genuine. In his own way he was very fastidious: his workmanship is elaborate, his rhythms are often intricate. He was a musician, and sang his own hymns to the lute or viol; one catches echoes of his music in the harmonious cadence of his verses. Crashaw and Vaughan, Charles the Martyr and Baxter the Puritan, Cowper and Coleridge, were amongst the warmest admirers of the Temple -more, perhaps, for the pregnancy and devoutness of his spiritual thoughts than for the purely poetic worth of his verse. His poetry alone would not have secured him so many loving readers had it not been for his single-minded and lovable character, enshrined in the pages of good old Walton;

The Pulley.

When God at first made man,

Having a glasse of blessings standing by,
'Let us,' said He, 'poure on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.'

So strength first made a way;

Then beautie flowed, then wisdome, honour, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay;
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottome lay.

'For if I should,' said He,
'Bestow this jewell also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

'Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them, with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and wearie that at least,
If goodnesse lead him not, yet wearinesse
May tosse him to my breast.'

Matins.

I cannot ope mine eyes

But Thou art ready there to catch

My mourning soul and sacrifice,

Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart?

Silver, or gold, or precious stone,

Or starre, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one?

My God, what is a heart,

That Thou shouldst it so eye and wooe,

Pouring upon it all Thy art,

As if that Thou hadst nothing els to do?

Indeed, man's whole estate

Amounts, and richly, to serve Thee;

He did not heaven and earth create,

Yet studies them, not Him by whom they be.

Teach me Thy love to know;

That this new light which now I see
May both the work and workman shew;
Then by a sunne-beam I will climb to Thee.

Sunday.

O day most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
The indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a Friend, and with His bloud;
The couch of Time, Care's balm and bay:
The week were dark but for thy light;
Thy torch doth shew the way.

The other dayes and thou
Make up one man, whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The worky-daies are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appeare.

Man had straight forward gone
To endlesse death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on One,
Whom, if we were not very dull,

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,

We could not choose but look on still; Since there is no place so alone,

The which he doth not fill.

Sundaies the pillars are

On which heaven's palace archèd lies :
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitfull beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundaies of man's life
Thredded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternall glorious King:
On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose, And did inclose this light for His; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder misse : Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at His passion
Did the earth and all things with it move.

As Samson bore the doores away,

Christ's hands, though nailed, wrought our salvation,

And did unhinge that day.

The brightnesse of that day

We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,
Having a new at His expense,

Whose drops of bloud paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,

And fit for paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth :

And where the week-daies trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being tossed from earth,
Flie hand in hand to heaven!

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.
Then came brave Glorie puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allowed me half an eie:
But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

jeer

But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wilde
At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, 'Childe;'
And I reply'd, 'My Lord.'

Herbert was decidedly High Church in sympathies, attached importance to the things Puritans made light of, and though he does not insist on asceticism for all, gives in the Parson quite painful prescriptions as to the extent to which fasting should be carried at the specified days and seasons. His native sagacity and insight are well shown in the chapter of the Country Parson suggestively called 'The Parson's Eye,' in which it will be noted that he assumes Gerson, chancellor of the University of Paris, to be the author of the Imitatio Christi :

The countrey parson, at spare times from action, standing on a hill and considering his flock, discovers two sorts of vices, and two sorts of vicious persons. There are some vices whose natures are alwayes clear and evident; as adultery, murder, hatred, lying, &c. There are other vices, whose natures, at least in the beginning,

are dark and obscure; as covetousnesse and gluttony. So likewise there are some persons who abstain not even from known sins: there are others, who when they know a sin evidently, they commit it not. It is true, indeed, they are long a-knowing it, being partiall to themselves, and witty to others who shall reprove them from it. A man may be both covetous and intemperate, and yet hear sermons against both, and himselfe condemn both in good

earnest.

And the reason hereof is, because the natures of these vices being not evidently discussed or known commonly, the beginnings of them are not easily observabled; and the beginnings of them are not observed, because of the suddain passing from that which was just now lawfull, to that which is presently unlawfull, even in one continued action. So, a man dining eats at first lawfully: but proceeding on, comes to do unlawfully, even before he is aware; not knowing the bounds of the action, nor when his eating begins to be unlawfull. So a man storing up mony for his necessary provisions, both in present for his family and in future for his children, hardly perceives when his storing becomes unlawfull: yet is there a period for his storing, and a point or center when his storing, which was even now good, passeth from good to bad.—Wherefore the parson, being true to his businesse, hath exactly sifted the definitions of all vertues and vices; especially canvassing those whose natures are most stealing, and beginnings uncertain. Particularly, concerning these two vices: not because they are all that are of this dark and creeping disposition, but for example sake, and because they are most common; he thus thinks:

First, for covetousnes he lays this ground. Whosoever, when a just occasion cals, either spends not at all, or not in some proportion to God's blessing upon him, is covetous. The reason of the ground is manifest; because wealth is given to that end, to supply our occasions. Now, if I do not give every thing its end, I abuse the creature; I am false to my reason, which should guide me; I offend the supreme Judg, in perverting that order which He hath set both to things and to reason. The application of the ground would be infinite. But in brief, a poor man is an occasion; my countrey is an occasion; my friend is an occasion; my table is an occasion; my apparel is an occasion. If in all these and those more which concerne me, I either do nothing, or pinch, and scrape, and squeeze blood, indecently to the station wherein God hath placed me, I am covetous. More particularly, and to give one instance for all; If God have given me servants, and I either provide too little for them or that which is unwholsome, being sometimes baned [diseased] meat, sometimes too salt, and so not competent nourishment, I am covetous. I bring this example because men usually think that servants for their mony are as other things that they buy; even as a piece of wood which they may cut, or hack, or throw into the fire; and, so they pay them their wages, all is well.Nay to descend yet more particularly; if a man hath wherewithall to buy a spade, and yet hee chuseth rather to use his neighbour's and wear out that, he is covetous. Nevertheless, few bring covetousness thus low, or consider it so narrowly; which yet ought to be done, since there is a justice in the least things, and for the least there shall be a judgment. Countrey people are full of these petty injustices, being cunning to make use of another, and spare themselves. And scholers ought to be diligent in the observation of these, and driving of

their generall school-rules even to the smallest actions of life which while they dwell in their bookes, they wI never finde; but being seated in the countrey, and doing their duty faithfully, they will soon discover; especially if they carry their eyes ever open, and fix them on their charge, and not on their preferment.

Secondly, for gluttony, the parson lays this ground. He that either for quantity eats more than his health or imployments will bear, or for quality is licorous after dainties, is a glutton;-as he that eats more then his estate will bear, is a prodigall; and hee that eats offensively to the company, either in his order or length of eating, is scandalous and uncharitable. These three rules generally comprehend the faults of eating; and the truth of them needs no proof. So that men must eat, neither to the disturbance of their health, nor of their affairs, (which, being over-burdened or studying dainties too much, they cannot wel dispatch,) nor of their estate nor of their brethren. One act in these things is bad, bur it is the custom and habit that names a glutton. Many think they are at more liberty then they are, as if they were masters of their health; and so they will stand to the pain, all is well. But to eat to one's hurt com prehends, besides the hurt, an act against reason, because it is unnaturall to hurt oneself; and this they are not masters of. Yet of hurtfull things I am more bound to abstain from those which by my own experience I have found hurtfull, then from those which by a common tradition and vulgar knowledge are reputed to be so.— That which is said of hurtfull meats, extends to hurtfall drinks also. As for the quantity, touching our imployments, none must eat so as to disable themselves from : fit discharging either of divine duties, or duties of their calling. So that if after dinner they are not fit (or unweeldy) either to pray or work, they are gluttons Not that all must presently work after dinner. For they rather must not work, especially students, and those that are weakly. But that they must rise so as that it is not meate or drink that hinders them from working. To guide them in this there are three rules. First, the custome and knowledge of their own body, and what it can well digest. The second, the feeling of themselves in time of eating; which because it is deceitfull (for one thinks in eating that he can eat more then afterwar's he finds true). The third is the observation with what appetite they sit down. This last rule joyned with the first never fails. For knowing what one usually can digest, and feeling when I go to meat in what dispos tion I am, either hungry or not; according as I feele myself, either I take my wonted proportion or dimin sli of it. Yet phisicians bid those that would live in health, not keep an uniform diet, but to feed variously; now more, now lesse. And Gerson, a spirituall man, wisheth all to incline rather to too much, then to too little; his reason is, because diseases of exinanition are more dangerous then diseases of repletion. But the parson distinguisheth according to his double aime; either of abstinence a morall vertue, or mortification a divine. When he deals with any that is heavy and carnall, be gives him those freer rules. But when he meets with a refined and heavenly disposition, he carryes them higher, even somtimes to a forgetting of themselves; knowing there is One Who, when they forget, remembers for them. As when the people hungered and thirsted after our Saviour's doctrine, and tarryed so long at it that they would have fainted had they returned empty, He suffered

it not, but rather made food miraculously then suffered so good desires to miscarry.

Jacula Prudentum is a collection of about a thousand short sayings and proverbs from various quarters, many of them, as Herbert says, 'outlandish,' but some of them no doubt his own. Thus there are some from Burton (see page 440).

See Herbert's Works in Prose and Verse, with the Life by Izaak Walton and notes by Coleridge (1846); other editions by Nichol (1863), Grosart (1876), and Shorthouse (1882); and an excellent anonymous Life (S. P.C. K., 1893).

George Wither (1588–1667) was a voluminous author, in the midst of disasters that would have damped the spirit of any but an enthusiast. Some of his happiest strains were composed in prison; spite of stone walls and iron bars, his fancy was among the hills and plains, with shepherds hunting, or loitering with Poesy by rustling boughs and murmuring springs. There is a delightful freshness and natural vivacity in Wither's early poetry; though he became harsh, obscure, and affected when the brightness of youth passed from him. At his best he had great diversity of style and subject, and a gift of true poetical feeling and expression. Wither, born on the 11th of June 1588, at Bentworth, near Alton, in Hampshire, studied at Magdalen College, Oxford, and was entered at Lincoln's Inn. For his satire Abuses Stript and Whipt (1613) he was thrown into the Marshalsea, where he composed several of his best poems, and in particular his pastoral, The Shepheards Hunting. In the civil war Wither took the popular side, and sold his paternal estate to raise a troop of horse for the Parliament. rose to the rank of major, and in 1642 was made governor of Farnham Castle. During the struggles of that period the poet was made prisoner by the royalists and stood in danger of capital punishment, when Denham interfered for his brother-bard, alleging that as long as Wither lived he (Denham) would not be considered the worst poet in England. The joke was a good one if it saved Wither's life. He was afterwards Cromwell's major-general in Surrey, and Master of the Statute Office. From the sequestrated estates of the royalists Wither obtained a considerable fortune; but the Restoration came, and he was stripped of all his possessions. He remonstrated loudly and angrily; his remonstrances were voted libels, and for a satire on the Parliament of 1661 the unlucky poet was again thrown into prison. He was released, under bond for good behaviour, in 1663, and died in London on the 2nd of May 1667.

He

the Mistresse of Philarete (1622) displays Wither's genius in its transitional state. Certain portions of this collection of lyrics have extraordinary beauty, such as the opening lines descriptive of the poet's home in Hampshire, but the beauties are interspersed with long passages of the dullest and commonest kind, showing how rapidly Wither was losing his charm. Much of Wither's religious poetry is sweet, tender, and devout (though as he advanced in life much of it, like his version of the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, became little better than doggerel). The Hymns and Songs of the Church (1623) were set to music by Orlando Gibbons. The Psalms of David translated appeared in 1632, the Emblems Ancient and Modern in 1635. Among the two hundred and thirty hymns in Hallelujah, another collection-designed for persons and purposes as various as members of Parliament, jailers, poets, tailors, for sheep-shearings, for house-warmings-there are two or three still found in modern hymn-books, such as 'Behold the Sun that seemed but now,' 'The Lord is King and heareth.' Wither's satirical and controversial works were numerous but without merit.

Long before his death his poetry had fallen into oblivion. Pope in the Dunciad stigmatised him as 'wretched Withers '--'Withers' is a recognised spelling of the family name-and spoke of him as sleeping among the dull of ancient days, safe where no critics damn. Bishop Percy was kindlier, holding him not altogether devoid of genius.' But George Ellis, in his Specimens of Early English Poets (1790), was the first to call to mind that playful fancy, pure taste, and artless delicacy of sentiment, which distinguish the poetry of his early youth.' Sir Egerton Brydges, Southey, Hallam, and especially Charles Lamb (in the Essay of 1818) restored him to his place in the Temple of Fame. Wither's poem on Christmas affords a lively picture of the manners of the times. His Address to Poetry, the one cheering companion of his prison solitude, recounts the various charms and the divine skill' of his Muse, that had derived nourishment and delight from the 'meanest objects' of external nature-a daisy, a bush, or a tree; and, when these picturesque and beloved · scenes of the country were denied him, could gladden even the vaults and shades of a prison.

And that vapours which doe breath
From the earths grosse wombe beneath,
Seeme not to us with black steames,

To pollute the sunnes bright beames,
And yet vanish into ayre,
Leaving it unblemisht faire?

So (my Willy) shall it bee

With Detractions breath on thee.

It shall never rise so hie,

As to staine thy poesie.

As that sunne doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale;
Poesie so sometime draines
Grosse conceits from muddy braines ;
Mists of envy, fogs of spight,

Twixt mens judgements and her light:
But so much her power may do,
That shee can dissolve them to.
If thy verse doe bravely tower,

As shee makes wing, she gets power:
Yet the higher she doth sore,
Shee's affronted still the more:
Till shee to the high'st hath past,
Then she rests with fame at last,
Let nought therefore thee affright:
But make forward in thy flight:
For if I could match thy rime,
To the very starres I 'de clime.
There begin again and flye
Till I reach'd Æternity.
But (alasse) my Muse is slow:
For thy place shee flags too low:
Yea, the more 's her haplesse fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late.
And poore I, her fortune ruing,
Am my selfe put up a muing.
But if I my cage can rid,
I'le flye where I never did.
And though for her sake I'me crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more then ten times double :
I should love and keepe her to,
Spight of all the world could doe.
For though banish't from my flockes,
And confin'd within these rockes,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,

She doth for my comfort stay,
And keepes many cares away.
Though I misse the flowry fields,

With those sweets the spring-tyde yeelds,
Though I may not see those groves
Where the shepheards chant their loves,
(And the lasses more excell,
Then the sweet voyc'd Philomel,)
Though of all those pleasures past
Nothing now remaines at last

But Remembrance (poore reliefe)

That more makes then mends my griefe:

Shee's my mindes companion still,

Maugre envies evill will.

(Whence she should be driven to,

Wer't in mortals power to do.)
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;

Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former dayes of blisse,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw,

I could some invention draw:
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest objects sight.
By the murmure of a spring,
Or the least boughes rusteling;
By a dazie whose leaves spred,
Shut when Tytan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in mee
Then all Natures beauties can

In some other wiser man.
By her helpe I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Some things that may sweeten gladnes,

In the very gall of sadnes.

The dull loannesse, the blacke shade,

That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange musicke of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This blacke den which rocks embosse
Over-growne with eldest mosse;
The rude portals that give light,
More to Terror then Delight;
This my chamber of Neglect,
Wall'd about with Disrespect;——
From all these and this dull ayre,

A fit object for Despaire,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore thou best earthly blisse,
I will cherish thee for this,
Poesie; thou sweet'st content
That e're heav'n to mortals lent :
Though they as a trifle leave thee
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorne,

That to nought but earth are borne:

Let my life no longer be