Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 45

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669

279. A Renunciation

WE, that did nothing study but the way To love each other, with which thoughts the day Rose with delight to us and with them set, Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.

We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must, As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.

Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make, Witness the chaste desires that never brake Into unruly heats; witness that breast Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest-- 'Tis no default in us: I dare acquite Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy Us to each other, and Heaven did untie Faster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars, When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!

Since then some higher Destinies command, Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand What is past help. The longest date of grief Can never yield a hope of our relief: Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves, That must new fortunes try, like turtle-doves Dislodged from their haunts. We must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many years.

In this last kiss I here surrender thee Back to thyself.--So, thou again art free: Thou in another, sad as that, resend The truest heart that lover e'er did lend.

Now turn from each: so fare our sever'd hearts As the divorced soul from her body parts.

Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669

280. Exequy on his Wife

ACCEPT, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy herse Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see Quite melted into tears for thee.

Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee! Thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Tho' almost blind. For thee, loved clay, I languish out, not live, the day....

Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (tho' overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide past): And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion, Like a fled star, is fall'n and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is....

I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime; Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then, And all that s.p.a.ce my mirth adjourn-- So thou wouldst promise to return, And putting off thy ashy shroud At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.

But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world--like thine, My little world! That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight.

Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best.

Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, As thou wilt answer Him that lent-- Not gave--thee my dear monument.

So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.

Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted!

My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Stay for me there: I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale.

And think not much of my delay: I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed.

Each minute is a short degree And every hour a step towards thee....

'Tis true--with shame and grief I yield-- Thou, like the van, first took'st the field; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave.

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And slow howe'er my marches be I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear--forgive The crime--I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part.

George Herbert. 1593-1632

281. Virtue

SWEET 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 season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert. 1593-1632

282. Easter

I GOT me flowers to straw Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree; But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee.

Yet though my flowers be lost, they say A heart can never come too late; Teach it to sing Thy praise this day, And then this day my life shall date.

George Herbert. 1593-1632

283. Discipline

THROW away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; O my G.o.d, Take the gentle path!

For my heart's desire Unto Thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent.

Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And Thy Book alone.

Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace.

Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed; For with love Stony hearts will bleed.

Love is swift of foot; Love 's a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far.

Who can 'scape his bow?

That which wrought on Thee, Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me.

Throw away Thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art G.o.d: Throw away Thy wrath!

George Herbert. 1593-1632

284. A Dialogue

Man. SWEETEST Saviour, if my soul Were but worth the having, Quickly should I then control Any thought of waving.

But when all my care and pains Cannot give the name of gains To Thy wretch so full of stains, What delight or hope remains?

Saviour. What, child, is the balance thine, Thine the poise and measure?

If I say, 'Thou shalt be Mine,'

Finger not My treasure.

What the gains in having thee Do amount to, only He Who for man was sold can see; That transferr'd th' accounts to Me.

Man. But as I can see no merit Leading to this favour, So the way to fit me for it Is beyond my savour.

As the reason, then, is Thine, So the way is none of mine; I disclaim the whole design; Sin disclaims and I resign.

Saviour. That is all: if that I could Get without repining; And My clay, My creature, would Follow My resigning; That as I did freely part With My glory and desert, Left all joys to feel all smart----

Man. Ah, no more! Thou break'st my heart!