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Title: The Bee
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,
Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders,
Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs,
And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds,
To the wild woods I will be gone,
And the coarse meals of great Saint John.
When truth and piety are miss'd
Both in the rulers and the priest;
When pity is not cold, but dead,
And the rich eat the poor like bread;
While factious heads with open coil
And force, first make, then share, the spoil;
To Horeb then Elias goes,
And in the desert grows the rose.
Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades,
Where no proud look invades,
No busy worldling hunts away
The sad retirer all the day!
Hail, happy, harmless solitude!
Our sanctuary from the rude
And scornful world; the calm recess
Of faith, and hope, and holiness!
Here something still like Eden looks;
Honey in woods, juleps in brooks,
And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets
With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,
When the toils of the day are done,
And the tir'd world sets with the sun.
Here flying winds and flowing wells
Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells;
Their busy murmurs all the night
To praise or prayer do invite,
And with an awful sound arrest,
And piously employ his breast.
When in the East the dawn doth blush,
Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush;
Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread,
Trees whisper praise, and bow the head:
Birds, from the shades of night releas'd,
Look round about, then quit the nest,
And with united gladness sing
The glory of the morning's King.
The hermit hears, and with meek voice
Offers his own up, and their joys:
Then prays that all the world may be
Bless'd with as sweet an unity.
If sudden storms the day invade,
They flock about him to the shade:
Where wisely they expect the end,
Giving the tempest time to spend;
And hard by shelters on some bough
Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.
O purer years of light and grace!
The diff'rence is great as the space
'Twixt you and us, who blindly run
After false fires, and leave the sun.
Is not fair Nature of herself
Much richer than dull paint or pelf?
And are not streams at the spring-head
More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead?
But fancy and some artist's tools
Frame a religion for fools.
The truth, which once was plainly taught,
With thorns and briars now is fraught.
Some part is with bold fables spotted,
Some by strange comments wildly blotted;
And Discord--old Corruption's crest--
With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
So snow, which in its first descents
A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents,
When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd,
And after, trodden down and spoil'd.
O lead me, where I may be free
In truth and spirit to serve Thee!
Where undisturb'd I may converse
With Thy great Self; and there rehearse
Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,
Who art all blessings, beg much more.
Give me the wisdom of the bee,
And her unwearied industry!
That from the wild gourds of these days,
I may extract health, and Thy praise,
Who canst turn darkness into light,
And in my weakness show Thy might.
Suffer me not in any want
To seek refreshment from a plant
Thou didst not set; since all must be
Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee.
'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs,
Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs
Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will,
Which truth and pureness purchase still.
Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence
Thy kind and saving influence,
And balm is no more to be had
In all the coasts of Gilead;
Go with me to the shade and cell,
Where Thy best servants once did dwell.
There let me know Thy will, and see
Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee;
For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls,
And make hills blossom like the vales;
Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs,
And fresh delights for all sad hours;
Till from them, like a laden bee,
I may fly home, and hive with Thee
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: Bee
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