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a connected series of poems in imitation of Herbert's " TEMPLE,” and in some editions annexed to it.
O how my mind
Not a thought,
All to nought!
And narrow shreds
Of lists ;
Immediately after these burlesque passages I cannot proceed to the extracts promised, without changing the ludicrous tone of feeling by the interposition of the three following stanzas of Herbert's.
Sweet day so cool, so calm, so bright,
For thou must dye !
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
And thou must dye !
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
And all must dye!
THE BOSOM SIN :
A SONNET BY GEORGE HERBERT.
Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, Bibles laid open, millions of surprizes ; Blessings before hand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears :
Without, our shame; within our consciences;
Yet all these fences, and their whole array
Dear friend, sit down, the tale is long and sad :
To him I brought a dish of fruit one day
(I sigh to say)
you shall hear. After my heart was well, And clean and fair, as I one eventide,
(I sigh to tell) Walkt by myself abroad, I saw a large And spacious furnace flaming, and thereon A boiling caldron, round about whose verge Was in great letters set AFFLICTION. The greatness shew'd the owner. So I went To fetch a sacrifice out of my fold, Thinking with that, which I did thus present, To warm his love, which, I did fear, grew cold. But as my heart did tender it, the man Who was to take it from me, slipt his hand, And threw my heart into the scalding pan; My heart that brought it (do you understand ?) The offerer's heart. Your heart was hurd, I fear. Indeed 'tis true. I found a callous matter Began to spread and to expatiate these: But with a richer drug than scalding water I bath'd it often, ev'n with holy blood, Which at a board, while many drank bare wine, A friend did steal into my cup for good,
Ev'n taken inwardly, and most divine
(I sigh to speak)
The thorns did quicken what was grown too dull :
The former subject continued–The neutral style,
or that common to Prose and Poetry, exemplified by specimens from Chaucer, Herbert, fc.
I have no fear in declaring my conviction, that the excellence defined and exemplified in the preceding Chapter is not the characteristic excellence of Mr. Wordsworth's style; because I can add with equal sincerity, that it is precluded by higher powers. The praise of uniform adherence to genuine, logical English is undoubtedly bis ; nay, laying the main emphasis on the word uniform I will dare add that, of all contemporary poets, it is his alone. For in a less absolute sense of the word, I should certainly include Mr. Bowles, LORD Byron, and, as to all his later writings, MR. SOUTHEY, the exceptions in their works being so few and unimportant. But of the specific excellence described in the quotation from Garve, I appear to find more, and more undoubted specimens in the works of others; for instance, among the minor poems of Mr. Thomas Moore, and of our illustrious Laureate. To me it will always remain a singular and noticeable fact; that a theory which would establish this