The Call

COme, my Way, my Truth, my Life:
Such a Way, as gives us breath:
Such a Truth, as ends all strife:
Such a Life, as killeth death.

Come, my Light, my Feast, my Strength:
Such a Light, as shows a feast:
Such a Feast, as mends in length:
Such a Strength, as makes his guest.

Come, my Joy, my Love, my Heart:
Such a Joy, as none can move:
Such a Love, as none can part:
Such a Heart, as joyes in love.

Peace

(Not a part of Vaughn’s mystical songs, but one one Herbert’s most beautiful poems)

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell?  I humbly crave,
             Let me once know.
            I sought thee in a secret cave,
             And ask’d, if Peace were there.
A hollow winde did seem to answer, No:
             Go seek elsewhere.
I did; and going did a rainbow note:
             Surely, thought I,
             This is the lace of Peaces coat:
             I will search out the matter.
But while I lookt, the clouds immediately
             Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
             A gallant flower,
             The Crown Imperiall: sure, said I,
             Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digg’d, I saw a worm devoure
             What show’d so well.
At length I met a rev’rend good old man,
            Whom when of Peace
             I did demand, he thus began:
             There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who liv’d with good increase
             Of flock and fold.

He sweetly liv’d; yet sweetnesse did not save
             His life from foes.
       But after death out of his grave
             There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:
Which many wondring at, got some of those
             To plant and set.
It prosper’d strangely, and did soon disperse
             Through all the earth:
For they that taste it do rehearse,
             That vertue lies therein,
A secret vertue bringing peace and mirth
             By flight of sinne.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
             And grows for you;
        Make bread of it: and that repose
            And peace, which ev’ry where
With so much earnestnesse you do pursue,
             Is onely there.

Love Bade Me Welcome

LOve bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
            Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
            From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
            If I lack’d any thing.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
            Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull?  Ah my deare,
            I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
            Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
            Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, sayes Love, who bore the blame?
            My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit down, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
            So I did sit and eat.

Easter: Rise Heart, Thy Lord is Risen &  I Got Me Flowers

RIse heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delayes,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
With him mayst rise:
That, as his death calcined1 thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all thy art.
The crosse taught all wood to resound his name,
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long:
Or, since all musick is but three parts2 vied
And multiplied,
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to strew Thy way,
I got me boughs off many a tree;
But Thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’s Thy sweets along with Thee.
Yet though my flower be lost, they say
A heart can never come too late;
Teach it to sing Thy praise this day,
And then this day my life shall date.

The Sunne arising in the East,
Though he give light, & th’ East perfume;
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.
Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we misse:
There is but one, and that one ever.

 George Herbert

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