Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MISERY, by HENRY VAUGHAN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Lord, bind me up, and let me lie Last Line: Till thou both mend and make me thine. Alternate Author Name(s): Silurist | ||||||||
Lord, bind me up, and let me lie A pris'ner to my liberty, If such a state at all can be As an impris'ment serving thee; The wind, though gathered in thy fist, Yet doth it blow still where it list, And yet shouldst thou let go thy hold Those gusts might quarrel and grow bold. As waters here, headlong and loose The lower grounds still chase and choose, Where spreading all the way they seek And search out ev'ry hole and creek; So my spilt thoughts winding from thee Take the down-road to vanity, Where they all stray and strive, which shall Find out the first and steepest fall; I cheer their flow, giving supply To what's already grown too high, And having thus performed that part Feed on those vomits of my heart. I break the fence my own hands made Then lay that trespass in the shade, Some fig-leafs still I do devise As if thou hadst nor ears nor eyes. Excess of friends, of words, and wine Take up my day, while thou dost shine All unregarded, and thy book Hath not so much as one poor look. If thou steal in amidst the mirth And kindly tell me, I am earth, I shut thee out, and let that slip, Such music spoils good fellowship. Thus wretched I, and most unkind, Exclude my dear God from my mind, Exclude him thence, who of that cell Would make a court, should he there dwell. He goes, he yields; and troubled sore His holy spirit grieves therefore, The mighty God, th' eternal King Doth grieve for dust, and dust doth sing. But I go on, haste to devest Myself of reason, till oppressed And buried in my surfeits I Prove my own shame and misery. Next day I call and cry for thee Who shouldst not then come near to me, But now it is thy servant's pleasure Thou must (and dost) give him his measure. Thou dost, thou com'st, and in a shower Of healing sweets thyself dost pour Into my wounds, and now thy grace (I know it well) fills all the place; I sit with thee by this new light, And for that hour th'art my delight, No man can more the world despise Or thy great mercies better prize. I school my eyes, and strictly dwell Within the circle of my cell, That calm and silence are my joys Which to thy peace are but mere noise. At length I feel my head to ache, My fingers itch and burn to take Some new employment, I begin To swell and foam and fret within. 'The Age, the present times, are not To snudge in, and embrace a cot, Action and blood now get the game, Disdain treads on the peaceful name, Who sits at home too bears a load Greater than those that gad abroad.' Thus do I make thy gifts giv'n me The only quarrellers with thee, I'd loose those knots thy hands did tie, Then would go travel, fight or die. Thousands of wild and waste infusions Like waves beat on my resolutions, As flames about their fuel run And work and wind till all be done, So my fierce soul bustles about And never rests till all be out. Thus wilded by a peevish heart Which in thy music bears no part I storm at thee, calling my peace A lethargy and mere disease, Nay, those bright beams shot from thy eyes To calm me in these mutinies I style mere tempers, which take place At some set times, but are thy grace. Such is man's life, and such is mine, The worst of men, and yet still thine, Still thine thou know'st, and if not so Then give me over to my foe. Yet since as easy 'tis for thee To make man good, as bid him be, And with one glance (could he that gain) To look him out of all his pain, O send me from thy holy hill So much of strength, as may fulfil All thy delight (whate'er they be) And sacred institutes in me; Open my rocky heart, and fill It with obedience to thy will, Then seal it up, that as none see, So none may enter there but thee. O hear my God! hear him, whose blood Speaks more and better for my good! O let my cry come to thy throne! My cry not poured with tears alone, (For tears alone are often foul) But with the blood of all my soul, With spirit-sighs and earnest groans, Faithful and most repenting moans, With these I cry, and crying pine Till thou both mend and make me thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |
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