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in which our poet flourished. The great merit of these songs, most undoubtedly, consists mainly in the pious ardor and genuine devotional feeling that characterize them. The reader is attracted at once by the deep tone of earnest piety they manifest. There seems to be a constant effort in the poet's mind to give utterance to his devotional feelings in words of earnestness and power ; such words as shall not dishonor the high and noble theme he had chosen for his subject. It can readily be discovered that they give utterance to the language of his heart, and that the influence of that heart's holiest affections was the happiest inspiration of his verse. If there is any truth in those sweet lines of Cowper:

"The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart:
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blazed by art;' then good George Herbert has made sure his claim to remembrance, and left behind him something which posterity will not willingly let die.

Wherever deep and holy love for sacred things is esteemed, there the verses of George Herbert will find many ardent admirers. They are the pure and free-will offerings of a heart consecrated to pious uses, and attuned to sacred harmonies; the soft breathings of a devotional spirit, that seem too pure for earth.

When he sings of the church where he so loved to worship, it is with all the earnest enthusiasm, if not with the inspiration, of that poble song of Solomon's, commencing,

'Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair. Thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks; thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely. Thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks. Thou art all fair, my love, there is no spot within thee.'

And Herbert loved the church because it was the fold where he could gather the flock that had been given him to tend. The church on earth was to him an emblem of the spiritual church .eternal in the heavens.' His gentle spirit seems radiant with love whenever he sings of its quiet retreats, and the rich solemnities of its glorious worship.

The poems styled 'The Temple' are preceded by a long 'poem as a preface, called “The Church Porch, where he would have the reader linger before entering the sanctuary. Here the poet takes occasion to give sage counsel and most excellent advice, the better to fit the mind for the contemplation of the sacredness of the sanctuary beyond. He would purify the spirit from the dross of earthly vices; he would have it purged of the contaminations of earth, before entering the temple where the Divine Presence loved to dwell.

And no one can read the advice embodied in this introductory poem, but must rise from the perusal with the conviction that it contains a most admirable code of morality, enforced by the wisest precepts. Independent of its religious tone, it may be said to contain the choicest principles, enforced by illustrations that carry conviction to the mind at once. In the rude measure of the time, it holds up virtue in all its beauty to our approbation, and lays bare the hideousness of vice.

Is lust within, polluting, corrupting, and withering the soul, his warning is:

* BEWARE of lust! it doth pollute the soul

Whom God in baptism washed with His own blood:
It blots the lesson written in thy soul;

The holy words cannot be understood.
How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,

Much less toward GOD, whose lust is all their book?'
Profanity he rebukes in lines like these :

*Take not His name who made thy mouth, in vain;

It gets thee nothing, and has no excuse.
Lust and wine plead a pleasure; avarice, gain;

But the cheap swearer, through his open sluice,

Lets his soul run to naught.' Remembering in whose sight'lying lips are an abomination, and the sacredness of whose sanctuary is polluted by falsehood, he breaks forth with indignant tone :

"Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,

Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.
Cowards tell lies, and those who fear the rod;

The stormy working soul spits lies and froth.
Dare to be true; nothing can need a lie:

A fault which needs it most grows two thereby.' Extravagance, the fruitful mother of debt, penury, and want, which bas desolated as many homes, withered as many hearts, and destroyed as many lives as the sword, he thus rebukes :

NEVER exceed thy income: youth may make

Even with the year; but age, if it will hit,
Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stake

As the day lessens, and his life with it.
Thy children, kindred, friends, upon thee call,

Before thy journey fairly part with all.' The dangers that wait on suretyship, and the madness of yielding to its pressing importunities, are thus boldly delineated :

* Yet be not surety. If thou be a father,

Love is a personal debt. I cannot give
My children's right, nor ought he take it; rather

Both friends should die, than hinder them to live.
Fathers first enter bonds to nature's ends,

And are her sureties ere they are friends'.' The spirit in which we should enter the ballowed courts of the sanctuary is set forth thus :

*WHEN once thy foot enters the church, believe
God is more there than thou; for thou art there
Only by His permission. Then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne'er spoiled silk stockings --- quit thy state:
All equal are within the church's gate.'

Space will not permit us to make farther extracts from the Porch. Enough has been given to show its tone and character. The poems called “The Temple, thus introduced, are a series of devotional songs upon sacred subjects, overflowing with ardent feeling, and manifesting the existence of a piety as fervent as it is rare. In his verses on Prayer, we have an apt illustration of our author's style and devotional ardor:

"Prayer, the church's banquet, angels' age,

God's breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

The Christian's plummet, sounding heaven and earth.' The quiet stillness of the Sabbath morn, and the blessings that accompany it, invoke such lines as these:

'O DAY most calm, most bright!

The fruit of this, the next world's bud;
The endorsement of supreme delight,

Writ by a Friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay;

The week were dark, but for thy light;
Thy torch doth show the way.
'Sundays the pillars are

On which heaven's palace arched lies;
The other days fill up the spare

And hollow rooms with vanities:
They are the fruitful beds and borders

In God's rich garden: that is base
Which parts their ranks and orders.
*The Sundays of man's life,

Threaded together on tinie's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife

Of the eternal, glorious King.
On Sundays, heaven's door stands ope;

Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.' In his verses styled the 'Odor,' we have an exemplification of the poet's love for his Divine MASTER, expressed with that fervency which betokens the sincerity of his adoration :

“How sweetly doth My MASTER sound — My Master!
As ambergris leaves a rich scent

Unto the taster,
So do these words a sweet content,

An oriental fragrance – My Master!' The little poem entitled “Jesu,' although it has neither the merit of smoothness nor any poetical beauty, is strongly illustrative of the purely saint-like piety of the author. Dr. Sanderson was enraptured with this little production, and used to style it a gem of rare conceit.' We see nothing in it to warrant the praise. It certainly has no other merit than the fervor it manifests, and the conceit embodied in it is rude and farfetched:


"Jesu is in my heart; His sacred name

Is deeply carved there: but the other week
A great affliction broke the little frame

Even all to pieces, which I went to seek;
And first I found the corner, where was ‘I;'

After where, “es,' and next where 'u' was graved.
When I had got these parcels, instantly

I set me down to spell them, and perceived
That to my broken heart he was I ease you,'

And to my whole is ‘Jesu.” Space will not permit us to make farther extracts. Those that we have given illustrate the pious ardor of the subject of our sketch, while at the same time they give evidence of some claim to take position with the minor poets of his day. His prose compositions undoubtedly possess

noore merit than his poetical, and clearly entitle him to rank with the best of his contemporaries. The beautiful simplicity of the character of our poet has never been surpassed in any age. His disposition was of a most sweet and engaging nature, adorned with all the graces of a most saint-like piety. He lived like a saint,' says his enthusiastic biographer, old Walton, and like a saint did he die.' The Sunday before his death, raising himself from his bed, he called for his instrument, and, having tuped it, played and sang that verse from his poems, commencing:

"THE Sundays of man's life,

Threaded together on time's string.' Like the dying swan :

"As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,

His sweetest song is the last he sings.' Burlington, N. J., June 27.


GEM-ENCRUSTED gleams the forest,

With ice-diamonds laden low,
And beneath the traveller's foot-step

Crisp is crushed the frozen snow;
Springing from the elm's dark columns,

Netted o'er the wintry way,
Hangs a lace of fairy frost-work,

Fretted o'er with frozen spray.

Dancing leaps the flickering flame-light

Fitful measures on the hearth;
Fervid glows its fiery centre,

Crackling with a quiet mirth;
Gloomy at the pleasant fire-side,

Haunted by corroding care,
Stand I, bidding back the phantoms

Which come, pointing to despair.

Right before me sits a maiden

With a sweet and earnest face,
In whose eyes' dark depths are written,

Bright revealings that I trace;
For their purity with reverence,

For their genius-birth with pride,
For their tenderness with fondness,

Gazing — worshipping - I sighed.

Slight her fairy form, and perfect

In its rich and classic mould,
As the Grecian statuary

Won to life from marble cold.
"Oh!' I murmured, could I move her,

Fill her heart with love's soft glow,
Sculptor! thou wouldst fall below me

She is colder than the snow.

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