The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts The boxbill, ouzle, and the dappled thrush, And now the cold autumnal dews are seen To cobweb every green; And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear The sapless branches doff their summer suits And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains, Lights but to further pains, And in a silent language bids her guest Now careful age hath pitched her painful plough And snowy blasts of discontented care Have blanched the falling hair : Suspicious envy mixed with jealous spite Disturbs his weary night: He threatens youth with age; and now, alas! Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past Read lectures to thy last : Those hasty wings that hurried them away Will give these days no day : The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire Until her works expire: That blast that nipped thy youth will ruin thee; That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike the tree. FLEEING FROM WRATH. AH! whither shall I fly? what path untrod Where shall I sojourn ? what kind sea will hide What, if my feet should take their hasty flight, What, if my soul should take the wings of day, 'Tis vair to flee, till gentle Mercy show George Herbert. { Born 1593. HERBERT was of noble birth, being descended from the Earls of Pembroke. His elder brother was Lord Herbert of Cherbury. Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales, on 3d April 1593, and was educated to push his way at court; but in 1626 circumstances induced him to enter into sacred orders, and he was settled as prebend of Layton Ecclesia, near Spalding. In uncertain health, he afterwards was made rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he passed the remainder of his short life in the exercise of the duties of his office, with saintlike zeal and devotion. Here he wrote his poems, which breathe in verse the rules laid down by himself for his own direction as a country parson. He died in 1632. VERTUE. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. LIFE. I MADE a posie, while the day ran by: But Time did becken to the flowers, and they And wither'd in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time's gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, Making my minde to smell my fatall day, Yet sugring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament, And after death for cures. I follow straight without complaints or grief, Since if my scent be good, I care not, if It be as short as yours. THE SEARCH. WHITHER, O, whither art thou fled, My searches are my daily bread; My knees pierce th' earth, mine eies the skie: And centre both to me denie That thou art there. Yet can I mark how herbs below As if to meet thee they did know, Yet can I mark how starres above As having keyes unto thy love, I sent a sigh to seek thee out, Deep drawn in pain, Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout I tun'd another (having store) Into a grone, Because the search was dumbe before: Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold And keeps the present, leaving th' old Where is my God? what hidden place O let not that of any thing: Let rather brasse, Or steel, or mountains be thy ring, And I will passe. Thy will such an intrenching is, To it all strength, all subtilties Thy will such a strange distance is, East and West touch, the poles do kisse, Since then my grief must be as large Thy distance from me; see my charge, O take these barres, these lengths away : Be not Almightie, let me say, Against, but for me. When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare; What point so piercing can appeare For as thy absence doth excell All distance known: So doth thy nearnesse bear the bell, THE QUIP. THE merrie world did on a day First, Beautie crept into a rose; Then Money came, and chinking still, |