EARLY ENGLISH POETS.

GEORGE HERBERT.

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BY JAMES W. WALL.

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How few in our day have read the pious verses of George Herbert, “the sweet singer of The Temple,” as his biographer, old Walton, so loves to call him—verses overflowing with the sensibilities of a heart consecrated to pious uses, all aglow with love for humanity, and an ardent desire to bring it nearer to Him who so freely gave himself for it.

Sweet George Herbert! Who that has ever read the rich outpourings of your warm and pious spirit, but has felt how poor and cold in the comparison were the promptings of his own? Who that has ever pondered over your verse, radiant with the praises of that sanctuary in whose hallowed courts you so loved to tread, but has felt the full force of your own sweet words?

A verse may find him who a sermon flies,

And turn delight into a sacrifice.

George Herbert, the author of “The Temple,” a collection of sacred poems, was of a most noble, generous, and ancient family. His brother was the famous Edward Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, who was himself a poet, but attained higher distinction as a statesman and historian, having filled, during the reign of James I., the responsible posts of privy counselor, and ambassador to France; it was while engaged in the duties of this embassy that he composed his famous history of Henry the Eighth, so often quoted and referred to by the modern English historian.

The subject of our sketch was born at Montgomery Castle, in Wales, April 3, 1593. He was educated at Westminster school, and being a king’s scholar, was elected to Trinity College, Cambridge, about the year 1608. He took both degrees in the Arts, and became a Fellow in the college. In 1619 he was chosen orator for the University, which post he held eight years. This office he is said to have filled with great honor to himself and to the University. And this was no wonder, for, to use the quaint language of his biographer, old Izaak Walton, “he had acquired great learning, and was blessed with a high fancy, a civil and sharp wit, and with a natural elegance both in his behaviour, his tongue, and his pew.” When that royal pedant, King James, published his “Basilicon Doron,” he sent a copy to the University of Cambridge. Herbert, in his capacity as orator, was called upon to acknowledge its receipt on behalf of the institution, which he did in a most elegant manner, by a letter written in Latin, closing with the following lines:

Quid vaticanam Bodleianamque objicis hospes!

Unicus est nobis Bibliotheca Liber.

The excellence of its Latinity, and the complimentary allusions plentifully sprinkled through it, so pleased the vanity of the king, that he inquired of the Earl of Pembroke if he knew the learned scholar who penned the epistle. His answer was, “That he knew him very well, and that he was his kinsman; but that he loved him more for his learning and virtue, than that he was of his name and family.” At which answer the king smiled, and asked the earl leave that he might love him too, for he took him to be the jewel of that University.

The complimentary remark of the king, coming to the ears of Herbert, no doubt first turned his thoughts toward court preferment; for about this time we find him applying himself to the study of the Italian, French, and Spanish languages, in which he is said to have attained great proficiency; and by means of the attainment of which, to use his own language, “he hoped to secure the place of Secretary of State, as his predecessor, Sir Francis Nethersole had done.” This, and the love of court conversation, with the laudable ambition to be something more than he then was, drew him often from Cambridge to attend his majesty, King James.

Shortly after this the king visited Cambridge in state, and was received on behalf of the University by Herbert, in a most elegant oration in Latin, stuffed full, as the manner of the time then was, of most fulsome adulation. In his progress he was attended by the great Sir Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, and by the learned Dr. Andrews, Bishop of Winchester; and Herbert, by his learning and suavity, soon captivated these distinguished men. Bacon seems afterward to have put such value upon his judgment, that he usually desired his approbation before he would expose any of his books to be printed, and thought him so worthy of his friendship, that having translated many of the Prophet David’s Psalms into English verse, he made George Herbert his Patron, by a public dedication of them to him as the “best judge of divine poetry.” In 1620, the king gave Herbert a sinecure, formerly conferred upon Sir Philip Sydney by Queen Elizabeth, worth some twelve hundred pounds per annum.

His ambitious views of further court preferment seem never to have been realized. The character of his mind, perhaps, did not fit him for the responsible duties of a statesman, or he might have been deficient in those arts of the courtier, so necessary, and such ready aid to court preferment. It may be that he had too independent a spirit, and could not “crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift might follow fawning.” But be this as it may, we think, in the sentiment contained in some verses written by our poet about the period of his leaving the court and entering holy orders, we have a readier solution for the sudden relinquishment of his hopes of court preferment. These verses were written upon the famous saying of Cardinal Wolsey, uttered by that proud churchman when his spirit was crushed, and the fruits of his ambition had turned to ashes on his lips. “Oh, that I had served my God with half the zeal with which I have served my king, he would not thus, in my old age, have placed me in the power of mine enemies.”

No doubt the wholesome reflections inspired by the contemplation of those touching words, awakened the sensitive mind of our poet to a full appreciation of the vanity of all earthly ambition. He discovered in time, that pleasures springing from honor and grandeur of condition, are soon faded; that the mind nauseates, and soon begins to feel their emptiness. In the words of one of England’s most gifted divines, “Those who are so fond of public honor while they pursue it, how little do they taste it when they have it? Like lightning it only flashes on the face, and it is well if it do not hurt the man.”

Without further speculating as to the reasons that induced our poet to fly from the court circles into the quiet retreat of the pastor’s life, most certain it is, about the year 1629, we find him renouncing the pomp and vanities of earthly ambition, and entering into holy orders. Previous to his induction, we find him using the following language in a letter to a friend: “I now look back upon my aspiring thoughts, and think myself more happy than if I had attained what then I so ambitiously thirsted for; and now I can behold the court with an impartial eye, and see plainly that it is made up of graced titles, and flattery, and many other such empty imaginary painted pleasures—pleasures that are so empty as not to satisfy where they are enjoyed. But in God and his service is a fullness of all joy and pleasure, but no satiety.” Of the fervency of his piety we have a most beautiful exemplification in some of his poems published about this time, especially in that styled “The Odor,” in which he seems to rejoice in the thought of the word “Jesus,” and say that the adding of these words “my master,” to it “seemed to perfume his mind, and leave an oriental fragrance in his very breath.” Alluding, in another poem, to his “unforced choice to serve at God’s altar,” he says,

I know the ways of Learning; both the head and pipes

That feed the press, and make it run;

What reason hath from nature borrowed,

Or of itself, like Housewife sheen.

I know the ways of Honor, what maintains

The quick returns of courtesy and wit;

The ways of favor, either party gains

And the best mode of oft retaining it.

I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,

The lullings and the relishes of it;

The proposition of hot blood and brains;

What mirth and musick mean; what love and wit.

Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,

But the silk twist let down from heaven to me,

Did both conduct and teach me, how by it

To climb to thee.

In 1630 he was admitted to the priestly office, and was immediately inducted to the Rectory of Bemerton, near Salisbury. And here it was, stripping from him the gaudy trappings of a fashionable court, he clothed himself in the better and more enduring robes of humility and meekness. It was here, amid the quiet shades of his peaceful parish, he prepared, for his own use and that of his brethren, a brief manual, entitled “The Country Parson”—the rich gatherings of his own experience, and the exemplification of his own ardor in the performance of the duties of the pastoral office. His sermons, delivered while at Bemerton, are practical in doctrine, forcible in illustration, and make directly to the heart. They are just such sermons as we should suppose the author of The Country Parson would preach. They are many of them explanatory of the forms and services of the Church of England, urging their importance and the necessity of their being truly understood.

He usually took his text from the gospel of the day appointed to be read, and did as consistently declare why the Church did appoint that portion of Scripture to be that day read; and he shortly made it appear to them (to use his own words) “that the whole service of the Church was a reasonable, and therefore an acceptable sacrifice to God—as, namely, we begin with confession of ourselves to be vile and miserable sinners; and we begin so because, until we have confessed ourselves to be such, we are not capable of that mercy which we so much need; but having in the prayer of our Lord begged pardon for those sins which we have confessed, and hoping by our public confession and real repentance we have obtained that pardon—then we dare and do proceed to beg of the Lord ‘to open our lips, that our mouth may show forth his praise;’ for till then we are not able and worthy to praise him.”

The church holydays and fasts, and the benefits to be derived from their observance, were most beautifully illustrated in Herbert’s discourses; and we venture to say that in the sermons of no clergyman of the Church of England, or the Episcopal Church of America, can there be found so practical and so beautiful an exemplification of the excellency of the Episcopal Church service. The simple parishioners of Bemerton learned to love the service of their church under the preachings of their sainted pastor, because its practical usefulness, and its adaptation to their every spiritual want, was brought forcibly home to the door of their hearts. The form, they were taught, was as nothing, save as the most fitting vehicle of their wants and spiritual aspirations. In our age, where the cold religion of formality is seen struggling for the mastery over that which is ardent and spiritual; when “the outward and visible sign” seems to be more thought of than “the inward and spiritual grace;” when the outward adornments of the sanctuary are held almost in as high value, and as necessary to salvation, as the inward adornment of the meek and pious spirit, it is refreshing to read such sermons as those of Herbert. He was a formalist only so far as form could be made a means to an end; a means to bring man to a closer contemplation of the love and the abounding mercies of his God; a means through which he could be made to praise him in holiness and truth. The form he looked upon as the fitting vehicle, “the silken twist,” to lead man’s thoughts in fit expression up to the throne of God. The summum bonum, the all in religion, he still believed, and so most earnestly taught, consisted in the free-will offering of the penitent and pious spirit.

In his essay on the duties of the Country Parson, he enjoins upon the pastor, “to be constant in every good work, setting such an example to his flock as they may be glad to follow; and by so doing, profit thereby to their souls’ good.”

And most diligently (if we are to believe the testimony of his contemporaries) did George Herbert conform himself to the character so beautifully sketched. In the functions of his humble office he is said to have led a most pious and blameless life.

The priests of the Levitical ministration, put on the humerus blazing with jewels, before they took the breastplate of righteousness and truth; thereby signifying that the priest must be a shining light, resplendent with good works, before he fed them with righteousness and truth, the legitimate milk of the word. And in the daily beauty of his blameless life; in the gentle, dove-like spirit that animated his every motive; in his daily charities, and his devout ministerings at the altar, Herbert most beautifully illustrated the doctrines that he preached. His life was “indeed, a shining light, resplendent with good works;” and the flock which he so faithfully tended, found through his guidance spiritual pastures. Quaint old Jeremy Taylor, alluding to the necessity of the Christian pastor exemplifying in his daily life the doctrines that he preaches, most beautifully remarks:

“Herod’s doves could never have invited so many strangers to their dovecots if they had not been besmeared with most fragrant ointment. As said Dydimus, make your pigeons smell sweet, and they will allure whole flocks. And, Christian pastor, if your life be excellent, your virtues, ‘like precious ointment, full of fragrance,’ you will soon invite your charges to run after your precious odors.”

Such, in all things, was the subject of our sketch; his virtues were the precious ointment, full of fragrance, alluring the quiet flock his Master had given him to feed.

We have said more of Herbert in his pastoral character than we first intended, although, perhaps, we have not dwelt upon it too long to give an illustration of the beautiful simplicity and pious ardor of the man.

It was in the quiet village of Bemerton that Herbert composed his little volume of poems, styled “The Temple,” of which it was said by a contemporary, “There was in it the picture of a divine soul in every page, and the whole book was such a harmony of holy passions, as would enrich the world with pleasure and piety.”

We do not pretend to claim for these songs any great poetic merit. They abound with faults, such as were peculiar to most of the minor poets of that age. The versification is often rough and inharmonious, the words ill chosen for the rhyme, while conceits far-fetched and unnatural are most plentifully sprinkled through them. These, however, are faults peculiar to the versification of the time in which our poet flourished. The great merit of these songs, most undoubtedly, consists mainly in the pious ardor and genuine devotional feeling which characterize them. The reader is attracted at once by the deep and earnest piety they manifest. There seems to be a consistent effort in the poet’s mind to give utterance to his devotional feeling in words of earnestness and power, such words as shall not dishonor the high and noble theme he had chosen for his subject. It can readily be discovered that they give utterance to the language of his heart, and that the influence of that heart’s holiest affections was the happiest inspiration of his verse. If there is any truth in those sweet lines of Cowper,

The Poet’s lyre to fix his fame,

Should be the Poet’s heart;

Affection lights a brighter flame,

Than ever blazed by art.

then “sweet George Herbert” has made sure his claim to remembrance, and left something behind him which posterity will not willingly let die.

Wherever deep and holy love for sacred things is esteemed, there the verses of Herbert will find many ardent admirers. They are the pure and free-will offerings of a heart consecrated to pious uses, and attuned to sacred harmonies—the soft breathings of a devotional spirit, that seems too pure for earth.

When he sings of the church where he so loved to worship, it is with all the earnest enthusiasm, if not with the inspiration of that noble song of Solomon, commencing,

“Behold thou art fair, my love, behold thou art fair; thou hast dove’s eyes within thy locks, thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks, thou art all fair, my love, there is no spot within thee.”

And Herbert loved the church, because it was the fold where he could gather the flock that had been given him to tend. The church on earth was to him the emblem of the spiritual church “eternal in the heavens.” His gentle spirit seems all aglow with love, whenever he sings of its quiet retreats and the rich solemnities of its glorious worship.

The poems, styled “The Temple,” are preceded by a long poem as a preface, called “The Church Porch,” where he would have the reader linger before entering the sanctuary. And in the poem the poet takes occasion to give sage counsel and most excellent advice, the better to fit the mind for the contemplation of the sacredness of the sanctuary beyond the porch. He would purify the spirit from the dross of earthly vices, he would have it “purged of the contaminations of earth,” before entering the temple, where the divine presence loves to dwell.

And no one who will read the advice embodied in this introductory poem, but must rise from its perusal with the conviction that it contains a code of morality, enforced by most excellent precepts. Independent of its religious tone, it may be said to contain the very best of principles, enforced by illustrations that carry conviction to the mind at once. In the rude measure of the time, it holds up virtue in all its beauty to our approbation, and lays bare all the hideousness of vice. He seeks not for harmonious verse, as the vehicle of thought, he desires not to please, but to persuade; not to amuse, but to instruct.

Is lust within, polluting, corrupting, and withering the heart, his warning is,

Beware of lust; it doth pollute the soul

Whom God in baptism washed with his own blood,

It blots the lesson written in thy soul;

The holy words cannot be understood.

How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,

Much less toward God, “whose lust is all their book.”

Profanity he rebukes in lines like these:

Take not his name who made thy mouth, in vain.

It gets thee nothing, and has no excuse.

Lust and wine plead a pleasure, avarice gain;

But the cheap swearer, through his open sluice,

Lets his soul run for naught.

Remembering in whose sight “lying lips are an abomination,” and the sacredness of whose sanctuary is polluted by falsehood, he breaks forth with indignant tone,

Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,

Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.

Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod.

The stormy working soul spits lies and froth;

Dare to be true—nothing can need a lie;

A fault which needs it most, grows two thereby.

Extravagance, which is the grateful mother of debt, penury, and want; which has desolated as many homes, withered as many hearts, and destroyed as many lives as the sword, he thus rebukes:

Never exceed thy income, youth may make

Even with the year; but age, if it will hit,

Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stake

As the day lessens, and his life with it.

Thy children, kindred, friends upon thee call,

Before thy journey, fairly past with all.

The dangers that wait on suretyship, and the madness of yielding to its pressing importunities, are thus set forth:

Yet be not surety, if thou be a father;

Love is a personal debt. I cannot give

My children’s right, nor ought he take it, rather

Both friends should die, than hinder them to live.

Fathers first enter bonds to nature’s ends,

And are her sureties, ere they are friends.

The spirit in which we should enter the hallowed courts of the sanctuary, is set forth thus:

When once thy foot enters the church, believe

God is more there than thou, for thou art there

Only by his permission. Then beware,

And make thyself all reverence and fear.

Kneeling ne’er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state,

All equal are within the church’s gate.

Space will not permit us to make further extracts from “The Porch.” Enough has been given to show its tone and character. The poems called “The Temple,” thus introduced, are a series of devotional songs upon sacred subjects, overflowing with ardent feeling, and manifesting the existence of a piety as fervent as it is rare.

In his verses on Prayer, we have an apt illustration of our author’s style and devotional ardor.

Prayer, the Church’s banquet, angels age,

God’s breath in man returning to his birth.

The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

The Christian’s plummet sounding heaven and earth.

The quiet stillness of the Sabbath morn, and the blessings that accompany it, call forth such verses as the following:

Oh, day most calm, most bright,

The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,

Th’ indorsement of supreme delight,

Writ by a friend, and with his blood;

The couch of time, care’s balm, and bay;

The week were dark, but for thy light,

Thy torch doth show the way.

Sundays the pillars are

On which Heaven’s palace arched lies;

The other days fill up the spare

And hollow room with vanities;

They are the fruitful beds and borders

In God’s rich garden; that is base

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man’s life,

Threaded together on time’s string,

Make bracelets to adorn the wife

Of the eternal glorious king;

On Sundays Heaven’s door stands ope,

Blessings are plentiful and rife—

More plentiful than hope.

In his verses styled “The Odour,” we have an exemplification of the Poet’s love for his Divine Master, expressed with that fervency which betokens the sincerity of his adoration.

How sweetly doth my master sound! my master!

As ambergris leaves a rich scent

Unto the taster.

So do these words a sweet content,

An oriental fragrance—my master!

The poem entitled “Christmas,” has considerable merit, the versification is smoother, and the measure not so irregular as most of his poems, while at the same time it is characterized by the same warmth of devotional feeling, that is manifested in all.

The shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?

My God, no hymn for thee?

My soul’s a shepherd, too; a flock it feeds

Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.

The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace,

Enriching all the place.

Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers

Outsing the daylight hours.

The little poem entitled “Jesu,” although it has neither the merit of smoothness, or any poetical beauty, is strongly illustrative of the purely saint-like piety of its author. Dr. Sanderson was enraptured with this little production, and used to style it, “a gem of rare conceit.” We see nothing in it, however, to warrant such praise; it certainly has no poetic merit, and the conceit embodied in it, appears to be rude and far-fetched.

JESU.

Jesu is in my heart, his sacred name

Is deeply carved there, but th’ other week,

A great affliction broke the little frame,

Ev’n all to pieces; which I went to seek;

And first I found the corner where was I,

After where es, and next where u was graved.

When I had got these parcels, instantly

I sat me down to spell them, and perceived

That to my broken heart, he was I ease you,

And to my whole is Jesu.

Space will not permit us to make further extracts from these poems of Herbert’s. Those that we have given, illustrate the pious ardor of the subject of our sketch, while at the same time they give evidence of some claim to take position with the minor poets of his day. His prose compositions undoubtedly possess more merit than his poetical, and clearly entitle him to rank with the best of his contemporaries. The beautiful simplicity of the character of our poet, has never been surpassed in any age. His disposition was of the most sweet and engaging nature, adorned with all the graces of a most saint-like piety. “He lived like a saint,” says his enthusiastic biographer, old Walton, “and like a saint did he die.” The Sunday before his death, raising himself from his bed, he called for his instrument, and having tuned it, played and sung that verse from his poems, commencing,

The Sundays of man’s life

Threaded together on time’s string,

Make bracelets to adorn the wife

Of the eternal, glorious king.

Like the dying swan,

As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,

His sweetest song was the last he sings.