Henry Vaughan was then nearly thirty years younger than George Herbert, whom he consciously and intentionally imitates. His art is not comparable to that of Herbert: hence Herbert remains the master; for it is not the thought that makes the poet; it is the utterance of that thought in worthy presence of speech. He is careless and somewhat rugged. If he can get his thought dressed, and thus made visible, he does not mind the dress fitting awkwardly, or even being a little out at elbows. And yet he has grander lines and phrases than any in Herbert. He has occasionally a daring success that strikes one with astonishment. In a word, he says more splendid things than Herbert, though he writes inferior poems. His thought is profound and just; the harmonies in his soul are true; its artistic and musical ear is defective. His movements are sometimes grand, sometimes awkward. Herbert is always gracious--I use the word as meaning much more than _graceful_. The following poem will instance Vaughan's fine mysticism and odd embodiment: COCK-CROWING. Father of lights! what sunny seed, What glance of day hast thou confined Into this bird? To all the breed This busy ray thou hast assigned; Their magnetism works all night, And dreams of Paradise and light. Their eyes watch for the morning hue; Their little grain,[143] expelling night, So shines and sings, as if it knew The path unto the house of light: It seems their candle, howe'er done, Was tined[144] and lighted at the sun. If such a tincture, such a touch, So firm a longing can empower, Shall thy own image think it much To watch for thy appearing hour? If a mere blast so fill the sail, Shall not the breath of God prevail? O thou immortal Light and Heat, Whose hand so shines through all this frame, That by the beauty of the seat, We plainly see who made the same! Seeing thy seed abides in me, Dwell thou in it, and I in thee. To sleep without thee is to die; Yea, 'tis a death partakes of hell; For where thou dost not close the eye, It never opens, I can tell: In such a dark, Egyptian border The shades of death dwell and disorder Its joys and hopes and earnest throws, And hearts whose pulse beats still for light, Are given to birds, who but thee knows A love-sick soul's exalted flight? Can souls be tracked by any eye But his who gave them wings to fly? Only this veil, which thou hast broke, And must be broken yet in me; This veil, I say, is all the cloak And cloud which shadows me from thee. This veil thy full-eyed love denies, And only gleams and fractions spies. O take it off. Make no delay, But brush me with thy light, that I May shine unto a perfect day, And warm me at thy glorious eye. O take it off; or, till it flee, Though with no lily, stay with me.