George Herbert- Collected Poetical Works

by George Herbert

  We weep; sole interest is this to thine.

  About to sail, they blame the winds that blow;

  If rain, our tears the hindering cause might show.

  The Dane claims Tilly; sea-affairs the Gaul;

  But weeping occupies our leaders all.

  So Time rolls slowly, while full many a tear

  Retards the thousand wheels of the swift year.

  Fain would I write thee more; for what know I

  Of crown or joy, save thought of thee is nigh?

  But while of this my page tears ask a share,

  The ink they meet is blurr’d with moisture fair. R. WI.

  X. Hempe hujusque notos tenebricosos

  Surely the trav’ller censures wrongly

  Our cloudy south-winds blowing strongly,

  Our gray skies with rain o’ercharg’d,

  Still spitting, and yet ne’er discharg’d,

  In this our British land.

  But thou dying, great Mother, now

  Rightly he speaks; for I do vow

  This over-moisture well he may

  As guilty name, and drive away

  With breath and tongue and hand.

  For thee, now country, city, hall,

  For thee, Anglia, two Scotias call, Ireland and Scotland

  And ancient Cambria; tears down pour,

  Such as were wept in classic lore,

  Fearing too late they come.

  Not anywhere is there quiet spot

  That tears of sorrow do not blot;

  Nor doth griefs sea merely surround;

  It all o’erflows without a bound,

  And leaves me stricken dumb. G.

  XI. Dum librata suis hacret radicibus ilex

  While balanc’d by its roots the oak holds fast,

  Firm it remains, nor fears or flood or blast;

  But when its trunk the cruel hatchet hews,

  Dead it is borne where’er its chance lord choose.

  I am a tree o’erthrown; while planted by

  My Mother’s side, with cedars strong I vie.

  Now, motherless, to Fate and storms I bow,

  Tottering and wavering like a billow now.

  Thou art my root, a rock most firm to me;

  Like limpet to the crags I cling to thee.

  Not thy thread only have the Fates unspun,

  I also by thy death appear undone;

  Wandering, a new Ulysses may I be,

  And a new Iliad be thy death to me. R. WI.

  XII. Facesse Stoica plebs, obambulans cautes.

  Begone, O Stoic race! — a walking rock

  Stript of all softer flesh as e’er was block;

  Made up of bones alone, and these so dry

  That e’en Molossians, were they to try,

  Should not peel from them three grains of bare food.

  And do ye bid me grieve not? or as rude

  And leaden Medusean tribes do grieve,

  Who call men back to stones, naught human leave,

  More harsh than exc’llent Pyrrha? Insensate crew!

  Ye nor e’er mother lost, nor mother knew.

  A tiger bore ye — is not this your boast?

  I spare my ire; on your hard hearts ‘twere lost. G.

  XIII. Epitaphium.

  Here lies her sex’s triumph and its praise:

  As maid shamefast, as wife faithful always,

  As mother gently grave;

  Alike of great and poor, strife and desire:

  These to her nobleness ravish’d aspire;

  Those her sweet goodness crave.

  High, lowly — she unites opposing things,

  Enjoying all that earth, all heaven brings.

  Whoe’er may her deprave

  Of grace or glory brave? G.

  XIV.Greek Poem

  The spirit’s dim vessel and soul’s barrier weak

  Within this sepulchre, friend, only seek:

  The mind’s tomb is a star; for its fair light

  A lightsome home has only, as ’tis right.

  The boundless beauty of bright face you find

  Decays not, nor belong’d to form, but mind;

  Which through the body once, as now o’erhead

  Lightening, as through a window, radiance shed. R. WI.

  XV. Greek Poem

  O Mother! of thy sex the glory,

  Contest of men — as in old story, —

  The dread of devils, ‘God’s husbandry;’

  How then from us dost thou now fly?

  And leavest us all standing round,

  ‘Twixt tears and threatening danger found.

  Surely if thou must needs depart,

  It yet behov’d thee to impart

  To thy children, — in their weeping

  That thou i’ the cold grave art sleeping;

  Of thy wisdom, guide of life,

  With all rich experience rife;

  Of thy manners, sweet and smooth;

  And thy words, which charm and soothe:

  So that thou from earth wouldst go,

  And the world would scarcely know.

  But now, like banner’d army, hence

  Thou bear’st away all excellence;

  Or like a north-wind flowers beguiling,

  All a garden’s fragrance spoiling;

  I seek to trace thy sweet ascending

  By the perfumes interblending,

  Which bewray how thou hast gone,

  And stir up aspiration,

  That I might light on that best path

  Which thy dainty footprints hath:

  For to die thus were better bliss

  Than to live and thee to miss. G.

  XVI. Greek Poem

  To weep a grievous thing appears;

  Grievous it is not to shed tears;

  But ’tis more grievous still than all,

  Weeping, to cease to let tears fall.

  But such a Mother what man could,

  With two eyes, grieve for as he should?

  O wretched me! would that e’en I

  Own’d Argus-like full many an eye,

  And power to bear enduringly;

  That all the gifts of my rich Mother,

  And virtues sunder’d one from other,

  Each with its own peculiar eyes,

  I might bewail to the dark skies! R. WI.

  XVII. Greek Poem

  I bewail a Mother, and other men bewail her too;

  Yet not as she is my Mother do they their sorrow show,

  But, as having taken her into their loftiest strain

  For a common mother of Virtue, they weep amain.

  Nor marvel is it at all they should my Mother claim,

  For idle ‘twere to limit her to those who hear her name;

  Vain as within one door to shut the water or fire,

  Or any common bounty from our heavenly Sire:

  She was a measure of majesty, image of beauty rare,

  A mirror to reflect what of divine still lingers here.

  I bewail a Mother; and women her bewail,

  No longer struck by Envy’s shafts, that still the good assail,

  But pierc’d by a mighty grief for her by Death struck low,

  Mourning that they no more shall see her on earth below:

  For when they speak of her, their embroidery they let fall,

  The needle pricking their hearts, and blood spotting the garment all;

  And so a new robe for my Mother, a mourning robe, they make,

  While their hands and hearts together in grief and anguish shake.

  I bewail a Mother; the orchard fruit-trees also weep,

  No longer tended by her, who doth in the cold ground sleep;

  Whose life, like the sun, emitting gentle and vernal beams,

  Dispers’d itself o’er the garden in gracious as lovely streams;

  But now this death of their mistress, like arid-parching sun

  O’erpower’d by burning Sirius, blights all he looks upon;
r />   And now I myself shall live faintly but a little while,

  So using my breath that I may in her my grief beguile:

  Another spirit is born of her spirit within me,

  Measuring its course with words only, weak, empty, as you may see. G.

  XVIII. Greek Poem

  If when, ye froarie waves of Thames,

  The Moon’s fair face a cloud defames,

  Filching from her the pallid light

  That gleams upon the brow of Night,

  Ye rise in wrathful majesty, —

  How much more may ye mount on high,

  Since she, fairer than moon, is gone,

  Her life’s light in extinction,

  Who lately dwelt your banks upon!

  Now ‘twere but right o’er such a fate,

  ‘Gainst the heavens to strike elate:

  Yet rest ye, hush ye, where ye are,

  My Mother’s car no noise may jar;

  More fitting ’tis ye murm’ring flow,

  Beside us weeping here below. G.

  XIX. Excussos manibus calamos falcemque resumptam

  My pen laid by, and pruning-hook retaken,

  The Muse’s indignation soon awaken:

  She seeks my Mother, the Fates by song being won,

  And, sad, demands the worship of her son

  For this dark death: and what she asks is done.

  I needs must go, urg’d on by scourge so strong;

  My Mother’s honour claims it, passing song.

  Ah, well, I write: thou hast conquer’d, Muse; but see

  These follies once for all I write for thee,

  That ever after I may silent be. R. WI.

  ANTI-TAMI-CAMI-CATEGORIA

  ET

  GEORGII HERBERTI, ANGLI MUSAE RESPONSORIAE,

  AD ANDREAE MELVINI, SCOTI,

  ANTI-TAMI-CAMI-CATEGORIAM.

  VERSES OF GEORGE HERBERT, ENGLISHMAN,

  IN REPLY TO THE ‘ANTI-TAMI-CAMI-CATEGORIA’ OF

  ANDREW MELVILLE, SCOTCHMAN;

  OR

  ACCUSATION AGAINST THE THAMES AND CAM

  = THE UNIVERSITIES OF OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE. G.

  NOTE

  In our Memoir (Vol. I.) and Essay (Vol. II.) we have stated and examined critically the historic grounds on which the ‘Anti-Tami-Cami-Categoria’ rests, as well as the controversy in relation to Melville and Herbert. Thither the reader is referred. This memorable satire was originally published in 1G04. My text is taken from the following excessively rare edition, with which David Laing, Esq., LL.D. Edinburgh, favoured me:

  PARASYNAGMA PERTHENSE

  ET

  IVRAMENTUM ECCLESIAE

  SCOTICANAE

  ET

  A. M. ANTITAMICAMICATEGORIA. —

  Anno M.DC.XX.

  Quarto — Title and pp. 3-47. ‘Anti-Tami-Cami-Categoria’ occupies pp. 41-47. Stanza 43 in this edition differs from the

  usual text, which is as follows:

  ‘Quisquis hanc, surda negat aure, qua se

  Fundit ubertim liquidas sub auras,

  Ille ter prudens, sapiens que, et onmi ex

  Parte beatus.’

  that is:

  Who turns a deaf ear to all these,

  Nor sinfully will himself please,

  As from the air and sea and earth

  Pleasure her tempting snares pours forth,

  He is thrice prudent and wise of heart,

  Perfectly happy in every part.

  and furnishes variations and an additional stanza thereafter, as inserted in its place. Mr. W. Aldis Wright, as before, informs me that in the copy of above edition of ‘Anti-Tami,’ &c. in the University Library, Cambridge, there are inserted after ‘Porr’gerre Régi’ (1.12), in a contemporary hand, the following — the end of the lines being, unfortunately, cut off by the hinder:

  Rege quo maius, meliusne

  Fata donavere nihil, dab

  Gratius, quamuis redean

  Tempora pris

  Cuius in scripto Themis, i

  Suda, sub fibris Sophio ex

  Suauis in vultu Charis in

  Entheus ardo.

  Another edition is given in ‘Ecclesiastes Solomonis. Auctore Joan. Viviano. Canticum Solomonis: Nec non Epigrammata Sacra, Per Ja. Duportum. Accedunt Georgii Herberti, Musae Responsoriae, ad Andreae Melvini, Anti-Tami-Cami-Categoriam. Cant. 1662. 12°.’ There is a separate title-page, as follows: ‘Georgii Herberti, Angli Musae Responsoriae, ad Andreae Melvini, Scoti, Anti-Tami-Cami-Categoriam. Cantabrigiae: Ex Officina Joannis Field, celeberrimae Academiae Typographi. Anno Dom. 1662.’ pp. 1-30 (separate pagination). This seems to have been the first edition of the ‘Musae Responsoriae.’ Our text of Herbert’s ‘Response’ is from it. G.

  A DEFENCE IN BEHALF OF THE PETITION OF THE EVANGELICAL MINISTERS IN ENGLAND

  PRO SUPPLICI

  Evangelicorvm Ministrorem in Anglia, ad Serenissimum Regem contra Larvatam geminae Academiae Gorgonem Apologia;

  SIVE ANTI-TAMI-CAMI-CATEGORIA

  [=the Puritans] to the most serene King,

  against the masked Gorgon of the twin Universities; or ÀntiTami-Cami-Categoria, — Andrew Melville being author.

  Answered, not spoken.

  ‘Insolent, impudent, impious crime

  As e’er was written in annals of Time

  So I am jeer’d and flouted forsooth,

  Although what I contend for is — TRUTH;

  Eight, becoming, conscience-rul’d, as I

  Would faithful speak for Him on high;

  As I vigilant under-shepherd would be,

  Anxious and watchful as was He,

  To lead souls upward and upward still,

  Seeking to do the Master’s will;

  Drawing from Earth and all its jars,

  Rising exultant to the stars;

  Rescuing souls from Shades infernal,

  Gaining them for the light eternal.

  Of SACRED WORSHIP, as simple and pure,

  Of the HOLY OFFICE, what shall allure,

  I now am to write; and petition bring

  Humbly, in olden wise, to my King:

  With a ‘single mind’ and purpose upright,

  In spirit meek and motive right,

  I venture to hope for Almighty ruth

  And my Sovran’s face as I stand for THE TRUTH

  Thus in due form favour bespeaking,

  I unconscious am of aught self-seeking.

  But, lo, ’tis a crime, that I expiate may

  By holocausts only, in ancient way:

  A hundred thousand bulls, sheep, swine,

  A victim, and more, for my every line.

  That I by so much as one word should dare

  To brand Prelates’ pride, and Rites lay bare —

  Impious and foolish and absurd,

  Such as are found not in The Word;

  That I should seek such Rites to expel

  As blots on God’s chosen; and rebel,

  Yea, groan, that an oath exacted should be

  Against all law; and that I should see

  A sorrowful trap or net spread along,

  To catch wretched souls by right or by wrong!

  O, how could I sign dark signs of the Cross

  Over the Laver, withouten loss?

  How dare I roll out set words of prayer

  In magic rotation through the air?

  How, with solemn voice, o’er the water-fill’d bowl

  Murmur, as screeches the hooting owl?

  Shall I speak to a babe unknowing

  Harmonious trifles, it no heed showing Ί

  Or solemn hands on young heads place,

  Confirming thus the promis’d GRACE?

  Or shall I to the bridegroom elate

  On bride’s finger a ring consecrate?

  As though, forsooth, ‘twere in my mind

  The ETERNAL GOODNESS thus to bind!

  With healing water shall the priest

  In long attire like woman drest,

&
nbsp; Sprinkle the babe, and make it live,

  As if a man could sins forgive?

  And shall the ‘churching’ mother bring

  Her ‘customary offering,’

  And, like another Zipporah, fling — Exodus iv. 25

  Before his feet the odious thing?

  Shall he, the Minister of Christ,

  Don cap four-squar’d? or o’er him twist

  Egyptian robes or pomp externe,

  Such as in papal glory worn?

  Shall he, Christ’s simpleness denying,

  Be found old Antichrist out-vying?

  Or should Pastor perforce drive out

  His flock, as he The Supper’s about;

  Seeking in secret that confounds

  To celebrate Christ’s awful wounds?

  Or voice-music’s sweet melody

  By clash of Phrygian cymbals die?

  Or House of God with bellowings roar

  Hoarse as sea-waves on a lee shore?

  Ah, is the Ruler, God Most High,

  Pleas’d with such heathen minstrelsy?

  And what to human ears is sweet,

  Shall it Divine approval meet?

  And shall the dreams of sickly brain

  The name of Sacred Worship gain?

  Just so the Roman she-wolf slakes

  Her thirst; to Vat’can puddle takes

  A golden cup, and filling it there

  Holds it still forth, alluring, fair,

  For peoples and for kings to share.

  Not so did WHITAKER speak or feel,

  When he Rome’s darkness did reveal:

  Champion of the Eternal Light,

  Forth-bearing to defend the RIGHT,

  Himself light of his native land;

  Nor he that did beside him stand,

  The great RAINOLDS, pen in hand.

  Ah, that lofty pen was sure

  To open ways sublime and pure,

  Tracing the paths celestial still,

  Joyous all minds and hearts to fill

  With visions of the City of Gold,

  And hosts in snow-white vesture stol’d.

  Nor of sounder mind by Cam or Thames

  Dwells any whom Athenæum names;

  Or throng’d Lyceum as learn’d, and given

  Such joys as mixes man with heav’n:

  Whose light effulgent God did give,

  And by Sun of Righteousness did live;

  Fetching still from Christ on high

  Radiance to th’ upward-gazing eye.

  Shall I laud BUCER? or proclaim

  The great PETER MARTYR’S lustrous name?