George Herbert

George Herbert

1593–1633 · lived 39 years GB GB

George Herbert was a Welsh-born metaphysical poet, priest, and rhetorician. His poetry, characterized by its intricate structure, devotional intensity, and witty exploration of faith, is highly regarded within English literature. Herbert's work often reflects his personal spiritual journey and his role as a clergyman, offering profound insights into the relationship between the divine and the human.

n. 1593-04-03, Montgomery · m. 1633-03-01, Bemerton

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Virtue

Virtue


Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright
The bridal of the earth and sky:
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,
For thou must die.


Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eyes:
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.
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Bio

Identification and basic context

George Herbert was a Welsh poet, rhetorician, and Anglican priest. He is best known for his religious poetry, which was published posthumously. His work is considered a significant part of the metaphysical poetry tradition. He wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Born into a prominent and wealthy family in Montgomeryshire, Wales, George Herbert received an excellent education. He attended Westminster School in London and later studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he earned degrees in Greek and Hebrew. At Cambridge, he developed a reputation for his intellectual prowess and poetic talent, becoming a Fellow of the college.

Literary trajectory

While Herbert composed poetry throughout his life, much of it was not published until after his death. His earliest poems showed promise, but his later devotional works reflect a deep engagement with his faith and his priestly duties. His close friend, Nicholas Ferrar, was instrumental in collecting and publishing Herbert's poems.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Hermet's major work is "The Temple, Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations," published in 1633. This collection explores the relationship between God and the soul through a wide range of poetic forms and ingenious metaphors. His style is characterized by its "wit" – in the Renaissance sense of intellectual ingenuity and cleverness – alongside profound emotional sincerity. He frequently uses "shape poems" or "carpentered poems," where the typography of the poem visually represents its subject matter (e.g., a poem about an altar shaped like an altar). Themes include the struggles of faith, the beauty of divine love, the nature of prayer, and the redemption of the soul.

Cultural and historical context

Herbert lived during a period of significant religious and political upheaval in England, the early 17th century. As a priest in the Church of England, his work engaged with the theological debates and spiritual concerns of his time. He was part of the broader metaphysical poets movement, alongside contemporaries like John Donne and Andrew Marvell, though his focus was primarily devotional.

Personal life

Hermet was born into a noble family and had connections to the English court. However, he eventually renounced worldly ambitions to pursue a life of religious service. He was ordained as a priest in the Church of England and served as rector of Bemerton, Wiltshire, for the last three years of his life. His personal spirituality and dedication to his pastoral duties are central to his poetry.

Recognition and reception

Hermet's poetry gained considerable popularity shortly after its publication and has remained influential ever since. His work is admired for its technical skill, its spiritual depth, and its unique blend of intellectualism and heartfelt devotion. He is considered one of the foremost English devotional poets.

Influences and legacy

Hermet was influenced by classical literature and the Bible. His own influence on subsequent religious poetry is profound. Poets like John Keats and Samuel Taylor Coleridge admired his work. His legacy endures through "The Temple," which continues to be read and studied for its spiritual insights and poetic artistry.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Critical analysis of Herbert's work often focuses on his use of religious imagery, his exploration of spiritual conflict and resolution, and his innovative poetic forms. His poems are seen as profound meditations on faith, doubt, and the divine.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Herbert was known for his musicality and was skilled in playing the lute and viol. His decision to pursue a humble clerical life over a potentially more prestigious courtly career is often highlighted as a testament to his spiritual convictions.

Death and memory

George Herbert died of consumption (tuberculosis) in 1633 at the age of 39. His memory is preserved through his enduring poetic works, particularly "The Temple."

Poems

43

Prayer

Prayer


Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age,
Gods breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgramage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;
Engine against th'Almightie, sinners towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six-daies world-transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear;
Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the starres heard, the souls bloud,
The land of spices; something understood.
249

Peace

Peace


Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask'd, if Peace were there,
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.


I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace's coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I looked the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.


Then went I to a garden and did spy
A gallant flower,
The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.


At length I met a rev'rend good old man;
Whom when for Peace


I did demand, he thus began:
There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.


He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
Which many wond'ring at, got some of those
To plant and set.


It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:
For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtue lies therein;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.


Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;
Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which ev'ry where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.
273

Mortification

Mortification


How soon doth man decay!
When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets
To swaddle infants, whose young breath
Scarce knows the way;
Those clouts are little winding-sheets,
Which do consign and send them unto Death.


When boyes go first to bed,
They step into their voluntarie graves;
Sleep binds them fast; onely their breath
Makes them not dead:
Successive nights, like rolling waves,
Convey them quickly who are bound for Death.


When Youth is frank and free,
And calls for musick, while his veins do swell,
All day exchanging mirth and breath
In companie,
That musick summons to the knell
Which shall befriend him at the house of Death.


When man grows staid and wise,
Getting a house and home, where he may move
Within the circle of his breath,
Schooling his eyes,
That dumbe inclosure maketh love
Unto the coffin, that attends his death.


When Age grows low and weak,
Marking his grave, and thawing ev'ry year,
Till all do melt and drown his breath
When he would speak,
A chair or litter shows the biere
Which shall convey him to the house of Death.


Man, ere he is aware,
Hath put together a solemnitie,
And drest his hearse, while he has breath
As yet to spare;
Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,
That all these dyings may be LIFE in DEATH.
275

Man's Medley

Man's Medley

Hark, how the birds do sing,
and woods do ring.
All creatures have their joy: and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter, than in present, is.


To this life things of sense
Make their pretense:
In th'other Angels have a right by birth:
Man ties them both alone,
And makes them one,
With th'one hand touching heav'n, with th'other earth.


In soul he mounts and flies,
In flesh he dies.
He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,
But trimm'd with curious lace
And should take place
After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.


Not that he may not here
Taste of the cheer,
But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,
So must he sip and think
Of better drink
He may attain to, after he is dead.


But as his joys are double,
So is his trouble.
He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip,
And bite his lip;
And he of all things fears two deaths alone.


Yet ev'n the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,
Could he but take them right, and in their ways.
Happy is he, whose heart
Hath found the art
To turn his double pains to double praise.
247

Love (III)

Love (III)

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack,
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack'd anything.


A guest, I answer'd, 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 marr'd 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 tast me meat:
So I did sit and eat.
327

Life

Life


I made a posie, while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.
But time did becken to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away
And wither'd in my hand.


My hand was next to them, and then my heart:
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Times gentle admonition:
Who did so sweetly deaths sad taste convey
Making my minde to smell my fatall day;
Yet sugring the suspicion.


Farewell deare flowers, sweetly your time ye spent,
Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since if my sent be good, I care not, if
It be as short as yours.
287

Love (I)

Love (I)

Immortal love, authour of this great frame,
Sprung from that beautie which can never fade;
How hath man parcel’d out thy glorious name,
And thrown it on that dust which thou hast made,


While mortall love doth all the title gain!
Which siding with invention, they together
Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain,
(Thy workmanship) and give thee share in neither.


Wit fancies beautie, beautie raiseth wit:
The world is theirs; they two play out the game,
Thou standing by: and though thy glorious name
Wrought our deliverance from th’ infernall pit,


Who sings thy praise? onely a skarf or glove
Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.
271

Jordan

Jordan


Who says that fictions only and false hair
Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?
Is all good structure in a winding stair?
May no lines pass, except they do their duty
Not to a true, but painted chair?


Is it no verse, except enchanted groves
And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?
Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves?
Must all be veiled, while he that reads divines,
Catching the sense at two removes?


Shepherds are honest people: let them sing:
Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime:
I envy no man's nightingale or spring;
Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme,
Who plainly say, My God, My King.
212

Joseph's Coat

Joseph's Coat

Wounded I sing, tormented I indite,
Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest:
Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will
Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best.
For well he knows, if but one grief and smart
Among my many had his full career,
Sure it would carry with it ev'n my heart,
And both would run until they found a bier
To fetch the body; both being due to grief.
But he hath spoil'd the race; and giv'n to anguish
One of Joy's coats, 'ticing it with relief
To linger in me, and together languish.
I live to shew his power, who once did bring
My joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.
241

Grace

Grace


My stock lies dead and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve:
O let thy graces without cease
Drop from above!


If still the sun 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 grass 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.


Sin is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardness, void of love:
Let suppling grace, to cross 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.'
259

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