a clue
To guide out others, while yourselves stay in,
And hug the sin?
I, who so long have in it liv'd,
That, if I might,
In truth I would not be repriev'd,
Have neither sight
Nor sense that knows
These ebbs and flows:
But since of all all may be said,
And likeliness doth but upbraid
And mock the truth, which still is lost
In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;
I will not strive, nor the rule break,
Which doth give losers leave to speak.
Then false and foul world, and unknown
Ev'n to thy own,
Here I renounce thee, and resign
Whatever thou canst say is thine.
Thou art not Truth! for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lies,
Thou art not Friendship! for in thee
'Tis but the bait of policy;
Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs,
Its venom through that sweetness pours;
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss
Of air and humour; out and in,
Like colours in a dolphin's skin;
But must not live beyond one day,
Or convenience; then away.
Thou art not Riches! for that trash,
Which one age hoards, the next doth wash
And so severely sweep away,
That few remember where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy land
About them have at their command;
And shifting channels here restore,
There break down, what they bank'd before.
Thou art not Honour! for those gay
Feathers will wear and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Gives new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose;
Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed,
But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead.
Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,
And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;
And, swallow-like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone!
Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours,
Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs;
Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares,
The not to be repented shares
Of time and business; the sure road
Unto my last and lov'd abode!
O supreme Bliss!
The Circle, Centre, and Abyss
Of blessings, never let me miss
Nor leave that path which leads to Thee,
Who art alone all things to me!
I hear, I see, all the long day
The noise and pomp of the broad way.
I note their coarse and proud approaches,
Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.
But in the narrow way to Thee
I observe only poverty,
And despis'd things; and all along
The ragged, mean, and humble throng
Are still on foot; and as they go
They sigh, and say, their Lord went so.
Give me my staff then, as it stood
When green and growing in the wood;
--Those stones, which for the altar serv'd,
Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd--
With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,
As Jacob did; and Thy dear word,
As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit
And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it,
Shall in the passage be my meat,
And none else will Thy servant eat.
Thus, thus, and in no other sort,
Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;
And leaving the wise world their way,
Go through, though judg'd to go astray.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: World
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