PROVIDENCE by HENRY VAUGHAN

Sacred and secret hand!
By whose assisting, swift command
The angel showed that holy well,
Which freed poor Hagar from her fears,
And turned to smiles the begging tears
Of young, distressed Ishmael.

How in a mystic cloud
(Which doth thy strange sure mercies shroud)
Dost thou convey man food and money
Unseen by him, till they arrive
Just at his mouth, that thankless hive
Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey!

If I thy servant be
(Whose service makes ev'n captives free)
A fish shall all my tribute pay,
The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat,
And I, like flowers shall still go neat,
As if I knew no month but May.

I will not fear what man,
With all his plots and power can;
Bags that wax old may plundered be,
But none can sequester or let
A state that with the sun doth set
And comes next morning fresh as he.

Poor birds this doctrine sing,
And herbs which on dry hills do spring
Or in the howling wilderness
Do know thy dewy morning-hours,
And watch all night for mists or showers,
Then drink and praise thy bounteousness.

May he for ever die
Who trusts not thee! but wretchedly
Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend
Thy service, nor his soul one day:
May his crown, like his hopes, be clay,
And what he saves, may his foes spend!

If all my portion here,
The measure given by thee each year
Were by my causeless enemies
Usurped; it never should me grieve
Who know, how well thou canst relieve,
Whose hands are open as thine eyes.

Great King of love and truth!
Who would'st not hate my froward youth,
And wilt not leave me, when grown old;
Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep,
Unto their wormwood-diet keep
Since thou hast made thy Arm my fold.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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