GEORGE HERBERT. GEORGE HERBERT, a distinguished sacred poet, was born in the castle of Montgomery, in Wales, in 1593. He received his early education at Westminster School, and from thence, being a King's Scholar, he was elected to Trinity College, Cambridge. In 1612 he took his degree of B.A., and in 1616 that of M.A. He subsequently became Public Orator, and was finally settled as rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury; where, after having faithfully and zealously discharged the duties of his sacred calling, he died in 1632. The Temple, or Sacred Poems, of Herbert had great celebrity in his day; and they well deserve notice now. They are perhaps the most valuable of recorded experiences in religion among uninspired compositions, and abound in natural and beautiful thoughts, and true poetical feeling. PROVIDENCE. O SACRED Providence, who from end to end, Of all the creatures both in sea and land, Only to man Thou hast made known thy ways, And made him secretary of thy praise. Beasts fain would sing; birds ditty to their notes; To thy renown; but all their hands and throats Man is the world's high-priest; he doth present Unto the service mutter an assent, Such as springs use that fall, and winds that blow. He that to praise and laud Thee doth refrain, Doth not refrain unto himself alone, But robs a thousand who would praise Thee fain; Wherefore, most sacred Spirit, I here present, We all acknowledge both thy power and love While all things have their will, yet none but thine: For either thy command, or thy permission, Lay hands on all; they are thy right and left; The first puts on with speed and expedition, Nothing escapes them both; all must appear, And be disposed and dressed, and tuned by Thee, Who sweetly temperest all; if we could hear Thy skill and art, what music would it be! Thou art in small things great, not small in any; Tempests are calm to Thee, they know thy hand, Thy cupboard serves the world: the meat is set Birds teach us hawking; fishes have their net: The great prey on the less, they on some weed. Nothing engendered doth prevent his meat, Others do sleep, and envy not their cheer. How finely dost Thou times and seasons spin, And make a twist checkered with night and day, Each creature hath a wisdom for his good, The pigeons feed their tender offspring crying, When they are callow; but withdraw their food When they are fledged, that need may teach 'em flying. Bees work for man, and yet they never bruise Their master's flower, but leave it, having done, As fair as ever, and as fit to use: So both the flower do stay and honey run. Sheep eat the grass, and dung the ground for more: Who hath the virtue to express the rare And curious virtues both of herbs and stones? Is there an herb for that? O that thy care And if an herb hath power, what have the stars Thou hast hid metals, man may take them thence, He makes a grave, as if the thing had sense, And threatened man that he should fill the space. 1 Precede. E'en poisons praise Thee: Should a thing be lost? The help stands close, and keeps the fear in view. The sea, which seems to stop the traveller, Is by a ship the speedier passage made; And as thy house is full, so I adore Thy curious art in marshalling thy goods; Hard things are glorious; easy things, good, cheap; The healthy frosts with summer fruits compare. Light without wind, is glass; warm without weight, All countries have enough to serve their need: If they seek fine things, thou dost make them run Nothing wears clothes but man; nothing doth need When the earth was dry, Thou madest a sea of wet, When that lay gathered, Thou didst broach the mountains; While yet some places could no moisture get, The winds grew gardeners, and the clouds good fountains. Rain, do not hurt my flowers, but gently spend Your honey-drops; press not to smell them here; When they are ripe, their odour will ascend, And, at your lodging, with their thanks appear. How harsh are thorns to pears! and yet they make Sometimes Thou dost divide thy gifts to man- Most herbs that grow in brooks are hot and dry; The whey of milk doth loose, the milk doth bind. To show Thou art not bound, as if thy lot Were worse than ours, sometimes Thou shiftest hands: Most things move th' under-jaw; the crocodile not; Most things sleep lying; th' elephant leans or stand But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath any? All things that are, though they have several ways, To honour Thee; and so I give Thee praise Each thing that is, although in use and name |