I know the ways of Learning; both the head and pipesThat feed the press, and make it run;What reason hath from nature borrowed,Or of itself, like Housewife sheen.I know the ways of Honor, what maintainsThe quick returns of courtesy and wit;The ways of favor, either party gainsAnd the best mode of oft retaining it.
I know the ways of Learning; both the head and pipesThat feed the press, and make it run;What reason hath from nature borrowed,Or of itself, like Housewife sheen.I know the ways of Honor, what maintainsThe quick returns of courtesy and wit;The ways of favor, either party gainsAnd the best mode of oft retaining it.
I know the ways of Learning; both the head and pipesThat feed the press, and make it run;What reason hath from nature borrowed,Or of itself, like Housewife sheen.I know the ways of Honor, what maintainsThe quick returns of courtesy and wit;The ways of favor, either party gainsAnd the best mode of oft retaining it.
I know the ways of Learning; both the head and pipes
That feed the press, and make it run;
What reason hath from nature borrowed,
Or of itself, like Housewife sheen.
I know the ways of Honor, what maintains
The quick returns of courtesy and wit;
The ways of favor, either party gains
And the best mode of oft retaining it.
I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,The lullings and the relishes of it;The proposition of hot blood and brains;What mirth and musick mean; what love and wit.Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,But the silk twist let down from heaven to me,Did both conduct and teach me, how by itTo climb to thee.
I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,The lullings and the relishes of it;The proposition of hot blood and brains;What mirth and musick mean; what love and wit.Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,But the silk twist let down from heaven to me,Did both conduct and teach me, how by itTo climb to thee.
I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,The lullings and the relishes of it;The proposition of hot blood and brains;What mirth and musick mean; what love and wit.Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,But the silk twist let down from heaven to me,Did both conduct and teach me, how by itTo climb to thee.
I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;
The proposition of hot blood and brains;
What mirth and musick mean; what love and wit.
Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,
But the silk twist let down from heaven to me,
Did both conduct and teach me, how by it
To climb to thee.
In 1630 he was admitted to the priestly office, and was immediately inducted to the Rectory of Bemerton, near Salisbury. And here it was, stripping from him the gaudy trappings of a fashionable court, he clothed himself in the better and more enduring robes of humility and meekness. It was here, amid the quiet shades of his peaceful parish, he prepared, for his own use and that of his brethren, a brief manual, entitled “The Country Parson”—the rich gatherings of his own experience, and the exemplification of his own ardor in the performance of the duties of the pastoral office. His sermons, delivered while at Bemerton, are practical in doctrine, forcible in illustration, and make directly to the heart. They are just such sermons as we should suppose the author of The Country Parson would preach. They are many of them explanatory of the forms and services of the Church of England, urging their importance and the necessity of their being truly understood.
He usually took his text from the gospel of the day appointed to be read, and did as consistently declare why the Church did appoint that portion of Scripture to be that day read; and he shortly made it appear to them (to use his own words) “that the whole service of the Church was a reasonable, and therefore an acceptable sacrifice to God—as, namely, we begin with confession of ourselves to be vile and miserable sinners; and we begin so because, until we have confessed ourselves to be such, we are not capable of that mercy which we so much need; but having in the prayer of our Lord begged pardon for those sins which we have confessed, and hoping by our public confession and real repentance we have obtained that pardon—then we dare and do proceed to beg of the Lord ‘to open our lips, that our mouth may show forth his praise;’ for till then we are not able and worthy to praise him.”
The church holydays and fasts, and the benefits to be derived from their observance, were most beautifully illustrated in Herbert’s discourses; and we venture to say that in the sermons of no clergyman of the Church of England, or the Episcopal Church of America, can there be found so practical and so beautiful an exemplification of the excellency of the Episcopal Church service. The simple parishioners of Bemerton learned to love the service of their church under the preachings of their sainted pastor, because its practical usefulness, and its adaptation to their every spiritual want, was brought forcibly home to the door of their hearts. The form, they were taught, was as nothing, save as the most fitting vehicle of their wants and spiritual aspirations. In our age, where the cold religion of formality is seen struggling for the mastery over that which is ardent and spiritual; when “the outward and visible sign” seems to be more thought of than “the inward and spiritual grace;” when the outward adornments of the sanctuary are held almost in as high value, and as necessary to salvation, as the inward adornment of the meek and pious spirit, it is refreshing to read such sermons as those of Herbert. He was a formalist only so far as form could be made a means to an end; a means to bring man to a closer contemplation of the love and the abounding mercies of his God; a means through which he could be made to praise him in holiness and truth. The form he looked upon as the fitting vehicle, “the silken twist,” to lead man’s thoughts in fit expression up to the throne of God. The summum bonum, the all in religion, he still believed, and so most earnestly taught, consisted in the free-will offering of the penitent and pious spirit.
In his essay on the duties of the Country Parson, he enjoins upon the pastor, “to be constant in every good work, setting such an example to his flock as they may be glad to follow; and by so doing, profit thereby to their souls’ good.”
And most diligently (if we are to believe the testimony of his contemporaries) did George Herbert conform himself to the character so beautifully sketched. In the functions of his humble office he is said to have led a most pious and blameless life.
The priests of the Levitical ministration, put on the humerus blazing with jewels, before they took the breastplate of righteousness and truth; thereby signifying that the priest must be a shining light, resplendent with good works, before he fed them with righteousness and truth, the legitimate milk of the word. And in the daily beauty of his blameless life; in the gentle, dove-like spirit that animated his every motive; in his daily charities, and his devout ministerings at the altar, Herbert most beautifully illustrated the doctrines that he preached. His life was “indeed, a shining light, resplendent with good works;” and the flock which he so faithfully tended, found through his guidance spiritual pastures. Quaint old Jeremy Taylor, alluding to the necessity of the Christian pastor exemplifying in his daily life the doctrines that he preaches, most beautifully remarks:
“Herod’s doves could never have invited so many strangers to their dovecots if they had not been besmeared with most fragrant ointment. As said Dydimus, make your pigeons smell sweet, and they will allure whole flocks. And, Christian pastor, if your life be excellent, your virtues, ‘like precious ointment, full of fragrance,’ you will soon invite your charges to run after your precious odors.”
Such, in all things, was the subject of our sketch; his virtues were the precious ointment, full of fragrance, alluring the quiet flock his Master had given him to feed.
We have said more of Herbert in his pastoral character than we first intended, although, perhaps, we have notdwelt upon it too long to give an illustration of the beautiful simplicity and pious ardor of the man.
It was in the quiet village of Bemerton that Herbert composed his little volume of poems, styled “The Temple,” of which it was said by a contemporary, “There was in it the picture of a divine soul in every page, and the whole book was such a harmony of holy passions, as would enrich the world with pleasure and piety.”
We do not pretend to claim for these songs any great poetic merit. They abound with faults, such as were peculiar to most of the minor poets of that age. The versification is often rough and inharmonious, the words ill chosen for the rhyme, while conceits far-fetched and unnatural are most plentifully sprinkled through them. These, however, are faults peculiar to the versification of the time in which our poet flourished. The great merit of these songs, most undoubtedly, consists mainly in the pious ardor and genuine devotional feeling which characterize them. The reader is attracted at once by the deep and earnest piety they manifest. There seems to be a consistent effort in the poet’s mind to give utterance to his devotional feeling in words of earnestness and power, such words as shall not dishonor the high and noble theme he had chosen for his subject. It can readily be discovered that they give utterance to the language of his heart, and that the influence of that heart’s holiest affections was the happiest inspiration of his verse. If there is any truth in those sweet lines of Cowper,
The Poet’s lyre to fix his fame,Should be the Poet’s heart;Affection lights a brighter flame,Than ever blazed by art.
The Poet’s lyre to fix his fame,Should be the Poet’s heart;Affection lights a brighter flame,Than ever blazed by art.
The Poet’s lyre to fix his fame,Should be the Poet’s heart;Affection lights a brighter flame,Than ever blazed by art.
The Poet’s lyre to fix his fame,
Should be the Poet’s heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame,
Than ever blazed by art.
then “sweet George Herbert” has made sure his claim to remembrance, and left something behind him which posterity will not willingly let die.
Wherever deep and holy love for sacred things is esteemed, there the verses of Herbert will find many ardent admirers. They are the pure and free-will offerings of a heart consecrated to pious uses, and attuned to sacred harmonies—the soft breathings of a devotional spirit, that seems too pure for earth.
When he sings of the church where he so loved to worship, it is with all the earnest enthusiasm, if not with the inspiration of that noble song of Solomon, commencing,
“Behold thou art fair, my love, behold thou art fair; thou hast dove’s eyes within thy locks, thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks, thou art all fair, my love, there is no spot within thee.”
And Herbert loved the church, because it was the fold where he could gather the flock that had been given him to tend. The church on earth was to him the emblem of the spiritual church “eternal in the heavens.” His gentle spirit seems all aglow with love, whenever he sings of its quiet retreats and the rich solemnities of its glorious worship.
The poems, styled “The Temple,” are preceded by a long poem as a preface, called “The Church Porch,” where he would have the reader linger before entering the sanctuary. And in the poem the poet takes occasion to give sage counsel and most excellent advice, the better to fit the mind for the contemplation of the sacredness of the sanctuary beyond the porch. He would purify the spirit from the dross of earthly vices, he would have it “purged of the contaminations of earth,” before entering the temple, where the divine presence loves to dwell.
And no one who will read the advice embodied in this introductory poem, but must rise from its perusal with the conviction that it contains a code of morality, enforced by most excellent precepts. Independent of its religious tone, it may be said to contain the very best of principles, enforced by illustrations that carry conviction to the mind at once. In the rude measure of the time, it holds up virtue in all its beauty to our approbation, and lays bare all the hideousness of vice. He seeks not for harmonious verse, as the vehicle of thought, he desires not to please, but to persuade; not to amuse, but to instruct.
Is lust within, polluting, corrupting, and withering the heart, his warning is,
Beware of lust; it doth pollute the soulWhom God in baptism washed with his own blood,It blots the lesson written in thy soul;The holy words cannot be understood.How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,Much less toward God, “whose lust is all their book.”
Beware of lust; it doth pollute the soulWhom God in baptism washed with his own blood,It blots the lesson written in thy soul;The holy words cannot be understood.How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,Much less toward God, “whose lust is all their book.”
Beware of lust; it doth pollute the soulWhom God in baptism washed with his own blood,It blots the lesson written in thy soul;The holy words cannot be understood.How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,Much less toward God, “whose lust is all their book.”
Beware of lust; it doth pollute the soul
Whom God in baptism washed with his own blood,
It blots the lesson written in thy soul;
The holy words cannot be understood.
How dare those eyes upon a Bible look,
Much less toward God, “whose lust is all their book.”
Profanity he rebukes in lines like these:
Take not his name who made thy mouth, in vain.It gets thee nothing, and has no excuse.Lust and wine plead a pleasure, avarice gain;But the cheap swearer, through his open sluice,Lets his soul run for naught.
Take not his name who made thy mouth, in vain.It gets thee nothing, and has no excuse.Lust and wine plead a pleasure, avarice gain;But the cheap swearer, through his open sluice,Lets his soul run for naught.
Take not his name who made thy mouth, in vain.It gets thee nothing, and has no excuse.Lust and wine plead a pleasure, avarice gain;But the cheap swearer, through his open sluice,Lets his soul run for naught.
Take not his name who made thy mouth, in vain.
It gets thee nothing, and has no excuse.
Lust and wine plead a pleasure, avarice gain;
But the cheap swearer, through his open sluice,
Lets his soul run for naught.
Remembering in whose sight “lying lips are an abomination,” and the sacredness of whose sanctuary is polluted by falsehood, he breaks forth with indignant tone,
Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod.The stormy working soul spits lies and froth;Dare to be true—nothing can need a lie;A fault which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod.The stormy working soul spits lies and froth;Dare to be true—nothing can need a lie;A fault which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod.The stormy working soul spits lies and froth;Dare to be true—nothing can need a lie;A fault which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Lie not, but let thy heart be true to God,
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.
Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod.
The stormy working soul spits lies and froth;
Dare to be true—nothing can need a lie;
A fault which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Extravagance, which is the grateful mother of debt, penury, and want; which has desolated as many homes, withered as many hearts, and destroyed as many lives as the sword, he thus rebukes:
Never exceed thy income, youth may makeEven with the year; but age, if it will hit,Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stakeAs the day lessens, and his life with it.Thy children, kindred, friends upon thee call,Before thy journey, fairly past with all.
Never exceed thy income, youth may makeEven with the year; but age, if it will hit,Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stakeAs the day lessens, and his life with it.Thy children, kindred, friends upon thee call,Before thy journey, fairly past with all.
Never exceed thy income, youth may makeEven with the year; but age, if it will hit,Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stakeAs the day lessens, and his life with it.Thy children, kindred, friends upon thee call,Before thy journey, fairly past with all.
Never exceed thy income, youth may make
Even with the year; but age, if it will hit,
Shoots a bow short, and lessens still his stake
As the day lessens, and his life with it.
Thy children, kindred, friends upon thee call,
Before thy journey, fairly past with all.
The dangers that wait on suretyship, and the madness of yielding to its pressing importunities, are thus set forth:
Yet be not surety, if thou be a father;Love is a personal debt. I cannot giveMy children’s right, nor ought he take it, ratherBoth friends should die, than hinder them to live.Fathers first enter bonds to nature’s ends,And are her sureties, ere they are friends.
Yet be not surety, if thou be a father;Love is a personal debt. I cannot giveMy children’s right, nor ought he take it, ratherBoth friends should die, than hinder them to live.Fathers first enter bonds to nature’s ends,And are her sureties, ere they are friends.
Yet be not surety, if thou be a father;Love is a personal debt. I cannot giveMy children’s right, nor ought he take it, ratherBoth friends should die, than hinder them to live.Fathers first enter bonds to nature’s ends,And are her sureties, ere they are friends.
Yet be not surety, if thou be a father;
Love is a personal debt. I cannot give
My children’s right, nor ought he take it, rather
Both friends should die, than hinder them to live.
Fathers first enter bonds to nature’s ends,
And are her sureties, ere they are friends.
The spirit in which we should enter the hallowed courts of the sanctuary, is set forth thus:
When once thy foot enters the church, believeGod is more there than thou, for thou art thereOnly by his permission. Then beware,And make thyself all reverence and fear.Kneeling ne’er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state,All equal are within the church’s gate.
When once thy foot enters the church, believeGod is more there than thou, for thou art thereOnly by his permission. Then beware,And make thyself all reverence and fear.Kneeling ne’er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state,All equal are within the church’s gate.
When once thy foot enters the church, believeGod is more there than thou, for thou art thereOnly by his permission. Then beware,And make thyself all reverence and fear.Kneeling ne’er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state,All equal are within the church’s gate.
When once thy foot enters the church, believe
God is more there than thou, for thou art there
Only by his permission. Then beware,
And make thyself all reverence and fear.
Kneeling ne’er spoiled silk stockings; quit thy state,
All equal are within the church’s gate.
Space will not permit us to make further extracts from “The Porch.” Enough has been given to show its tone and character. The poems called “The Temple,” thus introduced, are a series of devotional songs upon sacred subjects, overflowing with ardent feeling, and manifesting the existence of a piety as fervent as it is rare.
In his verses on Prayer, we have an apt illustration of our author’s style and devotional ardor.
Prayer, the Church’s banquet, angels age,God’s breath in man returning to his birth.The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,The Christian’s plummet sounding heaven and earth.
Prayer, the Church’s banquet, angels age,God’s breath in man returning to his birth.The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,The Christian’s plummet sounding heaven and earth.
Prayer, the Church’s banquet, angels age,God’s breath in man returning to his birth.The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,The Christian’s plummet sounding heaven and earth.
Prayer, the Church’s banquet, angels age,
God’s breath in man returning to his birth.
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian’s plummet sounding heaven and earth.
The quiet stillness of the Sabbath morn, and the blessings that accompany it, call forth such verses as the following:
Oh, day most calm, most bright,The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,Th’ indorsement of supreme delight,Writ by a friend, and with his blood;The couch of time, care’s balm, and bay;The week were dark, but for thy light,Thy torch doth show the way.
Oh, day most calm, most bright,The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,Th’ indorsement of supreme delight,Writ by a friend, and with his blood;The couch of time, care’s balm, and bay;The week were dark, but for thy light,Thy torch doth show the way.
Oh, day most calm, most bright,The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,Th’ indorsement of supreme delight,Writ by a friend, and with his blood;The couch of time, care’s balm, and bay;The week were dark, but for thy light,Thy torch doth show the way.
Oh, day most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,
Th’ indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time, care’s balm, and bay;
The week were dark, but for thy light,
Thy torch doth show the way.
Sundays the pillars areOn which Heaven’s palace arched lies;The other days fill up the spareAnd hollow room with vanities;They are the fruitful beds and bordersIn God’s rich garden; that is baseWhich parts their ranks and orders.
Sundays the pillars areOn which Heaven’s palace arched lies;The other days fill up the spareAnd hollow room with vanities;They are the fruitful beds and bordersIn God’s rich garden; that is baseWhich parts their ranks and orders.
Sundays the pillars areOn which Heaven’s palace arched lies;The other days fill up the spareAnd hollow room with vanities;They are the fruitful beds and bordersIn God’s rich garden; that is baseWhich parts their ranks and orders.
Sundays the pillars are
On which Heaven’s palace arched lies;
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities;
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God’s rich garden; that is base
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man’s life,Threaded together on time’s string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal glorious king;On Sundays Heaven’s door stands ope,Blessings are plentiful and rife—More plentiful than hope.
The Sundays of man’s life,Threaded together on time’s string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal glorious king;On Sundays Heaven’s door stands ope,Blessings are plentiful and rife—More plentiful than hope.
The Sundays of man’s life,Threaded together on time’s string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal glorious king;On Sundays Heaven’s door stands ope,Blessings are plentiful and rife—More plentiful than hope.
The Sundays of man’s life,
Threaded together on time’s string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious king;
On Sundays Heaven’s door stands ope,
Blessings are plentiful and rife—
More plentiful than hope.
In his verses styled “The Odour,” we have an exemplification of the Poet’s love for his Divine Master, expressed with that fervency which betokens the sincerity of his adoration.
How sweetly doth my master sound! my master!Asambergris leaves a rich scentUnto the taster.So do these words a sweet content,An oriental fragrance—my master!
How sweetly doth my master sound! my master!Asambergris leaves a rich scentUnto the taster.So do these words a sweet content,An oriental fragrance—my master!
How sweetly doth my master sound! my master!Asambergris leaves a rich scentUnto the taster.So do these words a sweet content,An oriental fragrance—my master!
How sweetly doth my master sound! my master!
Asambergris leaves a rich scent
Unto the taster.
So do these words a sweet content,
An oriental fragrance—my master!
The poem entitled “Christmas,” has considerable merit, the versification is smoother, and the measure not so irregular as most of his poems, while at the same time it is characterized by the same warmth of devotional feeling, that is manifested in all.
The shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?My God, no hymn for thee?My soul’s a shepherd, too; a flock it feedsOf thoughts, and words, and deeds.The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace,Enriching all the place.Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powersOutsing the daylight hours.
The shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?My God, no hymn for thee?My soul’s a shepherd, too; a flock it feedsOf thoughts, and words, and deeds.The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace,Enriching all the place.Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powersOutsing the daylight hours.
The shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?My God, no hymn for thee?My soul’s a shepherd, too; a flock it feedsOf thoughts, and words, and deeds.The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace,Enriching all the place.Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powersOutsing the daylight hours.
The shepherds sing, and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for thee?
My soul’s a shepherd, too; a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is thy word, the streams thy grace,
Enriching all the place.
Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
Outsing the daylight hours.
The little poem entitled “Jesu,” although it has neither the merit of smoothness, or any poetical beauty, is strongly illustrative of the purely saint-like piety of its author. Dr. Sanderson was enraptured with this little production, and used to style it, “a gem of rare conceit.” We see nothing in it, however, to warrant such praise; it certainly has no poetic merit, and the conceit embodied in it, appears to be rude and far-fetched.
JESU.Jesu is in my heart, his sacred nameIs deeply carved there, but th’ other week,A great affliction broke the little frame,Ev’n all to pieces; which I went to seek;And first I found the corner where was I,After where es, and next where u was graved.When I had got these parcels, instantlyI sat me down to spell them, and perceivedThat to my broken heart, he was I ease you,And to my whole is Jesu.
JESU.Jesu is in my heart, his sacred nameIs deeply carved there, but th’ other week,A great affliction broke the little frame,Ev’n all to pieces; which I went to seek;And first I found the corner where was I,After where es, and next where u was graved.When I had got these parcels, instantlyI sat me down to spell them, and perceivedThat to my broken heart, he was I ease you,And to my whole is Jesu.
JESU.Jesu is in my heart, his sacred nameIs deeply carved there, but th’ other week,A great affliction broke the little frame,Ev’n all to pieces; which I went to seek;And first I found the corner where was I,After where es, and next where u was graved.When I had got these parcels, instantlyI sat me down to spell them, and perceivedThat to my broken heart, he was I ease you,And to my whole is Jesu.
JESU.
Jesu is in my heart, his sacred name
Is deeply carved there, but th’ other week,
A great affliction broke the little frame,
Ev’n all to pieces; which I went to seek;
And first I found the corner where was I,
After where es, and next where u was graved.
When I had got these parcels, instantly
I sat me down to spell them, and perceived
That to my broken heart, he was I ease you,
And to my whole is Jesu.
Space will not permit us to make further extracts from these poems of Herbert’s. Those that we have given, illustrate the pious ardor of the subject of our sketch, while at the same time they give evidence of some claim to take position with the minor poets of his day. His prose compositions undoubtedly possess more merit than his poetical, and clearly entitle him to rank with the best of his contemporaries. The beautiful simplicity of the character of our poet, has never been surpassed in any age. His disposition was of the most sweet and engaging nature, adorned with all the graces of a most saint-like piety. “He lived like a saint,” says his enthusiastic biographer, old Walton, “and like a saint did he die.” The Sunday before his death, raising himself from his bed, he called for his instrument, and having tuned it, played and sung that verse from his poems, commencing,
The Sundays of man’s lifeThreaded together on time’s string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal, glorious king.
The Sundays of man’s lifeThreaded together on time’s string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal, glorious king.
The Sundays of man’s lifeThreaded together on time’s string,Make bracelets to adorn the wifeOf the eternal, glorious king.
The Sundays of man’s life
Threaded together on time’s string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious king.
Like the dying swan,
As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,His sweetest song was the last he sings.
As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,His sweetest song was the last he sings.
As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,His sweetest song was the last he sings.
As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,
His sweetest song was the last he sings.
THE GIFT OF A ROSE.
———
BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.
———
I send thee, Mary, a sweet young rose,That bright with the hues of the sunset glows;Its beauty, alas! is frail and brief,It will come to thee with a withered leaf,But the fervent kiss that my earnest lipsHave left for thee on its crimson tips,Will not from the fading flower depart,But come all fresh to thy lip and heart;For oh, ’tis a breath of the love and trustThat will live when our lips and our hearts are dust.Mary, dear Mary, pray love this flower,Let it have for thy heart a spell of power;For I plucked it fresh from its lovely stalk,On the blooming edge of that garden walk,Where we strayed together so deeply blest,When the sun was low in the golden west,And murmured our loves in burning words,With none to hear but the flowers and birds,And lingered long on the dear, sweet spot,While our warm hearts kissed, though our lips did not.Mary, dear Mary, my thoughts still cleaveTo each memory sweet of that blessed eve,To each tone more dear than the sweetest lute,To each vow we breathed when our lips were mute,To the wild, deep thrill through each trembling frame,From fingers warmed with a pulse of flame,To each gentle tear, to each gentle sob,To each sigh that told of the heart’s deep throb,Aye, these memories dwell in this soul of mine—Oh, Mary dear, do they live in thine?Mary, dear Mary, I pray thee say,Do the roses bloom where thy steps now stray?Do they look at morn on the sky’s soft blueThrough the trembling tears of the early dew?When I come to thee will they smile to greetThy lover’s steps with their perfume sweet?Will they list at eve to our tender vows?Will they weave their wreaths for our gentle brows?And when at last we are doomed to part,Will they breathe a sigh for each breaking heart?Mary, dear Mary, I fain would know,Do thy heart’s sweet flowers keep their fresh young glow?Are their eyes yet turned on the skies above?Do they glitter still with the dews of love?Has no blighting frost, has no bitter blastCold, cold o’er their buds and their blossoms past?If my name is said, are their leaves yet stirredTo the olden thrill at the cherished word?And say, oh say, will those dear, heart flowers,Still bloom for me in the Eden bowers?
I send thee, Mary, a sweet young rose,That bright with the hues of the sunset glows;Its beauty, alas! is frail and brief,It will come to thee with a withered leaf,But the fervent kiss that my earnest lipsHave left for thee on its crimson tips,Will not from the fading flower depart,But come all fresh to thy lip and heart;For oh, ’tis a breath of the love and trustThat will live when our lips and our hearts are dust.Mary, dear Mary, pray love this flower,Let it have for thy heart a spell of power;For I plucked it fresh from its lovely stalk,On the blooming edge of that garden walk,Where we strayed together so deeply blest,When the sun was low in the golden west,And murmured our loves in burning words,With none to hear but the flowers and birds,And lingered long on the dear, sweet spot,While our warm hearts kissed, though our lips did not.Mary, dear Mary, my thoughts still cleaveTo each memory sweet of that blessed eve,To each tone more dear than the sweetest lute,To each vow we breathed when our lips were mute,To the wild, deep thrill through each trembling frame,From fingers warmed with a pulse of flame,To each gentle tear, to each gentle sob,To each sigh that told of the heart’s deep throb,Aye, these memories dwell in this soul of mine—Oh, Mary dear, do they live in thine?Mary, dear Mary, I pray thee say,Do the roses bloom where thy steps now stray?Do they look at morn on the sky’s soft blueThrough the trembling tears of the early dew?When I come to thee will they smile to greetThy lover’s steps with their perfume sweet?Will they list at eve to our tender vows?Will they weave their wreaths for our gentle brows?And when at last we are doomed to part,Will they breathe a sigh for each breaking heart?Mary, dear Mary, I fain would know,Do thy heart’s sweet flowers keep their fresh young glow?Are their eyes yet turned on the skies above?Do they glitter still with the dews of love?Has no blighting frost, has no bitter blastCold, cold o’er their buds and their blossoms past?If my name is said, are their leaves yet stirredTo the olden thrill at the cherished word?And say, oh say, will those dear, heart flowers,Still bloom for me in the Eden bowers?
I send thee, Mary, a sweet young rose,
That bright with the hues of the sunset glows;
Its beauty, alas! is frail and brief,
It will come to thee with a withered leaf,
But the fervent kiss that my earnest lips
Have left for thee on its crimson tips,
Will not from the fading flower depart,
But come all fresh to thy lip and heart;
For oh, ’tis a breath of the love and trust
That will live when our lips and our hearts are dust.
Mary, dear Mary, pray love this flower,
Let it have for thy heart a spell of power;
For I plucked it fresh from its lovely stalk,
On the blooming edge of that garden walk,
Where we strayed together so deeply blest,
When the sun was low in the golden west,
And murmured our loves in burning words,
With none to hear but the flowers and birds,
And lingered long on the dear, sweet spot,
While our warm hearts kissed, though our lips did not.
Mary, dear Mary, my thoughts still cleave
To each memory sweet of that blessed eve,
To each tone more dear than the sweetest lute,
To each vow we breathed when our lips were mute,
To the wild, deep thrill through each trembling frame,
From fingers warmed with a pulse of flame,
To each gentle tear, to each gentle sob,
To each sigh that told of the heart’s deep throb,
Aye, these memories dwell in this soul of mine—
Oh, Mary dear, do they live in thine?
Mary, dear Mary, I pray thee say,
Do the roses bloom where thy steps now stray?
Do they look at morn on the sky’s soft blue
Through the trembling tears of the early dew?
When I come to thee will they smile to greet
Thy lover’s steps with their perfume sweet?
Will they list at eve to our tender vows?
Will they weave their wreaths for our gentle brows?
And when at last we are doomed to part,
Will they breathe a sigh for each breaking heart?
Mary, dear Mary, I fain would know,
Do thy heart’s sweet flowers keep their fresh young glow?
Are their eyes yet turned on the skies above?
Do they glitter still with the dews of love?
Has no blighting frost, has no bitter blast
Cold, cold o’er their buds and their blossoms past?
If my name is said, are their leaves yet stirred
To the olden thrill at the cherished word?
And say, oh say, will those dear, heart flowers,
Still bloom for me in the Eden bowers?
AH, DO NOT SPEAK SO COLDLY.
Ballad.
WORDS BY
FITZGERALD.
MUSIC BY
BENKERT.
Published by permission of Edward L. Walker, 160 Chestnut Street.
Publisher and Importer of Music and Musical Instruments.
Ah! do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;If I have lov’d too boldly,Oh! let me worship still?If
Ah! do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;If I have lov’d too boldly,Oh! let me worship still?If
Ah! do not speak so coldly,
Cold words my heart will chill;
If I have lov’d too boldly,
Oh! let me worship still?
If
I have lov’d too boldly,Oh! let me worship still?The pure heart loves forever,To its own likeness true;And though fate bids us severI’ll love I’ll love but you,And though fate bids us severI’ll love I’ll love but you.SECOND VERSE.The heart will throb in sorrowIf from its idol torn.Nor elsewhere joy will borrow,If love’s return be scorn.Then do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;E’en if I’ve lov’d too boldly,Oh! let me worship still, &c.
I have lov’d too boldly,Oh! let me worship still?The pure heart loves forever,To its own likeness true;And though fate bids us severI’ll love I’ll love but you,And though fate bids us severI’ll love I’ll love but you.SECOND VERSE.The heart will throb in sorrowIf from its idol torn.Nor elsewhere joy will borrow,If love’s return be scorn.Then do not speak so coldly,Cold words my heart will chill;E’en if I’ve lov’d too boldly,Oh! let me worship still, &c.
I have lov’d too boldly,
Oh! let me worship still?
The pure heart loves forever,
To its own likeness true;
And though fate bids us sever
I’ll love I’ll love but you,
And though fate bids us sever
I’ll love I’ll love but you.
SECOND VERSE.
The heart will throb in sorrow
If from its idol torn.
Nor elsewhere joy will borrow,
If love’s return be scorn.
Then do not speak so coldly,
Cold words my heart will chill;
E’en if I’ve lov’d too boldly,
Oh! let me worship still, &c.
TEAL AND TEAL SHOOTING.
———
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH AND FISHING,” ETC.
———
THE GREEN-WINGED TEAL.(Anas Carolinensis.)THE BLUE-WINGED TEAL.(Anas Discors.)
THE GREEN-WINGED TEAL.(Anas Carolinensis.)THE BLUE-WINGED TEAL.(Anas Discors.)
In this present month, the sport of duck-shooting on the inland streams, rivers, and lakelets, may be held to commence in earnest, as contrasted to the pursuit of the same tribes on the outer bays, estuaries, and surf-banks. About the end of September, and thenceforth through this and the next ensuing month, according to the variations of the seasons, and the longer or shorter endurance of that delicious time, the most delicious and most gorgeous of the whole American year, known throughout this continent as Indian Summer, the Mallard, and the two beautiful species which we have placed at the head of this article, begin to make their appearance on the little lakes of the interior, and in the various streams and rivers which fall into them, and thence downward to the Atlantic seaboard.
In the vast northern solitudes of the great lakes of the northwest, in all the streams of Upper Canada, even to the feeders of Lake Superior, and throughout the western country so far south as Texas, and northward to the Columbia and the fur countries, the Blue-Winged Teal breeds, literally by myriads. Throughout the great lakes, it is abundant in the early autumn, becoming excessively fat on the seed of the wild rice, with which the shallows of all those waters are overgrown, and being deservedly esteemed as one of the best, if not the very best, of the duck tribe. But it is the first of its race to remove from the wild, limpid waters, and wood-embosomed rivers of the great west, to the seaboard tide-waters, taking the inland water-courses on their route, rarely visiting the actual sea-shores, and proceeding on the occurrence of the first frosts, for they are singularly susceptible of cold, to the Southern States, where they swarm, especially in the inundated rice-fields of Georgia and South Carolina, during the winter months.
The Green-Winged Teal, which is the nearest congener, and frequently the associate of the Blue-Wing, has a far less extensive range, so far as regards its breeding-grounds, in as much as it never, so far as has been satisfactorily shown, has nidificated or produced its young south of the Great Lakes, nor even there in great numbers, its favorite haunts, for the purposes of reproduction, being the extreme northern swamps and wooded morasses almost up to the verge of the arctic circles. It does not come down on its southward migration, at nearly so early a period of the autumn as its congener, being less susceptible of cold, and tarrying on the Great Lakes till the frosts set in with sufficient severity to prevent its frequenting its favorite haunts with pleasure, or obtaining its food with facility. It is rarely or never seen in the Middle States during the summer, but is tolerably abundant during the autumn onall the marshy lakes and pools, and along the shores of all the reedy rivers from the great lakes downward to the sea-board, though, like the last named species, it is purely a fresh-water duck, never frequenting the sea-shores or salt bays, finding no food thereon with which to gratify its delicate and fastidious palate, which, eschewing fish, the larvæ of insects, and the lessercrustaceæ, relishes only the seeds of the various water plants and grasses, the tender leaves of some vegetables, and more especially the grain of the wild rice,Zizania panicula effusa, which is its favorite article of subsistence, and one to which may be ascribed the excellence of every bird of air or water which feeds on it, from the Rice-Bird and the Rail, to the Teal, the Canvas-Back, and even the large Thick-BilledFuligula, closely allied to the Scoter, the Velvet Duck, and other uneatable sea-fowl of Lake Huron, which are scarcely, if at all, inferior to the Red Heads of Chesapeake Bay, the Gunpowder, or the Potomac. On the Susquehanna and the Delaware, both these beautiful little ducks were in past years excessively abundant, so that a good gunner, paddling one of the sharp, swift skiffs peculiar to those waters, was certain of filling his boat with these delicious ducks within a few hours’ shooting. Both of these species are rather tame than otherwise, the blue-winged bird more particularly, which has a habit, on the lower waters of the Delaware especially, of congregating on the mud in vast flocks, sunning themselves in the serene and golden light of a September noon, so careless and easy of approach, that the gunner is frequently enabled to paddle his skiff within a few yards of them, and to rake them with close discharges of his heavy batteries. At times, when the tide is out, and the birds are assembled on the flats out of gunshot from the water’s edge, the thorough-going sportsman, reckless of wet feet or muddy breeches, will run his skiff ashore, several hundred yards above or below the flock, and getting cautiously overboard, will push it before him over the smooth, slippery mud-flats, keeping himself carefully concealed under its stern until within gunshot, which he can sometimes reduce to so little as fifteen or twenty yards, by this murderous and stealthy method. The Green-Winged Teal is much less apt to congregate, especially on shore, than the other, and consequently, affords less sport to the boat-shooter, keeping for the most part afloat in little companies, or trips, as they are technically called, very much on the alert, and springing rapidly on the wing when disturbed. They, and the Blue-Wings also, fly very rapidly, dodging occasionally on the wing, not unlike to a wild, sharp-flying Woodcock, and when they alight, darting downward with a short, sudden twist among the reeds or rushy covert, exactly after the fashion of the same bird.
The commoner and, in our opinion—where these birds are abundant either along the courses of winding drains or streamlets, or in large reedy marshes, with wet soil and occasional pools or splashes—far the more exciting way of killing them is to go carefully and warily on foot, with a good medium-sized double-gun, say of eight to ten pounds weight, and a thoroughly well broke and steady spaniel, to retrieve and occasionally to flush the birds, which will sometimes, though rarely, lie very hard. A good sportsman will frequently, thus late in the autumn, when the mornings are sharp and biting, and the noons warm and hazy, but before the ice makes, pick up, on favorable ground, his eight or nine couple in a day’s walking, with a chance of picking up at the same time a few Snipe, Golden Plovers, Curlew, or Godwit; and this, in our mind, is equal to slaughtering a boat load by sneaking up in ambush to within twenty yards of a great company, whistling to make them lift their heads and ruffle up their loosened plumage, so as to give easy entrance to the shot, and then pouring into them at half point-blank range, a half pound of heavy shot.
In the southern States they are commonly taken, says Wilson, “in vast numbers, in traps placed on the small dry eminences that here and there rise above the water of the inundated rice fields. These places are strewed with rice, and by the common contrivance called a figure four, they are caught alive in hollow traps.” This we, of course, merely mention as illustrative of the habits of the bird; for, of course, no sportsman would dream of resorting to so worse than poacher-like a proceeding. The mode described by the eloquent pioneer of American natural history, is probably practised, for the most part, by the negroes for the supply of their masters’ table, and furnishing their own pockets with a little extra change, and is not used by the planters as a means of sport or amusement. It must be remembered, also, that Wilson, than whom there is no writer more to be relied on in matters which he relates of his own knowledge, and as occurring in his own days, must often be takencum grano salis, as to the numbers of birds slain in this way or that within a certain time—things which he records, probably, on hearsay, and on which—we are sorry to say it—even good sportsmen, men who on any other subject would scorn to deviate one hair’s breadth from the truth, will not hesitate to draw a bow as long and as strong as Munchausen’s. Again, he writes of times when sporting was but little pursued, otherwise than as a method of procuring superior food for the table, or for the purpose of destroying noxious vermin and beasts of prey; when the rules of sportsmanship were little understood and as little regarded; and, lastly, when game abounded to a degree literally inconceivable in our day—although we have ourselves seen, with sorrow, the diminution, amounting in many regions around our large cities almost to extinction, of all birds and beasts—nay, but even fish of chase, within the last twenty years. We must be careful therefore not to charge exaggeration on a writer who, beyond a doubt, faithfully recorded that which he himself saw and enjoyed in his day; which we might see likewise and enjoy in our generation, and our children and grand-children after us, if it were not for the greedy, stupid, selfish, and brutal pot-hunting propensities of our population, alike rural of the country and mechanical of the cities, which seems resolutely and of set purpose bent on the utter annihilation of every species of game, whether of fur, fin or feather, which is yet found within our boundaries.
In my opinion, the common error of all American fowlers and duck shooters, lies, in the first place, in the overloading the gun altogether, causing it to recoil so much as to be exceedingly disagreeable and even painful, and in the same degree diminishing the effect of the discharge; for it must never be forgotten that when a gun recoils, whatever force is expended on the retrogressive motion of the breech, that same force is to be deducted from the propulsion of the charge. In the second place, he erroneously loads with extremely large and heavy shot, the result of which is, in two respects, inferior to that of a lighter and higher number. First, as there will be three or four pellets of No. 4 for every one pellet of A or B in a charge, and, consequently, as the load is thereby so much the more regularly distributed, and so much the more likely to strike the object, and that in several places more, in the ratio of three or four to one, than could be effected by A’s or B’s. Second, as the flesh will constantly close over the wound made by a small shot, so as to cause the bleeding to go on internally to the engorgement of the tissues and suffocation by hemorrhage; whereas the wound made by the large grain will relieve itself by copious bleeding, and the bird so injured will oftentimesrecover, after having fallen even to the surface of the water, or lain flapping, as it were, in the death-struggle on the blood-stained sand or grassy hassocks. This fact has been well noticed, and several examples adduced to prove its truth, by Mr. Giraud, in his exceedingly clear and correct, though, to our taste, far too brief volume on the “Birds of Long Island.”
For my own use I invariably adopt for all the smaller species of duck—as the two varieties of Teal, the Summer Duck, the Golden Eye, and the Buffel-headed Duck,Anates,Carolinensis,Discors,Sponsa, andFuligulæ,Clanguid, andAlbeola—the same shot which is generally used for the various birds known on our shores and rivers as bay-snipe, viz: No. 4 or 5—the latter best for the Plovers, the former for duck, whether in large or small guns. In this relation I may observe that, on one occasion—the only one, by the way, on which I ever saw a green-winged teal in the summer season—I killed a couple of these beautiful birds, right and left, while woodcock shooting, in Orange County, New York, with No. 8 shot. They sprang quite unexpectedly from behind a willow bush, on the Wuwayanda creek, and I dropped them both quite dead, some what to my own astonishment, and to the utter astounding of Fat Tom, who witnessed it, into the middle of the stream, respectively at twenty and twenty-five yards distance. Until I recovered them I supposed that they were young wood ducks, but on examination they proved to be young green-winged teal, of that season, in their immature plumage. This must have been in the last week of July or the first of August—it was many years since, and as at that time I kept no shooting diary, I unfortunately am unable to verify the exact date. The birds must, I conclude, have been bred in that vicinity, by what means I cannot conjecture, unless that the parent birds might have been wounded in the spring, and disabled from completing their northern migration, and that this, as is some times the case with the minor birds of passage, might have superinduced their breeding in that, for them, far southern region. In corroboration of this I may add that, in the spring of 1846, a couple of these birds haunted a small reedy island in front of my house, on the Passaic, to so late a day in summer—the 29th, if I do not err, of May—that I sedulously avoided disturbing them, in the hope that they would breed there. This I yet think would have been the case but for the constant disturbance of that lovely river throughout the summer by gangs of ruffianly loafers, with whom the neighboring town of Newark abounds beyond any other town of its size in the known world, boating upon its silvery surface day and night, and rendering day and night equally hideous with their howls and blasphemies.
Before proceeding to the description of these birds it is well to observe that it will be found the better way, in approaching them, as indeedallwild fowl, to work, if possible, up wind to them; not that wild fowl havethe power, as some pretend, of scenting the odor of the human enemy on the tainted gale, as is undoubtedly the case with deer and many other quadrupeds, but that their hearing is exceedingly acute, and that their heads are pricked up to listen, at the occurrence of the least unusual sound, and at the next moment—hey, presto!—they are off.
The little cut at the head of this paper, for his spirited and faithful execution of which the author and artist must be permitted to return his acknowledgments to his friend, Mr. Brightly, represents a favorite feeding ground of the various tribes of water fowl, as is indicated by the large gaggle of geese passing over, from right to left, and the trip of green-wings alighting to the call of a clamorous drake in the background. On a rocky spur of the shore, in the right foreground, is a male Green-Winged Teal, in the act of springing, with his legs already gathered under him; and, still nearer to the front of the picture, on the right, a Blue-Winged Drake, swimming on the limpid water, soliciting his congener, with reverted neck, and the harsh gabble—whence his name—to take wing and greet the new-comers—it being the object of the draftsman to give an idea not merely of the markings and form of these two most beautiful and graceful of the duck tribe, but of their motions, the character of their flights, and the nature of their feeding grounds and habitations.
The head of the Green-Winged Teal is of moderate size and compressed; the bill nearly as long as the head, deeper than broad at the base, depressed at the tip; neck slender, of moderate length; body full and depressed; wings rather small, feet short and rather far back.
The plumage is short and blended; that of the hinder head and neck elongated into a soft filamentous drooping crest. The bill is black; iris hazel; feet light blue; head and upper part of neck bright chestnut brown; a broad band of shining rich bottle-green, narrowings from the eye backward and downward to the nape, margined below with black, anterior to which is a white line; chin dusky brown. Upper parts and flanks white, beautifully and closely undulated with narrow lines of deep gray. Anterior to the wings is a broad transverse lunated white bar—this alone distinguishing the American from the European bird. The wing coverts, scapulars and quills gray. The speculum bright green above, blue-black below, margined posteriorly with pure white. Tail brownish gray, margined with paler brown. Lower part of the neck undulated, like the back. Breast pale rufous, spotted and banded with black; white below. Abdomen white, barred with gray. A black patch under the tail; the lateral tail coverts tawny, the larger black, white-tipped and margined. Length of male bird, 14¾.24. Female, 13¾.22½.
The description and drawing of this bird are taken, by kind permission, which the writer gratefully acknowledges, from a fine specimen in the Academy of Natural Science of this city.
The Blue-Winged Teal is rather larger than the above, the male measuring 16.31½, the female 15.24.
The shape and proportions of this bird closely resemble those of the latter, but in plumage it widely differs from it. The bill is blueish black; iris dark hazel; feet dull yellow, webs dusky; upper part of the head black, a semilunar patch of pure white, margined with black anterior to the eye; the rest of the head and upper neck deep purplish gray, with changeable ruddy reflections. The lower hind neck, back, alula, and upper parts generally, rich chocolate brown, every feather margined with paler tints, from reddish buff to pale reddish gray, with black central markings, changing to metallic green in the centres. Upper wing coverts rich ultra-marine blue, with a metallic lustre; the lower parts pale reddish orange, shaded on the breast with purplish red, and thickly spotted with roundish or eliptical black spots; axillary feathers, lower wing coverts, and a patch on the side of the rump, pure white; lower tail coverts brownish black.
These, with the exception of the Buffel-Headed Duck, are the two smallest; with the exception of the Summer Duck, the two loveliest; with the exception of the Canvas-Back the two best of the duck tribe. Well met be they, whether on the board or in the field—shot be they with No. 4—eaten roast, underdone, with cayenne and a squeeze of a lemon, lubricated with red wine,quantum suff.