s flesh, not grass; my senses live,
And grumble oft, that they have more in me
Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love thee.

"I know all these, and have them in my hand;
Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes
I fly to thee, and fully understand
Both the main sale, and the commodities;
And at what rate and price I have thy love;
With all the circumstances that may move:
Yet through the labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,
But thy silk-twist let down from heav'n to me,
Did both conduct and teach me, how, by it,
To climb to thee."

A splendid retrospect this of a short life: and with what accurate
knowledge of art, science, policy, literature, of powers of body and mind.
Herbert's poems are full of this sterling sense and philosophical
reflection--the mintage of a master mind.

Addison's version of the twenty-third Psalm has entered into every
household and penetrated every heart by its sweetness and pathos. There is
equal gentleness and sincerity in Herbert's:

"The God of love my shepherd is,
And he that doth me feed.
While he is mine, and I am his,
What can I want or need?

"He leads me to the tender grass,
Where I both feed and rest;
Then to the streams that gently pass:
In both I have the best.

"Or if I stray, he doth convert,
And bring my mind in frame
And all this not for my desert,
But for his holy name.

"Yea, in death's shady, black abode
Well may I walk, not fear:
For thou art with me, and thy rod
To guide, thy staff to bear.

"Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,
E'en in my en'mies' sight;
My head with oil, my cup with wine,
Runs over day and night.

"Surely thy sweet and wond'rous love
Shall measure all my days:
And as it never shall remove,
So neither shall my praise."

We might linger long with Herbert, gathering the fruits of wisdom and
piety from the abundant orchard of his poems, where many a fruit "hangs
amiable;" but we must listen to his brethren.

* * * * *

Henry Vaughan was the literary offspring of George Herbert. His life, too,
might have been written by good Izaak Walton, so gentle was it, full of
all pleasant associations and quiet nobleness, decorated by the love of
nature and letters, intimacies with poets, and with tha