George Herbert- Collected Poetical Works

by George Herbert

  And not one city, hut the world,

  Is holy: all place-worship hurl’d.

  And now, as He new hearts doth count,

  He each a Sol’mon doth account;

  And living altars the old surmount.

  One Sol’mon only was of old;

  How, as believers’ names are told,

  In each a Sol’mon is enroll’d.

  How the mystery is laid ope,

  Hor do phylacteries veil our hope,

  Hor legal rites mar Gospel scope.

  The world, from tender childhood pass’d,

  Attains its manhood, and at last

  Rejoices as a spouse to haste.

  Look where we may, our God is found;

  Lamb! altar! priest! lo, all abound,

  And EVERYWHERE is sacred ground. G.

  XX. Petrae scissae.

  The rent Rocks.

  Man was made sound and pure in heart, life, lip,

  But Satan shatter’d God’s fair workmanship.

  When Moses’ Law the fragments would refit,

  The new-made calf the unmade tablets split.

  So when Christ dies, at such a Tragedy

  Bocks inaccessible asunder fly:

  All things hut hearts are broken by Sin’s might;

  Yet broken hearts make other losses light. R. WI.

  XXI. In Mundi Sympathiam cum Christo.

  On the Earth’s Sympathy with Christ.

  Alone Thou diest not; in Thee the World dies;

  The whole Machine Thy Cross must recognise.

  Make Him Earth’s soul, Plato; nor pains of thine

  Disturb Earth more, after these pains of Mine. R. WI.

  LUCUS.

  I. Homo Statua.

  Man an Image.

  Doubtless I am God’s image, but in stone:

  This hardness which I feel from sin has grown.

  As corals harden from their own beds tom,

  Just so does man, of native virtues shorn.

  Marbles to weep, Almighty, Thou hast taught:

  Let not my heart more hard than stone be thought.

  R. WI.

  II. Patria.

  The Fatherland.

  As a small flame threatens to pierce heaven’s face,

  Sending up sparks, though keeping its own place;

  E’en thus sighs make my soul sharp-pointed grow;

  Prayers, hearty prayers, the sparks with which I glow.

  The keen soul plies the flesh with ceaseless fire;

  ‘Twill penetrate it, if it does not tire. R. WI.

  III. In Stephanum lapidatum.

  On Stephen stoned.

  Who strikes a flint draws fire — wondrous to say;

  But out of stones Stephen drew Heaven one day!

  R. WI.

  IV. In Simonem Magum.

  On Simon Magus.

  Wilt thou buy Christ? Once, for us, we are taught,

  The Lamb was sold, yet will He not be bought.

  Himself bought us; with blood our debts He paid:

  For such a price no money can be weigh’d.

  Wilt thou buy Heaven? Nay, thou hadst better try

  What price one star will fetch in yonder sky.

  With its own weight curst money downward tends;

  Thrown upwards, on your head itself descends.

  One only coin to Heaven and Christ is dear;

  ’Tis that where God’s own image shines forth clear.

  R. WI.

  V. In S. Scripturas.

  On the Holy Scriptures.

  Ah, what wind, like blast of fire,

  Thus sways my inmost soul in ire,

  Turning my thoughts e’en upside down

  I’ th’ centre of a heart of stone?

  Is it that, seated by my door

  At the evening’s stilly hour,

  I suck’d in a flying star

  That thither travell’d from afar,

  Ign’rant it hid in my base breast,

  And now would out with wild unrest?

  Or is’t that, eating of my honey,

  Golden as e’er is golden money,

  While I devour’d the comb rich-dropping,

  Queen-bee and all, there interloping,

  I too devour’d?

  Nor stars nor bees

  Have ever stung, or broke my ease.

  O blessed Book, most holy chart,

  Hast thou aye been within my heart;

  Thou all its lurking-places showest,

  And all its dark recesses knowest,

  And all the mazes intricate

  Where’er Desire retreating sate:

  Ah, how rarely skill’d art thou

  Bye-ways to track and turnings show,

  And all Sin’s foldings hid below!

  The Heavenly Power which built my heart

  To know it has alone the art. G.

  VI. In Pacem Britannicam.

  On the Peace enjoyed by Britain.

  From outpour’d blood why still is England free,

  When all the world wades through such misery?

  No waves she feels, though always in the deep,

  While seas of woe o’er inland countries sweep.

  Their shipwreck, hut our strength, the sea we call;

  And rampart-sapping water is our wall.

  Forsooth, here reigns Religion, queen of rest,

  And Thou, Lord, walkest o’er our waters blest, R. WI.

  VII. Avaritia.

  Avarice.

  He says he saw a dream, beholding gold by night;

  He thinks he sees no dream, seeing gold in the light.

  Mistaken men! he keeps awake who dreams of gold,

  And joyful clutches more than ever miser told. R. WI.

  VIII. In Lotionem Pedum Apostolorum.

  On the Washing of the Apostles’ Feet.

  The Sun the ancients did devise

  Out of the Ocean to arise,

  Where his resplendent face he laves

  All night within the cooling waves.

  More truly was this done by Thee,

  O Christ, of Love the boundless Sea;

  When washing Thy disciples’ feet,

  Which girdled Earth with circuit fleet. G.

  IX. In D. Lucam.

  On St. Luke.

  Why a Physician did God fill with grace

  Christ’s deeds and death with hand divine to trace?

  That what was good for them all men might see;

  Eor raw fruit once, poor Adam, injur’d thee. R. WI.

  X. Papae Titulus nec Deus nec Homo.

  The Pope’s Title, neither God nor Man.

  Search we no more for Antichrist:

  The Pope’s nor God nor man: God-Man is Christ. G

  XI. Tributi Solutio.

  The Paying of the Tribute.

  A fish for Cæsar brought the tax to shore;

  ’Twas paid by Thee to him who purple wore.

  Both facts are wonderful; but this is more,

  That Thou commandest all that swim, walk, soar;

  But over Thee none e’er dominion bore. — R.

  XII. Tempestas, Christo dormiente.

  The Tempest: Christ asleep:

  When, Lord, Thou sleepest, lo, the sea awaketh,

  Lifting its waves.

  When Thou arisest, lo, its sleep it taketh,

  No more it raves.

  Well o’er the sea His reins the Master shaketh.

  XIII. Bonus Civis.

  The Good Citizen.

  When wise Humility good men elects

  And elevates to honour, she effects

  A greater blessing than if one good man

  Should change society to suit his plan.

  Thus her own wisdom copied out she traces

  In many persons and in many places. R. WI.

  XIV. In Umbram Petri.

  On the Shadow of Peter.

  A body gave a shadow, and straightway

  A shadow gave back life to mortal clay:


  Lo, gratitude is paramount to day! R. WI.

  XV. Martha: Maria.

  Martha: Mary.

  Lo, Christ is here! run ye, O maidens, run

  Through all the house, let nothing be undone;

  Shake out the curtains all, and let the hearth

  Glow brightly in the bright fire’s dancing mirth;

  Tables and couches all be polished,

  Leave not a speck — by me be admonished;

  Spare lights — let the whole house a candle be.

  O idlers, lo, there some small dust I see:

  ‘In thy heart, Sister, perhaps? — all else is clean,

  I ween.’ G.

  XVI. Amor.

  In Love.

  Whate’er skies threaten, or whate’er earth fears,

  Thou drinkest in with eager-open ears;

  As sheep on brambles, so thou layest hold

  On comet’s tail — in trouble manifold —

  Lest swift some knowing star thy fate unfold.

  All things thou rackest, thyself all things above:

  Idler, what wouldst thou learn o’ me? I LOVE.

  G.

  XVII. In Superbum.

  On a Proud Man.

  A Lord art thou; be also call’d a bubble —

  That I will grant thee too without more trouble.

  Too hard on Lords you never will find me;

  Dreadfully easy to themselves they be.

  Joking apart, let it be understood

  That thou possessest the same flesh and blood

  As artisans; that cobbler, if you choose,

  Who for your humblest serving-boy makes shoes! R. WI.

  XVIII. In eundem.

  On the same.

  In every man earth and earth’s child we hail:

  Wilt be a barren mountain or rich vale?

  R. WI.

  XIX. Afflictio.

  Affliction.

  The waves Thou troddest, Lord, against me beat,

  Over my head they leap, which bore Thy feet.

  If o’er the waves, O Lord, I may not glide,

  Yet through them bid me pass safe to Thy side. R. WI.

  XX. In κενοδοξίαν.

  On Vainglory.

  Who sucks with greedy breath all light reports,

  And windy words of flattery hunts and courts,

  His highest happiness outside him places,

  And spreads as widely as the crowd counts faces.

  Collect thyself, and on thyself rely;

  And with a tighter knot life’s burdens tie;

  Round as a globe, not handl’d like a cup,

  Which thousand snares and quarrels will catch up

  And carry off, till thy poor falling helm

  A thousand jeers, a thousand smiles o’erwhelm.

  Then, like a seaman wise, draw in thy sails;

  Nor suck in fame, nor blow it to the gales.

  Balance thine actions well, and if the crowd

  Brings glory to thee with applauses loud,

  Check them; but if they stint it, say ‘All right!’

  Neither morosely sour, nor softly light. R. WI.

  XXI. In Gulosum.

  On a Glutton.

  Thou, while with guzzling mouth the plates thou

  clearest,

  Within, without, a mass of filth appearest:

  A stomach call it not, but a den rather,

  That cavern where so many wild beasts gather.

  Alone enjoy the stench as of a tomb;

  He’ll seek thee who would die before his doom. R. WI.

  XXII. In Improbum disertum.

  Aurea, pro naulo, lingua Charontis erit.

  On a plausible Villain.

  Nabob thou art in words, pauper in deeds;

  Thy mouth and tongue are rich, thy hand still needs;

  Unless thy tongue’s wealth down thine arms thou shake,

  Charon for fare a golden tongue will take. R. WI.

  XXIII. Consolatio.

  Consolation.

  Why dost thou weep, while slow-drawn sighs

  Answer the tears within thine eyes?

  As if the sad death of thy friend

  No prior death did e’er portend;

  Whereas all from the cradle lie

  Beneath Death’s sentence visibly;

  Nor only once may mortals say

  We die, for all die day by day.

  The present ours — where’s yesterday?

  Ah, none may yesterday recall,

  None may arrest its burial!

  Three hundred years died Nestor old,

  Not liv’d, so many years enroll’d;

  Unless because so oft he perish’d

  Thou provest that so long he flourish’d.

  Whilst thou weepest, life is going;

  Lo, thy hour-glass, tears, fast flowing;

  Each drop numbers equal dying,

  Therefore vain is thy keen sighing;

  Midst so many deaths, o’er one

  Waste not admiration.

  Too late shall this weeping be,

  If weeping still must comfort thee;

  Stanch thy tears, and still thy groaning

  For amid these show’rs, this moaning,

  Thou, O weeper, thyself wastest,

  And Life’s flow’r in fading hastest.

  Neither grieve thee for thy friend,

  Who to that height doth ascend

  Where no tears the eyelids steep,

  And where none for thee may weep.

  XXIV. In Angelos.

  On the Angels.

  The Angels’ full-grown keen intelligence

  Is unlike ours, which needs must call the sense

  To give the forms of things; and oft until

  The eyes unlock the door, and to our mill

  Bring corn for grist, unfruitful is the mind,

  Out of itself unable aught to grind.

  For parted from us by a distance wide

  The rivers of enriching knowledge glide;

  Unable but through forms of things are we,

  By thinking, to find out what ourselves be.

  But no such journey need the Angels take

  To reach the waters, no such circuit make

  To penetrate into what may be known;

  Wide open always are their windows thrown.

  Themselves they know by method short and clear,

  And to themselves both mill and meal appear. R. WI.

  XXV. Roma: Anagr[ Oram. Ramo. Mora. Amor

  Roma: Anagram

  Thy name, O Rome, has crost to every SHORE, oram

  Since Latium’s yoke the early ages bore.

  Fame and the songs of fame alike were thine,

  Where to the stars on MARO’S page they shine. Maro

  But all thy glory, like a wither’d BOUGH — ramo

  From that grand ancient trunk, has fallen now.

  Thy praise and honour perish, e’en as though

  The centuries from their FLANK had hurl’d thee low armo

  To heal thy deep despair comes no DELAY, — mora

  Such as great Fabius brought in olden day.

  The nations hate thee now which once admir’d,

  And with thy glory LOVE too has retir’d. R. WI. amor

  XXVI. Urbani VIII. Pont. Restons.

  Pope Urban VIII.’s Reply.

  Since Rome you cannot subvert, lo, its name

  You invert, and its ways carp at and blame.

  But youth of German, Greek, and English race

  Rebuke you, welcome made to Rome’s embrace.

  Her foes she spares, e’en like the Lord above:

  Invert her name, — what says it to thee? LOVE. Amor

  R. WI.

  XXVII. Respons ad Urb. VIII.

  Reply to Urban VIII.

  Our play upon Rome’s name thou wilt not see;

  Rome is a serious business unto thee:

  Rome’s head thou art, and wouldst her mysteries make

  A joke
thyself, while the crowd fearing quake.

  But since thou choosest to be call’d Urbane,

  Rome is to thee a pleasant joke, ’tis plain. R. WI.

  XXVIII. Ad Urbanum VIII. Pont.

  To Pope Urban VIII.

  At last Rome finds a poet for her Pope;

  To bards inspir’d power now returns, we hope.

  Bellarmine and stem schools could nought effect,

  But more from the smooth poets we expect.

  Uncouthness, yield: Helicon rolls in sight;

  Vile wrangling gowns the fair Muse puts to flight. R. WI.

  XXIX. Greek Poem.

  A reasonable Sacrifice.

  If altars’ birth and men’s in mind you scan,

  Dead earth an altar was, live earth a man.

  What droop’d apart, Christ’s grace in one hath join’d;

  And man, God’s living altar, now you find. R. WI.

  XXX. In Thomam Didymum.

  On Thomas the Twin.

  Thy pierc’d side Thy servant presseth,

  Yet, Redeemer, Thou him blesseth;

  For Thou love art — marrow of love;

  Nor may aught Thee from loving move.

  To a slow faith and mind shallow

  Thou a couch prepar’d didst hallow,

  Wherein it might hide, beholding

  Thee, and, ‘neath Thy love enfolding,

  Rest secure, ineffable,

  As in some mighty citadel;

  Lest the great Lion him destroy,

  Wand’ring aside from Thee for joy.

  XXXI. In Solarium.

  On a Sundial. —

  Marriage of Heaven and Earth this dial shows;

  Its light to heaven, its shade to earth it owes.

  So soul and body are blended in man’s frame,

  Whose origin from divers regions came.

  Think, wretched one, what fear would o’er thee roll,

  If earth lack’d light, or human flesh a soul. R. WI.

  XXXII. Triumphus Mortis.

  The Triumph of Death.