In heaven's pure serene,

To his bright lyre, whose strings melodious rung,
Unshorn Apollo sweetly sung,

And spread the joyous numbers round —

His youthful brows with gold and laurel bound
Listening to the sweet, immortal strain,

Each heavenly power was seen;

And all the lucid spheres, night's wakeful train,
That swift pursue their ceaseless way,

Forgot their course, suspended by his lay.

Hushed was the stormy sea

At the sweet sound the boisterous waves were laid,

The noise of rushing winds was stayed;

And with the gentle breath of pleasure

The Muses sung, according with his measure.
In wildest strains of rapture lost,

He sung the victory.

The power and glory of the heavenly host,

The horrid mien and warlike mood,

The fatal pride of the Titanian brood:

Of Pallas, Attic maid,

The Gorgon terrors and the fiery spear;
Of him, whose voice the billows fear,
The valor proved in deadly fight;

Of Hercules the strength and vengeful might.
But long he praised thy dauntless heart.
And sweetest prelude made,

Singing, Bistonian Mars, thy force and art;
Thine arm victorious, which o'erthrew
The fiercest of the bold Phlegrean crew.

-Translation of HERBERT.

ERRICK, ROBERT, an English poet; born at
London, August 20, 1591; died at Dean Prior,

Devonshire, in October, 1674. He studied at Cambridge, and after leaving the university led a jovial life in London for several years. Among his associates was Ben Jonson, to whomor, rather, to whose departed shade-he addressed the following lines:

TO BEN JONSON.

Ah Ben!

Say how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts
Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun;

Where we such clusters had

As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine

Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.

My Ben!

Or come again,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus.
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it;

Lest we that talent spend;

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of such a wit, the world should have no more.

At the age of thirty-six Herrick took Holy Orders, and was in 1629 presented by Charles I. to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. Here he wrote numerous poems, not altogther of a clerical character, but

containing many clever descriptions of rural customs and manners. In 1647 he published the Noble Numbers, and the Hesperides, or Works Human and Divine, which were dedicated to "the Most Illustrious and Most Hopeful Prince Charles," then a lad of eighteen, afterward King Charles II. In this publication the author drops the clerical designation, and announces himself as "Robert Herrick, Esquire."

His volume had hardly been published when Herrick was ejected from his living by the "Long Parliament." He repaired to London, where he lived as best he could for ten or twelve years. Upon the restoration of Charles II., in 1660, Herrick was reinstated in his vicarage. He was now close upon threescore and ten, well wearied of a life which had been nowise saintly, though apparently not marked by any great excesses. In his old age he wrote the following "Apologia" for some of the writings of his earlier

years:

HERRICK'S ÁPOLOGIA.

For these, my unbaptized rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed times -
For every sentence, clause, and word,
That's not inlaid with Thee, O Lord,
Forgive me, God, and blot each line
Out of my book that is not Thine:
But if, 'mongst all, Thou findest one
Worthy Thy benediction,

That one, of all the rest shall be

The glory of my work and me.

For nearly a century and a half after the death of Herrick his poems appear to have been almost forgotten. In 1810 a selection from the Hesperides was published by Dr. Nott; since then several excellent

editions have appeared in England and America. Herrick's poems include not a few of the daintiest fancies in the English language.

A THANKSGIVING.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell:

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlor, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread,
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire.

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee.

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent,
And my content,

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land:

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.