صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts
His hungry whining guests :

The boxbill, ouzle, and the dappled thrush,
Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush.

And now the cold autumnal dews are seen

To cobweb every green;

And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear
The fast-declining year:

The sapless branches doff their summer suits
And wain their winter fruits;

And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees
To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze.
Our wasted taper now hath brought her light
To the next door to-night;

Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn
Sad as her neighb'ring urn:

Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains,

Lights but to further pains,

And in a silent language bids her guest
Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest.

Now careful age hath pitched her painful plough
Upon the furrowed brow;

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!
He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was.

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
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn ? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside?

What, if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.

What, if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert? If she springs away,
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they.
What, if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice, and not cleave in twain?
Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
What flame-ey'd fury means to smite, can save.

'Tis vair to flee, till gentle Mercy show
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
The' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe,
'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.

George Herbert.

{

Born 1593.
Died 1632.

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,
The bridall of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

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:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

But Time did becken to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,

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 Lord, my Love?

My searches are my daily bread;
Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th' earth, mine eies the skie:
And yet the sphere

And centre both to me denie

That thou art there.

Yet can I mark how herbs below
Grow green and gay;

As if to meet thee they did know,
While I decay.

Yet can I mark how starres above
Simper and shine,

As having keyes unto thy love,
While poore I pine.

I sent a sigh to seek thee out,

Deep drawn in pain,

Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout
Returns in vain.

I tun'd another (having store)

Into a grone,

Because the search was dumbe before:
But all was one.

Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold
Which favour winnes,

And keeps the present, leaving th' old
Unto their sinnes?

Where is my God? what hidden place
Conceals thee still?
What covert dare eclipse thy face?
Is it thy will?

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,
As passeth thought:

To it all strength, all subtilties
Are things of nought.

Thy will such a strange distance is,
As that to it

East and West touch, the poles do kisse,
And parallels meet.

Since then my grief must be as large
As is thy space,

Thy distance from me; see my charge,
Lord, see my case.

O take these barres, these lengths away :
Turn, and restore me:

Be not Almightie, let me say,

Against, but for me.

When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare;
What edge so keen,

What point so piercing can appeare
To come between?

For as thy absence doth excell

All distance known:

So doth thy nearnesse bear the bell,
Making two one.

THE QUIP.

THE merrie world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together, where I lay,
And all in sport to geere at me.

First, Beautie crept into a rose;
Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,
Tell me, I pray, Whose hands are those!
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poore man? said he:
I heard in Musick you had skill:
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

« السابقةمتابعة »