l that knowledge can inspire, all that tenderness can endear,
centres about that picture of the beauty of holiness, his brief pastoral
career--as we read it in his prose writings and his poems, and the pages
of Walton--at the little village of Bemerton. He died at the age of
thirty-nine--his gentle spirit spared the approaching conflicts of his
country, which pressed so heavily upon the Church which he loved.

The poems of Herbert are now read throughout the world; no longer confined
to that Church which inspired them. They are echoed at times in the
pulpits of all denominations, while their practical lines are, if we
remember rightly, scattered among the sage aphorisms of Poor Richard, and
their wide philosophy commends itself to the genius of Emerson.

It is pleasant in these old poets to admire what has been admired by
others--to read the old verses with the indorsement of genius. The name
adds value to the bond. Coleridge, for instance, whose "paper," in a
mercantile sense, would have been, on "change," the worst in England, has
given us many of these notable "securities." They live in his still
echoing "Table-Talk," and are sprinkled generously over his
writings--while what record is there of the "good," the best financial
names of the day? One sonnet of Herbert was an especial favorite with
Coleridge. It was that heart-searching, sympathizing epitome of spiritual
life, entitled

SIN.

"Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then school-masters
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers.

"Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises.

"Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness.
The sound of Glory ringing in our ears:
Without, our shame; within, our consciences:
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.

"Yet all these fences and their whole array,
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away."

These poems, it should be remembered, are private devotional
heart-confessions, not written for sale, for pay or reputation; they were
not printed at all during the author's life, but were brought forth by
faithful friends from the sacred coffer of his dying-room, in order that
posterity might know the secret of that honorable life and its cheerful
end. Izaak Walt