England's Antiphon Part 23

It had been hardly worth the s.p.a.ce to point out these, were not the matter itself precious.

Before making further remark on George Herbert, let me present one of his poems in which the oddity of the visual fancy is only equalled by the beauty of the result.

THE PULLEY.

When G.o.d at first made man, Having a gla.s.s of blessing standing by, "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span."

So strength first made a way; Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honour, pleasure.

When almost all was out, G.o.d made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure, _Rest_ in the bottom lay.

"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in nature, not the G.o.d of nature: So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest-- But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rich and weary, that, at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast."

Is it not the story of the world written with the point of a diamond?

There can hardly be a doubt that his tendency to unnatural forms was encouraged by the increase of respect to symbol and ceremony shown at this period by some of the external powers of the church--Bishop Laud in particular. Had all, however, who delight in symbols, a power, like George Herbert's, of setting even within the horn-lanterns of the more arbitrary of them, such a light of poetry and devotion that their dull sides vanish in its piercing shine, and we forget the symbol utterly in the truth which it cannot obscure, then indeed our part would be to take and be thankful. But there never has been even a living true symbol which the dulness of those who will see the truth only in the symbol has not degraded into the very c.o.c.katrice-egg of sectarianism. The symbol is by such always more or less idolized, and the light within more or less patronized. If the truth, for the sake of which all symbols exist, were indeed the delight of those who claim it, the sectarianism of the church would vanish. But men on all sides call that _the truth_ which is but its form or outward sign--material or verbal, true or arbitrary, it matters not which--and hence come strifes and divisions.

Although George Herbert, however, could thus illumine all with his divine inspiration, we cannot help wondering whether, if he had betaken himself yet more to vital and less to half artificial symbols, the change would not have been a breaking of the pitcher and an outshining of the lamp.

For a symbol may remind us of the truth, and at the same time obscure it--present it, and dull its effect. It is the temple of nature and not the temple of the church, the things made by the hands of G.o.d and not the things made by the hands of man, that afford the truest symbols of truth.

I am anxious to be understood. The chief symbol of our faith, _the Cross_, it may be said, is not one of these natural symbols. I answer--No; but neither is it an arbitrary symbol. It is not a symbol of _a truth_ at all, but of _a fact_, of the infinitely grandest fact in the universe, which is itself the outcome and symbol of the grandest Truth.

_The Cross_ is an historical _sign_, not properly _a symbol_, except through the facts it reminds us of. On the other hand, _baptism_ and the _eucharist_ are symbols of the loftiest and profoundest kind, true to nature and all its meanings, as well as to the facts of which they remind us. They are in themselves symbols of the truths involved in the facts they commemorate.

Of Nature's symbols George Herbert has made large use; but he would have been yet a greater poet if he had made a larger use of them still. Then at least we might have got rid of such oddities as the stanzas for steps up to the church-door, the first at the bottom of the page; of the lines shaped into ugly altar-form; and of the absurd Easter wings, made of ever lengthening lines. This would not have been much, I confess, nor the gain by their loss great; but not to mention the larger supply of images graceful with the grace of G.o.d, who when he had made them said they were good, it would have led to the further purification of his taste, perhaps even to the casting out of all that could untimely move our mirth; until possibly (for ill.u.s.tration), instead of this lovely stanza, he would have given us even a lovelier:

Listen, sweet dove, unto my song, And spread thy golden wings on me; Hatching my tender heart so long, Till it get wing, and fly away with thee.

The stanza is indeed lovely, and true and tender and clever as well; yet who can help smiling at the notion of the incubation of the heart-egg, although what the poet means is so good that the smile almost vanishes in a sigh?

There is no doubt that the works of man's hands will also afford many true symbols; but I do think that, in proportion as a man gives himself to those instead of studying Truth's wardrobe of forms in nature, so will he decline from the high calling of the poet. George Herbert was too great to be himself much injured by the narrowness of the field whence he gathered his symbols; but his song will be the worse for it in the ears of all but those who, having lost sight of or having never beheld the oneness of the G.o.d whose creation exists in virtue of his redemption, feel safer in a low-browed crypt than under "the high embowed roof."

When the desire after system or order degenerates from a need into a pa.s.sion, or ruling idea, it closes, as may be seen in many women who are especial house-keepers, like an unyielding skin over the mind, to the death of all development from impulse and aspiration. The same thing holds in the church: anxiety about order and system will kill the life.

This did not go near to being the result with George Herbert: his life was hid with Christ in G.o.d; but the influence of his _profession_, as distinguished from his work, was hurtful to his calling as a poet. He of all men would scorn to claim social rank for spiritual service; he of all men would not commit the blunder of supposing that prayer and praise are that service of G.o.d: they are _prayer_ and _praise_, not _service_; he knew that G.o.d can be served only through loving ministration to his sons and daughters, all needy of commonest human help: but, as the most devout of clergymen will be the readiest to confess, there is even a danger to their souls in the unvarying recurrence of the outward obligations of their service; and, in like manner, the poet will fare ill if the conventions from which the holiest system is not free send him soaring with sealed eyes. George Herbert's were but a little blinded thus; yet something, we must allow, his poetry was injured by his profession. All that I say on this point, however, so far from diminishing his praise, adds thereto, setting forth only that he was such a poet as might have been greater yet, had the divine gift had free course. But again I rebuke myself and say, "Thank G.o.d for George Herbert."

To rid our spiritual palates of the clinging flavour of criticism, let me choose another song from his precious legacy--one less read, I presume, than many. It shows his tendency to asceticism--the fancy of forsaking G.o.d's world in order to serve him; it has besides many of the faults of the age, even to that of punning; yet it is a lovely bit of art as well as a rich embodiment of tenderness.

THE THANKSGIVING.

Oh King of grief! a t.i.tle 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? _goest before me._ Shall I weep blood? Why, thou hast wept such store, That all thy body was one gore.

Shall I be scourged, flouted, boxed, sold?

'Tis but to tell the tale is told.

_My G.o.d, my G.o.d, 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?[101] cross, my bower?

But how then shall I imitate thee, and Copy thy fair, though b.l.o.o.d.y 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 my Pa.s.sion[102]--But of that anon, When with the other I have done.

For thy Predestination, I'll contrive That, three years hence, if I survive,[103]

I'll build a spital, or mend common ways, But mend my own without delays.

Then I will use the works of thy creation, As if I used 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 every string Shall have his attribute to sing, _its._ That all together may accord in thee, And prove one G.o.d, one harmony.

If thou shall give me wit, it shall appear; If thou hast given it me, 'tis here.

Nay, I will read thy book,[104] and never move Till I have found therein thy love-- Thy art of love, which I'll turn back on thee: O my dear Saviour, Victory!

Then for my Pa.s.sion--I will do for that-- Alas, my G.o.d! I know not what.

With the preceding must be taken the following, which comes immediately after it.

THE REPRISAL.

I have considered it, and find There is no dealing with thy mighty Pa.s.sion; 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 grief's sad conquest me allow, But in all victories overthrow me?

Yet by confession will I come Into the conquest: though I can do nought Against thee, in thee I will overcome The man who once against thee fought.

Even embracing the feet of Jesus, Mary Magdalene or George Herbert must rise and go forth to do his will.

It will be observed how much George Herbert goes beyond all that have preceded him, in the expression of feeling as it flows from individual conditions, in the a.n.a.lysis of his own moods, in the logic of worship, if I may say so. His utterance is not merely of personal love and grief, but of the peculiar love and grief in the heart of George Herbert. There may be disease in such a mind; but, if there be, it is a disease that will burn itself out. Such disease is, for men const.i.tuted like him, the only path to health. By health I mean that simple regard to the truth, to the will of G.o.d, which will turn away a man's eyes from his own conditions, and leave G.o.d free to work his perfection in him--free, that is, of the interference of the man's self-consciousness and anxiety. To this perfection St. Paul had come when he no longer cried out against the body of his death, no more judged his own self, but left all to the Father, caring only to do his will. It was enough to him then that G.o.d should judge him, for his will is the one good thing securing all good things.

Amongst the keener delights of the life which is at the door, I look for the face of George Herbert, with whom to talk humbly would be in bliss a higher bliss.

CHAPTER XIV.

JOHN MILTON.

John Milton, born in 1608, was twenty-four years of age when George Herbert died. Hardly might two good men present a greater contrast than these. In power and size, Milton greatly excels. If George Herbert's utterance is like the sword-play of one skilful with the rapier, that of Milton is like the sword-play of an old knight, flashing his huge but keen-cutting blade in lightnings about his head. Compared with Herbert, Milton was a man in health. He never _shows_, at least, any diseased regard of himself. His eye is fixed on the truth, and he knows of no ill-faring. While a man looks thitherward, all the movements of his spirit reveal themselves only in peace.

Everything conspired, or, should I not rather say? everything was freely given, to make Milton a great poet. Leaving the original seed of melody, the primordial song in the soul which all his life was an effort to utter, let us regard for a moment the circ.u.mstances that favoured its development.

[Ill.u.s.tration: