Under these early inspirations of youth, nature, learning, witty companionship, Vaughan published his first verses--breathing a love of his art and its pleasures of imagination, paying his tribute to his paternal books in "Englishing," the "Tenth Satyre of Juvenal," and not forgetting, of course, the lovely "Amoret." A young poet without a lady in his verse is a solecism which nature abhors. All this, however, as his biographer remarks, "though fine in the way of poetic speculation, would not do for every-day practice." Of course not; and the young "swan" turned his wary feet from the glittering stream to the solid land. The poet became a physician. It was a noble art for such a spirit to practise, and not a very rude progress from youthful poesy if he felt and thought aright. There was a sterner change in store, however, and it came to him with the monition, "Physician, heal thyself!" He was prostrated by severe bodily disease, and thenceforth his spirit was bowed to the claims of the unseen world. The "light amorist" found a higher inspiration. He turned his footsteps to the Temple and worshipped at the holy altar of Herbert. His poetry becomes religious. "Sparks from the Flint" is the title which he gives his new verses, "Silex Scintillans." After that pledge to holiness given to the world, he survived nearly half a century, dying at the mature age of seventy-three--a happy subject of contemplation in the bosom of his Welsh retirement, passing quietly down the vale of life, feeding his spirit on the early-gathered harvest of wit, learning, taste, feeling, fancy, benevolence and piety. Of such threads was the life of our poet spun. His verse is light, airy, flying with the lark to heaven. Hear him with "his singing robes" about him: "I would I were some bird or star, Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted far Above this inn And road of sin! Then either star or bird should be Shining or singing still to thee." In this song of "Peace"-- "My soul, there is a country Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged 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 (oh, 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." Or in that kindred ode, full of "intimations of immortality received in childhood," entitled, "The Retreat:"