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Title: To His Learned Friend And Loyal Fellow-Prisoner, Thomas Powel Of Cant, Doctor Of
Author: Henry Vaughan [
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If sever'd friends by sympathy can join,
And absent kings be honour'd in their coin;
May they do both, who are so curb'd? but we
Whom no such abstracts torture, that can see
And pay each other a full self-return,
May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn.
'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that atones
Such two hard things as iron are and stones,
And in their dumb compliance we learn more
Of love, than ever books could speak before.
For though attraction hath got all the name,
As if that power but from one side came,
Which both unites; yet, where there is no sense
There is no passion, nor intelligence:
And so by consequence we cannot state
A commerce, unless both we animate.
For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon,
Are deaf, and feel no invitation,
But such as at the last day shall be shed
By the great Lord of life into the dead.
'Tis then no heresy to end the strife
With such rare doctrine as gives iron life.
For were it otherwise--which cannot be,
And do thou judge my bold philosophy--
Then it would follow that if I were dead,
Thy love, as now in life, would in that bed
Of earth and darkness warm me, and dispense
Effectual informing influence.
Since then 'tis clear, that friendship is nought else
But a joint, kind propension, and excess
In none, but such whose equal, easy hearts
Comply and meet both in their whole and parts,
And when they cannot meet, do not forget
To mingle souls, but secretly reflect
And some third place their centre make, where they
Silently mix, and make an unseen stay:
Let me not say--though poets may be bold--
Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold,
But as the marigold in feasts of dew
And early sunbeams, though but thin and few,
Unfolds itself, then from the Earth's cold breast
Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:
So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throne
Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan
Our sad distractions, come! and richly dress'd
With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest
Of loose, loath'd men! Why should I longer be
Rack'd 'twixt two evils? I see and cannot see.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: To His Learned Friend And Loyal Fellow-Prisoner, Thomas Powel Of Cant, Doctor Of Divinity
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