"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 that especial touch of
nature which always went to the heart of the Complete Angler, a love of
fishing--for Vaughan was wont, at times, to skim the waters of his native
rivers.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100