EDWARD, LORD HERBERT OF

CHERBURY.

(1581-1648.)

LOVE'S ETERNITY.

Portions of An Ode, upon a Question moved whether Love should Continue for Ever, published among his Occasional Verses, 1665. His Poems have been edited by Mr. Churton Collins (London, 1881).

0

NO, Beloved: I am most sure
These virtuous habits we acquire,

As being with the soul entire,

Must with it evermore endure.

Else should our souls in vain elect,
And vainer yet were Heaven's laws,
When to an everlasting cause

They gave a perishing effect.

These eyes again thine eyes shall see,

And hands again these hands enfold,
And all chaste pleasures can be told
Shall with us everlasting be.

For if no use of sense remain,

When bodies once this life forsake
Or they could no delight partake,

Why should they ever rise again?

An if every imperfect mind

Make love the end of knowledge here,
How perfect will our love be, where

All imperfection is refined!

So when from hence we shall be gone,
And be no more, nor you, nor I,

As one another's mystery,

Each shall be both, yet both but one.

GEORGE HERBERT.

(1593-1633-)

VIRTUE.

From The Temple, Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, 1633Dr. Grosart's edition of the Complete Works of Herbert in the Fuller Worthies Library, 3 vols., 1874, is the standard modern edition.

I

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright!

The bridal of the earth and sky,—

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night:
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.

THE COLLAR.

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".

LOVE.

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here":
Love said, "You shall be he".

"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee!"

Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love, "Who bore the blame?” "My dear, then I will serve."

"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

(1592-1644.)

"PHOSPHOR, BRING THE DAY."

From the Emblems, Divine and Moral, 1635. Quarles's Works, edited by Dr. Grosart, are in the Chertsey Worthies Library (3 vols., 1880).

WILLT ne'er be morning? Will that promised light

Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day,

Whose conquering ray

May chase these fogs: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

How long, how long shall these benighted eyes
Languish in shades, like feeble flies
Expecting spring? How long shall darkness soil
The face of earth, and thus beguile
Our souls of sprightful action? When, when will day
Begin to dawn, whose new-born ray
May gild the weathercocks of our devotion,
And give our unsouled souls new motion?
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day:
The light will fray

These horrid mists: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Let those whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light--
Let those have night that love the night:
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

How sad delay

Afflicts dull hopes! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Alas! my light-in-vain-expecting eyes

Can find no objects but what rise From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark

Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark,—

A dangerous, dull, blue-burning light,

As melancholy as the night:

Here's all the suns that glister in the sphere
Of earth: Ah me! what comfort's here!
Sweet Phosphor, bring the day.
Haste, haste away

Heaven's loitering lamp: sweet Phosphor, bring the day.

Blow, Ignorance. O thou, whose idle knee

Rocks earth into a lethargy,

And with thy sooty fingers hast benight

The world's fair cheeks, blow, blow thy spite;

Since thou hast puffed our greater taper, do

Puff on, and out the lesser too.