Selected Works - George Herbert

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      Nipt in the bud;

      The sweetnesse and the praise were thine;

      But the extension and the room,

      Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine

      At thy great doom.

      For as thou dost impart thy grace,

      The greater shall our glorie be.

      The measure of our joyes is in this place,

      The stuffe with thee.

      Let me not languish then, and spend

      A life as barren to thy praise

      As is the dust, to which that life doth tend,

      But with delaies.

      All things are busie; only I

      Neither bring hony with the bees,

      Nor flowres to make that, nor the husbandrie

      To water these.

      I am no link of thy great chain,

      But all my companie is a weed.

      Lord, place me in thy consort; give one strain

      To my poore reed.

      29. THE HOLY SCRIPTURES.

      OH Book! infinite sweetnesse! let my heart

      Suck ev’ry letter, and a hony gain,

      Precious for any grief in any part;

      To cleare the breast, to mollifie all pain.

      Thou art all health, health thriving, till it make

      A full eternitie: thou art a masse

      Of strange delights, where we may wish and take.

      Ladies, look here; this is the thankful! glasse,

      That mends the looker’s eyes: this is the well

      That washes what it shows. Who can indeare

      Thy praise too much? thou art Heav’n’s lidger here,

      Working against the states of death and hell.

      Thou art joyes handsell: heav’n lies flat in thee,

      Subject to ev’ry mounters bended knee.

      2.

      Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,

      And the configurations of their glorie!

      Seeing not only how each verse doth shine,

      But all the constellations of the storie.

      This verse marks that, and both do make a motion

      Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:

      Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,

      These three make up some Christian’s destinie.

      Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,

      And comments on thee: for in ev’ry thing

      Thy words do finde me out, and parallels bring,

      And in another make me understood.

      Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse;

      This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.

      30. WHITSUNDAY.

      LISTEN, sweet Dove, unto my song,

      And spread thy golden wings in me;

      Hatching my tender heart so long,

      Till it get wing, and file away with thee.

      Where is that fire which once descended

      On thy Apostles? thou didst then

      Keep open house, richly attended,

      Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.

      Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,

      That th’ earth did like a heav’n appeare:

      The starres were coming down to know

      If they might mend their wages, and serve here.

      The sunne, which once did shine alone,

      Hung down his head, and wisht for night,

      When he beheld twelve sunnes for one

      Going about the world, and giving light.

      But since those pipes of gold, which brought

      That cordiall water to our ground,

      Were cut and martyr’d by the fault

      Of those who did themselves through their side wound.

      Thou shutt’st the doore, and keep’st within;

      Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:

      And if the braves of conqu’ring sinne

      Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.

      Lord, though we change, thou art the same;

      The same sweet God of love and light:

      Restore this day, for thy great name,

      Unto his ancient and miraculous right.

      31. GRACE.

      MY stock lies dead, and no increase

      Doth my dull husbandrie improve:

      O let thy graces without cease

      Drop from above I

      If still the sunne should hide his face,

      Thy house would but a dungeon prove,

      Thy works night’s captives; O let grace

      Drop from above!

      The dew doth ev’ry morning fall;

      And shall the dew outstrip thy dove?

      The dew, for which grasse cannot call,

      Drop from above.

      Death is still working like a mole,

      And digs my grave at each remove:

      Let grace work too, and on my soul

      Drop from above.

      Sinne is still hammering my heart

      Unto a hardnesse, void of love:

      Let suppling grace, to crosse his art,

      Drop from above.

      O come! for thou dost know the way.

      Or if to me thou wilt not move,

      Remove me, where I need not say—

      Drop from above.

      32. PRAISE.

      TO write a verse or two is all the praise,

      That I can raise;

      Mend my estate in any wayes,

      Thou shalt have more.

      I go to Church; help me to wings, and I

      Will thither flie;

      Or, if I mount unto the skie,

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