TEMPLE

Sacred Poems,

AND PRIVATE

EJACULATIONS.

By Mr. George Herbert,

Late ORATOR of the University of CAMBRIDGE.

Together with His LIFE.

PSA L. xxix.

In his Temple doth every Man fpeak of his Honour•

The Thirteenth Edition Corrected, with the Addition of an Alphabetical Table.

LONDON:

Printed for John Wyat at the Rofe in St. Paul's Church-Yard, and Eben. Tracy at the Three Bibles on London-Bridge. 1709.

A

MEMORIAL

To the Honourable

GEORGE HERBERT,

Author of the

Sacred POEMS,

Who died about Anno 1635.

R

Ead o'er thefe Raptures with a curious
Eye,

You must conclude this Eagle foared high:
Montgomery Caftle was the Place where he
Had his first Breathing and Nativity.
Of that moft Noble Houfe this Hero came,
Who left the World this Legacy of Fame.
Great Saint, unto thy Memory and Shrine
I owe all Veneration, fave Divine,
For thy rare Poenis, Piety and Pen
Speak thee no lefs than Miracle of Men.
The Graces all, both Moral and Divine,
In thee concenter, and with thee combine:
Thefe Sacred Leffons, fet to thy fweet Lute,
Was Mufick that would make Apollo mute:
Nay, all thofe warbling Chanters of the Spring
Would fit half tame, to hear Arion sing.
What Province hath produc'd a greater Soul
Between the Artique and Antartique Pole,

A 3

Than

1

Than Wales hath done? where HERBERT's Church fhall be

A lafling Pyramid for him and thee.

What Father of a Church can you rehearse,

That gain'd more Souls to God, 'twixt Profe and
Verfe?

What Orator had more Magnetick Strains,
What Poet fuch a Fancy, Pen or Brains,
In our great Hierarchy? Shew me the Man,
That fang more fadly than this dying Swan,
This Bird of Paradife, this Gloeworm bright,
This Philomel, this Glory of the Night.
Seeing the Deluge rage, the Clouds ftill dark,
Reftlefs below, return'd up to the Ark,
This facred Dove, before he fcal'd the Skies,
Rarely fet forth, the World's great Sacrifice;
A melting POEM, all the reft so high,
That the dull World may learn to live and die.
Never did Pen humane, or earing Brain,
Exprefs or vent fuch a Seraphick Strain.
You that are Poets born, contend and strive,
In fpite of Death, dead HER BERT to revive,
Bring Wreaths of Larick, an immortal Tree,
To Salem's facred Hill, for Obfequy.
Parnaflus Mount was never f Divine,
To turn the Mufes Water into Wine.

The Delphian Poet went from thence to Rome,
And there was entertain'd as Major Dome;
And though the Bishop, and his Clerks do boaft,
That old falfe Prophet there doth rule the Roaft.
A lafting Spring of Blood fprings near that Hill,
There he did bath; there you your Vials fill.
Twill melt your Hearts, to view those Desolations:
Yet from that Spring flows highest Inspirations.
Therein your Annals fuch Encomiums bring
To his Memorial, 25 the Doves in Spring.

Such

Such Moan as Egypt's Vice-Roy once did make
At Abel-Mizraim for his Father's fake.

Make your fhrill Trumpets; from that thorny Hill,
Benhinnon's Vallies with Amazement fill.

To the Sepulchre go, there Sacrifice

The Diftillations of your Hearts and Eyes.
When you depart, fall down and kifs that Land,
Where once his Mafter's facred Feet did ftand.
No Art or Engine can you fafely trust

To polifh him, but his own facred Duft.
Nor can you paint or pencil him too high,
That liv'd and dy'd without an Enemy;
That left behind him this admired Tomb,
But no Elifba in Eliah's room.

An Epitaph upon the Honourable

GEORGE HERBERT.

You

OU weeping Marbles, Monuments we trust,
As well with the Injurious as the Juft.
When your great Truft at laft fhall be refign'd,
And when his noble Duft fhall be refin'd:

You fhall more Gold, Myrrh, Frankincense return,
Than fhall be found in great Auguftus Urn.

He was the Wonder of a better Age,
Th' Eclipfe of this, of empty Heads the Rage.
Phænix of Wales, of his great Name the Glory,
A Theme above all Verfe, beyond all Story.
A Plant of Paradife; which, in a word,
Worms ne'r fhall wither, as they did the Gourd.