The Mutinie

Weary of this same Clay, and straw, I laid
Me down to breath, and casting in my heart
The after-burthens, and griefs yet to come,
           The heavy sum
So shook my brest, that (sick and sore dismai'd)
My thoughts, like water which some stone doth start
Did quit their troubled Channel, and retire
Unto the banks, where, storming at those bounds,
They murmur'd sore; But I, who felt them boyl
           And knew their coyl
Turning to him, who made poor sand to tire
And tame proud waves, If yet these barren grounds
           And thirstie brick must be (said I)
                      My taske, and Destinie,

Let me so strive and struggle with thy foes
(Not thine alone but mine too,) that when all
Their Arts and force are built unto the height
           That Babel-weight
May prove thy glory, and their shame; so Close
And knit me to thee, That though in this vale
Of sin, and death I sojourn, yet one Eie
May look to thee, To thee the finisher
And Author of my faith; so shew me home
           That all this fome
And frothie noise which up and down doth flie
May find no lodging in mine Eie, or Eare,
           O seal them up! that these may flie
                      Like other tempests by.

Not but I know thou hast a shorter Cut
To bring me home, than through a wildernes,
A Sea, or Sands and Serpents; Yet since thou
           (As thy words show)
Though in this desart I were wholy shut,
Canst light and lead me there with such redress
That no decay shal touch me; O be pleas'd
To fix my steps, and whatsoever path
Thy sacred and eternal wil decreed
           For thy bruis'd reed
O give it ful obedience, that so seiz'd
Of all I have, I may nor move thy wrath
           Nor grieve thy Dove, but soft and mild
                      Both live and die thy Child.

--Henry Vaughan (1622-1695)