The Day Spring by Henry Vaughan, Silurist

On this Easter morn, I share another poem by my distant cousin, Henry Vaughan.

THE DAY SPRING.

Early, while yet the dark was gayAnd gilt with stars, more trim than day,Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose,The green immortal Branch arose;

And in a solitary placeBow'd to His Father His blest face.If this calm season pleased my Prince,Whose fulness no need could evince,Why should not I, poor silly sheep,His hours, as well as practice, keep?Not that His hand is tied to these,From whom Time holds his transient leaseBut mornings new creations are,When men, all night sav'd by His care,Are still reviv'd; and well He mayExpect them grateful with the day.

So for that first draught of His hand,Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land,The sons of God their thanks did bring,And all the morning stars did sing.Besides, as His part heretoforeThe firstlings were of all that bore
So now each day from all He savesTheir soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.This makes Him daily shed and show'rHis graces at this early hour;Which both His care and kindness show,Cheering the good, quickening the slow.As holy friends mourn at delay,And think each minute an hour's stay,So His Divine and loving DoveWith longing throes doth heave and move,And soar about us while we sleep;Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,And shine, but always without fail,Before the slow sun can unveil,In new compassions breaks, like light,And morning-looks, which scatter night.And wilt Thou let Thy creature be,When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?Why to unwelcome loath'd surprisesDost leave him, having left his vices?Since these, if suffer'd, may againLead back the living to the slain.O, change this scourge; or, if as yetNone less will my transgressions fit,Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot doWhat I would not submit unto.