‘What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms’ and prelates’ rage: He gave us this eternal Spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air: He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. O, let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!’ Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. _361._ _An Epitaph_ Enough; and leave the rest to Fame! ’Tis to commend her, but to name. Courtship which, living, she declined, When dead, to offer were unkind: Nor can the truest wit, or friend, Without detracting, her commend. To say--she lived a virgin chaste In this age loose and all unlaced; Nor was, when vice is so allowed, Of virtue or ashamed or proud; That her soul was on Heaven so bent, No minute but it came and went; That, ready her last debt to pay, She summ’d her life up every day; Modest as morn, as mid-day bright, Gentle as evening, cool as night: --’Tis true; but all too weakly said. ’Twas more significant, she’s dead. HENRY VAUGHAN 1621-1695 _362._ _The Retreat_ Happy those early days, when I Shin’d in my Angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought: When yet I had not walk’d above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back--at that short space-- Could see a glimpse of His bright face: When on some gilded cloud, or flow’r, My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity: Before I taught my tongue to wound My Conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to ev’ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness.