George Herbert - Poems

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF This selection by Peter Washington first published in
Everymans Library, 2004
Copyright 2004 by Everymans Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York. Published in the United Kingdom by Everymans Library, Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT.

Distributed by Random House (UK) Ltd. US website: www.randomhouse.com/everymans eISBN: 978-0-307-82363-2 v3.1

Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, To thee of all kings only due) Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, Who in all grief preventest me? Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such store That all thy body was one door. Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold? Tis but to tell the tale is told. My God, my God, why dost thou part from me? Was such a grief as cannot be. Shall I then sing, skipping, thy doleful story, And side with thy triumphant glory? Shall thy strokes be my stroking? thorns, my flower? Thy rod, my posy? cross, my bower? But how then shall I imitate thee, and Copy thy fair, though bloody hand? Surely I will revenge me on thy love, And try who shall victorious prove. If thou dost give me wealth, I will restore All back unto thee by the poor.

If thou dost give me honour, men shall see, The honour doth belong to thee. I will not marry; or, if she be mine, She and her children shall be thine. My bosom friend, if he blaspheme thy name, I will tear thence his love and fame. One half of me being gone, the rest I give Unto some Chapel, die or live. As for thy passionBut of that anon, When with the other I have done. For thy predestination Ill contrive, That three years hence, if I survive, Ill build a spittle, or mend common ways, But mend mine own without delays.

Then I will use the works of thy creation, As if I usd them but for fashion. The world and I will quarrel; and the year Shall not perceive, that I am here. My music shall find thee, and evry string Shall have his attribute to sing; That all together may accord in thee, And prove one God, one harmony. If thou shalt give me wit, it shall appear, If thou hast givn it me, tis here. Nay, I will read thy book, and never move Till I have found therein thy love; Thy art of love, which Ill turn back on thee, O my dear Saviour, Victory! Then for thy passionI will do for that Alas, my God, I know not what.

I have considerd it, and find There is no dealing with thy mighty passion: For though I die for thee, I am behind; My sins deserve the condemnation.

O make me innocent, that I May give a disentangled state and free: And yet thy wounds still my attempts defy, For by thy death I die for thee. Ah! was it not enough that thou By thy eternal glory didst outgo me? Couldst thou not griefs sad conquests me allow, But in all victries overthrow me? Yet by confession will I come Into the conquest. Though I can do nought Against thee, in thee will I overcome The man, who once against thee fought.

Philosophers have measurd mountains, Fathomd the depths of seas, of states, and kings, Walkd with a staff to heavn, and traced fountains: But there are two vast, spacious things, The which to measure it doth more behove: Yet few there are that sound them; Sin and Love. Who would know Sin, let him repair Unto mount Olivet; there shall he see A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair, His skin, his garments bloody be. Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain To hunt his cruel food through evry vein.

Who knows not Love, let him assay And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike Did set again abroach, then let him say If ever he did taste the like. Love is that liquor sweet and most divine, Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine.

Lord, how I am all ague, when I seek What I have treasurd in my memory! Since, if my soul make even with the week, Each seventh note by right is due to thee. I find there quarries of pild vanities, But shreds of holiness, that dare not venture To show their face, since cross to thy decrees: There the circumference earth is, heavn the centre. In so much dregs the quintessence is small: The spirit and good extract of my heart Comes to about the many hundredth part. O my chief good, How shall I measure out thy blood? How shall I count what thee befell, And each grief tell? Shall I thy woes Number according to thy foes? Or, since one star showd thy first breath, Shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf, Which falls in Autumn, score a grief? Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be sign Of the true vine? Then let each hour Of my whole life one grief devour: That thy distress through all may run, And be my sun. O my chief good, How shall I measure out thy blood? How shall I count what thee befell, And each grief tell? Shall I thy woes Number according to thy foes? Or, since one star showd thy first breath, Shall all thy death? Or shall each leaf, Which falls in Autumn, score a grief? Or cannot leaves, but fruit, be sign Of the true vine? Then let each hour Of my whole life one grief devour: That thy distress through all may run, And be my sun.

Or rather let My several sins their sorrows get; That as each beast his cure doth know, Each sin may so. Since blood is fittest, Lord, to write Thy sorrows in, and bloody fight; My heart hath store, write there, where in One box doth lie both ink and sin: That when sin spies so many foes, Thy whips, thy nails, thy wounds, thy woes All come to lodge there, sin may say, No room for me, and fly away. Sin being gone, oh fill the place, And keep possession with thy grace; Lest sin take courage and return, And all the writings blot or burn.

Having been tenant long to a rich Lord, Not thriving, I resolved to be bold, And make a suit unto him, to afford A new small-rented lease, and cancel th old. In heaven at his manor I him sought: They told me there, that he was lately gone About some land, which he had dearly bought Long since on earth, to take possession. O blessed body! Whither art thou thrown? No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone? So many hearts on earth, and yet not one Receive thee? Sure there is room within our hearts good store; For they can lodge transgressions by the score: Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door They leave thee. O blessed body! Whither art thou thrown? No lodging for thee, but a cold hard stone? So many hearts on earth, and yet not one Receive thee? Sure there is room within our hearts good store; For they can lodge transgressions by the score: Thousands of toys dwell there, yet out of door They leave thee.

But that which shows them large, shows them unfit. What ever sin did this pure rock commit, Which holds thee now? Who hath indicted it Of murder? Where our hard hearts have took up stones to brain thee, And missing this, most falsely did arraign thee; Only these stones in quiet entertain thee, And order. And as of old, the law by heavnly art Was writ in stone; so thou, which also art The letter of the word, findst no fit heart To hold thee. Yet do we still persist as we began, And so should perish, but that nothing can, Though it be cold, hard, foul, from loving man Withhold thee.