Be down, then wind up both; since we shall be
Most surely judged, make thy accounts agree.

78.

In brief, acquit thee bravely: play the man.
Look not on pleasures as they come but go.
Defer not the least virtue: life's poor span

Make not an ill by trifling in thy woe.
If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains;
If well, the pain doth fade, the joy remains.

The Temple consists of about one hundred and sixty poems, most of them short, but a few extending to several hundred lines. Some of them are marked by those quaint conceits characteristic of the time in which Herbert lived. Thus the first poem The Altar is so arranged that the lines form a kind of altar.

THE ALTAR.

A broken altar, Lord, Thy servant rears,
Made of a heart, and cemented with tears;
Whose parts are as Thy hand did frame;
No workman's tool hath touched the same
A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy power doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame
To praise Thy name:

That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise Thee may not cease.
O let Thy BLESSED SACRIFICE be mine,
And sanctify this ALTAR to be Thine.

PARADISE.

I bless Thee, Lord because I
Among Thy trees, which in a
To Thee both fruit and order

Grow

row

ow.

My God, I hear this day

That none doth build a stately habitation,
But he that means to dwell therein.

What house more stately, hath there been, Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation All things are in decay.

For Man is everything,

And more he is a tree, yet bears no fruit;
A beast, yet is or should be more :
Reason and speech we only bring.
Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute,
They go upon the score.

My body is all symmetry,

Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And all to all the world besides :

Each part may call the farthest brother;
For head with foot hath private amity,
And both with moons and tides.

Nothing hath got so far,

But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey. His eyes dismount the highest star

He is in little all the sphere;

Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Find their acquaintance there.

For us the winds do blow;

The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fount Rains flow.

Nothing we see but means our good,

As our delight or as our treasure:
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed;

Night draws the curtain which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.

Each thing is full of duty:
Waters united are our navigation;
Distinguished, our habitation;

Below, our drink; above our meat;
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty?
Then how are things neat!

More servants wait on Man

Than he'll take notice of: in every path

He treads down that which doth befriend him
When sickness makes him pale and wan,
Oh, mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.

Since then, my God, Thou hast

So brave a palace built, Oh dwell in it,

That it may dwell with Thee at last!
Till then, afford us so much wit,

That as the world serves us, we may serve Thee,
And both Thy servants be.

A BOSOM SIN.

Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
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.

THE VIRTUOUS SOUL.

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

Sweet Rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie!
My music shows ye have your closes;
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives.
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

TO ALL ANGELS AND SAINTS.

O glorious Spirits, who, after all your bands, See the smooth face of God, without a frown Or strict commands;

Where every one is king, and hath his crown If not upon his head, yet in his hands!

Not out of envy or maliciousness

Do I forbear to crave your special aid.
I would address

My vows to thee most gladly, blessed Maid,

And Mother of my God, in my distress.

VOL. XIII.-12

Thou art the holy mine whence came the Gold, The great restorative for all decay

In young and old.

Thou art the cabinet where the Jewels lay. Chiefly to thee would I my soul unfold.

But now, alas! I dare not; for our King,
Whom we do all jointly adore and praise,
Bids no such thing:

And where His pleasure no injunction lays ('Tis your own case), ye never move a wing.

All worship is prerogative, and a flower.

Of His rich crown, from whom lies no appeal At the last hour:

Therefore we dare not from his garland steal, To make a posy for inferior power.