ROBERT HERRICK 1591-1674 A CLERIC, as were Donne, and Herbert, and Crashaw; and how joyously unlike! Nothing in him, except the poet, of the strong-willed, philosophical, remorseful, Dean to be, sensual courtier-soldier that was; of the earnest, high-bred priest of Bemerton; of the unworldly enthusiast of Cambridge. Just the cheerful, kindly, easy-going, scholarly parson, of the character pervading English literature and life, from the days of Chaucer--though hardly after his idealto those of Dorsetshire Barnes. At times the type may have been submerged by the passion, the emotions, of Hoopers and Lauds, Baxters, Wesleys, Newtons, Simeons, Newmans; but it has always rested safe from the theological billows above in the reposeful deeps. No hermit was our Robin Herrick, either before, or after, Orders. Pupil and correspondent of rare Ben Jonson, he remembered, with more practical appreciation doubtless than Vaughan, the lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun; A scholar of 'my beloved Westminster ', a free-born Roman', that is, of 'the golden Cheapside', he ever rejoiced to fly back, whether in fact or fancy, to London, his 'home' always, and blest place of my nativity.2 Nevertheless, he was a countryman by instinct. His affection for all country pursuits, traditions, and superstitions, was extraordinarily keen. He had, too, country blood in him, with the resulting right to shelter in good old manor houses from the tempests of theology and politics. To his rural associations, together with his genial heart, and a muse as genial-incapable, each, of sourness from persecution-we owe sketches of an English Arcadia as bright, fresh, and real, as Chaucer himself could have drawn. A merry England indeed this of Herrick's! In it King Oberon and Queen Titania still held their Court. Luxurious their feastings, 'less great than nice', on the pith of sugared rush, mandrake's ears, and The broke heart of a nightingale with, to quench royal thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, And if Oberon has his junketings, why not Corydon his ? fresh and green as Flora, will consent to attend him to the Wake, to 'feast, as others do', on Tarts and custards, creams and cakes; or to the garlanded May-pole, ere All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night.5 Never was there a more companionable poet. Whatever the apparent theme, it is sure speedily to resolve itself into the question : Where may I find my shepherdess ? 6 Seemingly it is easily answered; so ubiquitous is She; so eager is the wooer ; so well disposed, like Suckling's and like Sheridan's, to discover fascination in the most diverse feminine types. Cupid's pretty cheating wiles 7 scarcely were needed to entrap him. We see the favourite of the hour hiding within every garden. Nature instructs its ministers to be on the watch to guide her to the evening tryst : Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire befriend thee. Corydon, or Robin, waxes rapturous over the fair one's dress, the thread about the wrist, the ribbon round the waist, the sheen, the undulations, of the silken frock; the studied negligence of her attire : A sweet disorder in the dress Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.10 Or the object of his worship may be yet more personal : Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say: But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia. Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where : To part her lips, and show'd them there It may be that a ringlet of her hair Caught my poor soul, as in a snare ; 12 or that her lips-the same that had erewhile pardonably beguiled a honey-bee to an intoxicating, and misunderstood, sip 13-were taken by him to the fruit market : Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Or the witchery is in a voice which strikes mute, 15 or in pretty feet, which Like snails did creep A little out, and then, As if they played at Bo-peep, Only-lovers and beloved, all, are warned : Gather ye rose-buds, while ye may: By nature Herrick was an Aeolian Harp. I am tempted, on reading his masterpieces, to believe that, according as the wind of circumstance had played thus or thus on his fancy, he might have written L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, A Midsummer Night's Dream, a Romeo and Juliet, a Faithful Shepherdess. Nothing could have come strange to him. Question his pathos; and he replies with an appeal to his brother suddenly reported to be dying : Life of my life, take not so soon thy flight, But stay the time till we have bade good night, Till we have wept, kiss'd, sigh'd, shook hands, or so. We feel an unlimited reserve of power in all directions, though by preference he sang of love, sometimes metaphysically, as in the delightful dialectics of The Kiss; 19 oftener jocundly, and with what he admits to be sometimes 'wantonness '-' cleanly', as benevolently he qualifies it.20 Not always is love, however, itself mirthful : The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.21 Still less is life in general. He was cursed, or blessed, not only with an affectionate heart, but with a tender conscience. His Muse was prone to dwell with grave alarm on thoughts of his own end, and the slenderness of his preparation for meeting it. Death was one thing for an innocent child : Here a pretty baby lies It wore a forbidding aspect to the world-worn poet in the |