George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. My tender age in sorrow did beginne And still with sicknesses and shame. Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine, And feel thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Throw away thy rod, Throw away thy wrath: O my God, Take the gentle path. For my heart’s desire Unto thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And thy book alone. Though I fail, I weep: Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed: For with love Stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot; Love’s a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can ’scape his bow? That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God: Throw away thy wrath.

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 anywhere,” 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 rhyme.

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing, Nothing but bones, The sad effect of sadder groans: Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing. For we considered thee as at some six Or ten years hence, After the loss of life and sense, Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks. We looked on this side of thee, shooting short; Where we did find The shells of fledge souls left behind, Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort. But since our Savior’s death did put some blood Into thy face, Thou art grown fair and full of grace, Much in request, much sought for as a good. For we do now behold thee gay and glad, As at Doomsday; When souls shall wear their new array, And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad. Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust Half that we have Unto an honest faithful grave; Making our pillows either down, or dust.

I struck the board, and cried, "No more; I will abroad! What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free, free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands, Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load." But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling,Child! And I replied My Lord.

While that my soul repairs to her devotion, Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes May take acquaintance of this heap of dust; To which the blast of death's incessant motion, Fed with the exhalation of our crimes, Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust My body to this school, that it may learn To spell his elements, and find his birth Written in dusty heraldry and lines ; Which dissolution sure doth best discern, Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth. These laugh at jet, and marble put for signs, To sever the good fellowship of dust, And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them, When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust? Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat, And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know, That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust That measures all our time; which also shall Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below, How tame these ashes are, how free from lust, That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

I joy, dear mother, when I view Thy perfect lineaments, and hue Both sweet and bright. Beauty in thee takes up her place, And dates her letters from thy face, When she doth write. A fine aspect in fit array, Neither too mean nor yet too gay, Shows who is best. Outlandish looks may not compare, For all they either painted are, Or else undress'd. She on the hills which wantonly Allureth all, in hope to be By her preferr'd, Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines, That ev'n her face by kissing shines, For her reward. She in the valley is so shy Of dressing, that her hair doth lie About her ears; While she avoids her neighbour's pride, She wholly goes on th' other side, And nothing wears. But, dearest mother, what those miss, The mean, thy praise and glory is And long may be. Blessed be God, whose love it was To double-moat thee with his grace, And none but thee.

As I one evening sat before my cell, Methought 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, Expel 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 I am (I must say still) Much more obliged 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.”

A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears, Made of a heart and cemented with tears; Whose parts are as thy hand did frame; No workman's tool hath touch'd the same. A HEART alone Is such a stone, As nothing but Thy pow'r doth cut. Wherefore each part Of my hard heart Meets in this frame To praise thy name. That if I chance to hold my peace, These stones to praise thee may not cease. Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine, And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.

When first thou didst entice to thee my heart, I thought the service brave; So many joys I writ down for my part, Besides what I might have Out of my stock of natural delights, Augmented with thy gracious benefits. I looked on thy furniture so fine, And made it fine to me; Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine, And 'tice me unto thee. Such stars I counted mine: both heav'n and earth; Paid me my wages in a world of mirth. What pleasures could I want, whose King I serv'd, Where joys my fellows were? Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserv'd No place for grief or fear. Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face. At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses; I had my wish and way; My days were straw'd with flow'rs and happiness; There was no month but May. But with my years sorrow did twist and grow, And made a party unawares for woe. My flesh began unto my soul in pain, "Sicknesses cleave my bones; Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein, And tune my breath to groans." Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believ'd, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I liv'd. When I got health, thou took'st away my life, And more, for my friends die; My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife Was of more use than I. Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend, I was blown through with ev'ry storm and wind. Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a ling'ring book, And wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in the world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life. Yet, for I threaten'd oft the siege to raise, Not simp'ring all mine age, Thou often didst with academic praise Melt and dissolve my rage. I took thy sweet'ned pill, till I came where I could not go away, nor persevere. Yet lest perchance I should too happy be In my unhappiness, Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me Into more sicknesses. Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking. Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me None of my books will show; I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree, For sure then I should grow To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust Her household to me, and I should be just. Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek; In weakness must be stout; Well, I will change the service, and go seek Some other master out. Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.