He can see one thing everywhere, and all things the same--yet each with a thousand sides that radiate crossing lights, even as the airy particles around us.

For him everything is the expression of, and points back to, some fact in the Divine Thought.

Along the line of every ray he looks towards its radiating centre--the heart of the Maker.
I could give many instances of Vaughan's power in reading the heart of Nature, but I may not dwell upon this phase.

Almost all the poems I give and have given will afford such.
I walked the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flower; But winter now had ruffled all the bower And curious store I knew there heretofore.
Yet I whose search loved not to peep and peer I' th' face of things, Thought with myself, there might be other springs Besides this here, Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; And so the flower Might have some other bower.
Then taking up what I could nearest spy, I digged about That place where I had seen him to grow out; And by and by I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, Where fresh and green He lived of us unseen.
Many a question intricate and rare Did I there strow; But all I could extort was, that he now Did there repair Such losses as befell him in this air, And would ere long Come forth most fair and young.
This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head; And, stung with fear Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear Upon his bed; Then sighing, whispered, _Happy are the dead! What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!_ And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs From a poor root Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things, But is still trod By every wandering clod! O thou, whose spirit did at first inflame And warm the dead! And by a sacred incubation fed With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name! Grant I may so Thy steps track here below, That in these masks and shadows I may see Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents climb to that day Which breaks from thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly: Show me thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease.
And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, Lead me above, Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move Without all pain: There, hid in thee, show me his life again At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn.
There are several amongst his poems lamenting, like this, the death of some dear friend--perhaps his twin-brother, whom he outlived thirty years.
According to what a man is capable of seeing in nature, he becomes either a man of appliance, a man of science, a mystic, or a poet.
I must now give two that are simple in thought, construction, and music.
The latter ought to be popular, from the nature of its rhythmic movement, and the holy merriment it carries.

But in the former, note how the major key of gladness changes in the third stanza to the minor key of aspiration, which has always some sadness in it; a sadness which deepens to grief in the next stanza at the consciousness of unfitness for Christ's company, but is lifted by hope almost again to gladness in the last.
CHRIST'S NATIVITY.
Awake, glad heart! Get up, and sing! It is the birthday of thy king! Awake! awake! The sun doth shake Light from his locks, and, all the way Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.
Awake! awake! Hark how the wood rings Winds whisper, and the busy springs A concert make: Awake! awake! Man is their high-priest, and should rise To offer up the sacrifice.
I would I were some bird or star, Fluttering in woods, or lifted far Above this inn And road of sin! Then either star or bird should be Shining or singing still to thee.
I would I had in my best part Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart Were so clean as Thy manger was! But I am all filth, and obscene; Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.
Sweet Jesu! will then.