|
Classic and Contemporary Poetry
RELIGION, by HENRY VAUGHAN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: My god, when I walk in those groves Last Line: And turn once more our water into wine! Alternate Author Name(s): Silurist Subject(s): Christianity; Miracles | |||
My God, when I walke in those groves, And leaves thy spirit doth still fan, I see in each shade that there growes An Angell taking with a man. Under a Juniper, some house, Or the coole Mirtles canopie, Others beneath an Oakes greene boughs, Or at some fountaines bubbling Eye; Here Jacob dreames, and wrestles; there Elias by a Raven is fed, Another time by th' Angell, where He brings him water with his bread; In Abr'hams Tent the winged guests (O how familiar then was heaven!) Eate, drinke, discourse, sit downe, and rest Untill the Coole, and shady Even; Nay thou thy selfe, my God, in fire, Whirle-winds, and Clouds, and the soft voice Speak'st there so much, that I admire We have no Conf'rence in these daies; Is the truce broke? or 'cause we have A mediatour now with thee, Doest thou therefore old Treaties wave And by appeales from him decree? Or is't so, as some green heads say That now all miracles must cease? Though thou hast promis'd they should stay The tokens of the Church, and peace; No, no; Religion is a Spring That from some secret, golden Mine Derives her birth, and thence doth bring Cordials in every drop, and Wine; But in her long, and hidden Course Passing through the Earths darke veines, Growes still from better unto worse, And both her taste, and colour staines, Then drilling on, learnes to encrease False Ecchoes, and Confused sounds, And unawares doth often seize On veines of Sulphur under ground; So poison'd, breaks forth in some Clime, And at first sight doth many please, But drunk, is puddle, or mere slime And 'stead of Phisick, a disease; Just such a tainted sink we have Like that Samaritans dead Well, Nor must we for the Kernell crave Because most voices like the shell. Heale then these waters, Lord; or bring thy flock, Since these are troubled, to the springing rock, Looke downe great Master of the feast; O shine, And turn once more our Water into Wine! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LATERNA MAGICA by ELAINE TERRANOVA MIRACLES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE LAME SHEPHERD by KATHARINE LEE BATES |
|