GEORGE HERBERT

A SONNET SENT TO HIS MOTHER AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT FROM CAMBRIDGE

My God, where is that ancient heat towards Thee
Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn,
Besides their other flames? Doth poetry
Wear Venus' livery,-only serve her turn?
Why are not sonnets made of Thee, and lays
Upon Thine altar burnt? Cannot Thy love
Heighten a spirit to sound out Thy praise
As well as any she? Cannot Thy Dove
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?

Or, since Thy ways are deep, and still the same Will not a verse run smooth that bears Thy name? Why doth that fire, which by Thy power and might Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose

Than that, which one day worms may chance refuse?

GEORGE HERBERT

SIN

LORD, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they lead 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.

WILLIAM HABINGTON

(1605-54)

LOVE'S ANNIVERSARY

TO THE SUN

THOU art returned, great Light, to that blest hour
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Joined with Castara hearts: and as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame :
Which had increased, but that by love's decree,
'Twas such at first, it ne'er could greater be.
But tell me (glorious Lamp) in thy survey
Of things below thee, what did not decay,
By age to weakness? I since that have seen

The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow green
And wither, and the beauty of the field

With winter wrinkled. Even thy self dost yield
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher;
But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.

WILLIAM HABINGTON

OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE

WHERE Sleeps the North wind when the South inspires Life in the spring and gathers into quires

The scattered nightingales; whose subtle ears
Heard first the harmonious language of the spheres ;
Whence hath the stone magnetic force to allure
The enamoured iron; from a seed impure
Or natural did first the mandrake grow;
What power i' the ocean makes it ebb and flow ;
What strange material is the azure sky

Compacted of; of what its brightest eye
The ever flaming sun; what people are

In the unknown world; what worlds in every star; Let curious fancies at this secret rove ;

Castara, what we know, we'll practise, Love.

JOHN MILTON

(1608-74)

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

O NIGHTINGALE that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I,