Redemption

HAVING been tenant long to a rich Lord,

Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,

And make a suit unto him, to afford

A new small-rented lease, and cancell th'old.

In heaven at his manor I him sought:

They told me there, that he was lately gone

About some land, which he had dearly bought

Long since on earth, to take possession.

I straight return'd, and knowing his great birth,

Sought him accordingly in great resorts;

In cities, theatres, gardens, parks, and courts:

At length a heard a ragged noise and mirth

Of thieves and murderers: there I him espied,

Who straight, Your suit is granted, and died.

George Herbert

Prayer (I)

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 plummet sounding heav'n and earth;

Engine against th'Almighty, sinner's tower,

Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,

The six-days' world transposing in an hour,

A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,

Exalted manna, gladness of the best,

Heaven in ordinary, man well drest,

The Milky Way, the bird of Paradise,

Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,

The land of spices; something understood.

George Herbert

Jordan (I)

WHO says that fictions only and false hair

Become a verse? Is there no truth in beauty?

Is all good structure in a winding stair?

May no lines pass, except they do their duty

Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves

And sudden arbors shadow coarse-spun lines?

Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?

Must all be veiled, while he that reads, divines,

Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing:

Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime:

I envy no man's nightingale or spring;

Nor let them punish me with loss of rime,

Who plainly say, My God, My King.

George Herbert

Denial

     WHEN my devotions could not pierce

          Thy silent ears;

Then was my heart broken, as was my verse:

     My breast was full of fears

          And disorder:

     My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,

          Did fly asunder:

Each took his way; some would to pleasures go,

     Some to the wars and thunder

          Of alarms.

     As good go any where, they say,

          As to benumb

Both knees and heart, in crying night and day,

     Come, come, my God, O come,

          But no hearing.

     O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue

          To cry to thee,

And then not hear it crying! all day long

     My heart was in my knee,

          But no hearing.

     Therefore my soul lay out of sight,

          Untuned, unstrung:

My feeble spirit, unable to look right,

      Like a nipped blossom, hung

          Discontented.

      O cheer and tune my heartless breast,

          Defer no time;

That so thy favors granting my request,

      They and my mind may chime,

          And mend my rime.

George Herbert

Vanity (I)

            THE fleet astronomer can bore

And thread the spheres with his quick-piercing mind:

He views theirs stations, walks from door to door,

            Surveys, as if he had designed

To make a purchase there: he sees their dances,

            And knoweth long before,

Both their full-eyed aspects, and secret glances.

            The nimble diver with his side

Cuts through the working waves, that he may fetch

His dearly-earned pearl, which God did hide

            On purpose from the ventrous wretch;

That he might save his life, and also hers,

            Who with excessive pride

Her own destruction and his danger wears.

            The subtle chymick can devest

And strip the creature naked, till he find

The callow principles within their nest:

            There he imparts to them his mind,

Admitted to their bed-chamber, before

            They appear trim and drest

To ordinary suitors at the door.

            What hath not man sought out and found,

But his dear God? who yet his glorious law

Embosoms in us, mellowing the ground

            With showers and frosts, with love and awe,

So that we need not say, Where's this command?

            Poor man, thou searchest round

To find out death, but missest life at hand.

George Herbert

Man

          MY God, I heard this day,

That none doth build a stately habitation,

        But he that means to dwell therein.

        What house more stately hath there been,

Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation

           All things are in decay.

          For Man is ev'ry thing,

And more:

He is a tree, yet bears no fruit;

         A beast, yet is, or should be more:

         Reason and speech we only bring.

Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute,

           They go upon the score.

           Man is all symmetry,

Full of proportions, one limb to another,

         And all to all the world besides:

         Each part may call the farthest brother:

For head with foot hath private amity,

           And both with moons and tides.

           Nothing hath got so far,

But Man hath caught and kept it, as his prey.

         His eyes dismount the highest star:

         He is in little all the sphere.

Herbs gladly cure our flesh; because that they

           Find their acquaintance there.

           For us the winds do blow,

The earth doth rest, heav'n move, and fountains flow.

         Nothing we see, but means our good,

         As our delight, or as our treasure:

The whole is, either our cupboard of food,

           Or cabinet of pleasure.

           The stars have us to bed;

Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;

         Music and light attend our head.

         All things unto our flesh are kind

In their descent and being; to our mind

           In their ascent and cause.

           Each thing is full of duty:

Waters united are our navigation;

         Distinguished, our habitation;

         Below, our drink; above, our meat;

Both are our cleanliness.

Hath one such beauty?

           Then how are all things neat?

           More servants wait on Man,

Than he'll take notice of: in ev'ry path

         He treads down that which doth befriend him,

         When sickness makes him pale and wan.

Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath

           Another to attend him.

           Since then, my God, thou hast

So brave a palace built; O dwell in it,

         That it may dwell with thee at last!

         Till then, afford us so much wit;

That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,

           And both thy servants be.

George Herbert

Life

I MADE a posie, while the day ran by:

Here will I smell my remnants out, and tie

                         My life within this band.

But time did beckon 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 mind to smell my fatal day;

                         Yet sugaring 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.

George Herbert

Sin's Round

SORRY I am, my God, sorry I am,

That my offences course it in a ring.

My thoughts are working like a busy flame,

Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring:

And when they once have perfected their draughts,

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire fro m my inflamed thoughts,

Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.

They vent their wares, and pass them with their faults,

And by their breathing ventilate the ill.

But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions:

My hands do join to finish the inventions.

My hands do join to finish the inventions:

And so my sins ascend three stories high,

As Babel grew, before there were dissentions.

Let ill deeds loiter not: for they supply

New thoughts of sinning:

wherefore, to my shame,

Sorry I am, my God, sorry I am.

George Herbert

Peace

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,

                  Let me once know.

      I sought thee in a secret cave,

            And ask'd, if Peace were there.

A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:

                  Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:

                  Surely, thought I,

      This is the lace of Peace's coat:

       I will search out the matter.

But while I lookt, the clouds immediately

                  Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy

                  A gallant flower,

      The crown Imperial: Sure, said I,

            Peace at the root must dwell.

But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour

                  What show'd so well.

At length I met a rev'rend good old man,

                  Whom when for Peace

      I did demand; he thus began:

            There was a Prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase

                  Of flock and fold.

He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetness did not save

                  His life from foes.

       But after death out of his grave

             There sprang twelve stalks of wheat:

Which many wondring at, got some of those

                  To plant and set.

It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse

                  Through all the earth:

      For they that taste it do rehearse,

       That virtue lies therein,

A secret virtue bringing peace and mirth

                  By flight of sin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,

                  And grows for you;

Make bread of it: and that repose

       And Peace which ev'ry where

With so much earnestness you do pursue,

                   Is only there.

George Herbert

Man's Medley

          HARK, how the birds do sing,

               and woods do ring.

All creatures have their joy: and man hath his.

          Yet if we rightly measure,

               Man's joy and pleasure

Rather hereafter, than in present, is.

          To this life things of sense

               Make their pretense:

In th'other Angels have a right by birth:

          Man ties them both alone,

               And makes them one,

With th'one hand touching heav'n, with th'other earth.

          In soul he mounts and flies,

               In flesh he dies.

He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,

          But trimm'd with curious lace

               And should take place

After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.

          Not that he may not here

               Taste of the cheer,

But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,

          So must he sip and think

               Of better drink

He may attain to, after he is dead.

          But as his joys are double,

               So is his trouble.

He hath two winters, other things but one:

          Both frosts and thoughts do nip,

               And bite his lip;

And he of all things fears two deaths alone.

          Yet ev'n the greatest griefs

               May be reliefs,

Could he but take them right, and in their ways.

          Happy is he, whose heart

               Hath found the art

To turn his double pains to double praise.

George Herbert

The Storm

IF as the winds and waters here below

                         Do fly and flow,

My sighs and tears as busy were above;                          

Sure they would move

And much affect thee, as tempestuous times

Amaze poor mortals, and object their crimes.

Stars have their storms, ev'n in a high degree,                          

As well as we.

A throbbing conscience spurred by remorse                          

Hath a strange force:

It quits the earth, and mounting more and more,

Dares to assault, and besiege thy door.

There it stands knocking, to thy musick's wrong,                          

And drowns the song.

Glory and honour are set by till it                          

An answer get.

Poets have wrong'd poor storms: such days are best;

They purge the air without, within the breast.

George Herbert

Artillery

AS I one ev'ning sat before my cell,

Me thoughts a star did shoot into my lap.

I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well,

That from small fires comes oft no small mishap.

When suddenly I heard one say,

-Do as thou usest, disobey,

Expell good motions from thy breast,

Which have the face of fire, but end in rest-.

I, who had heard of music in the spheres,

But not of speech in stars, began to muse:

But turning to my God, whose ministers

The stars and all things are; if I refuse,

Dread Lord, said I , so oft my good;

Then I refuse not ev'n with blood

To wash away my stubborn thought:

For I will do, or suffer what I ought.

But I have also stars and shooters too,

Born where thy servants both artilleries use.

My tears and prayers night and day do woo,

And work up to thee; yet thou dost refuse.

Not but that I am (I must say still)

Much more oblig'd to do thy will,

Than thou to grant mine: but because

Thy promise now hath ev'n set thee thy laws.

Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deign

To enter combat with us, and contest

With thine own clay. But I would parley fain:

Shun not my arrows, and behold my breast.

Yet if thou shunnest, I am thine:

I must be so, if I am mine.

There is no articling with thee:

I am but finite, yet thine infinitely.

George Herbert

Virtue

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of earth and sky:

The dew shall weep thy fall tonight;

For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry 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 days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie;

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert

The Holdfast

I THREATENED to observe the strict decree

Of my deare God with all my power and might:

But I was told by one, `It could not be;

Yet I might trust in God to be my light.'

`Then will I trust,' said I, `in Him alone.'

`Nay, ev'n to trust in Him, was also His:

We must confesse that nothing is our own.'

`Then I confesse that He my succour is.'

`But to have nought is ours, not to confesse

That we have nought.' I stood amaz'd at this,

Much troubled, till I heard a friend expresse

That all things were more ours by being His:

What Adam had, and forfeited for all,

Christ keepeth now, Who cannot fail or fall.

George Herbert