we have the impress and inspiration of our Poet.
How infinitely soft and tender and Shakesperean is the 'Epitaph vpon a yovng Married Covple dead and bvryed together' (with its now restored lines), thus!—
'Peace, good Reader, doe not weep;
Peace, the louers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded ly
In the last knott that Loue could ty.
And though they ly as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheetes of lead
(Pillow hard, and sheetes not warm),
Loue made the bed; they'l take no harm:
Let them sleep; let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And the æternall morrow dawn;
Then ...' (vol. i. pp. 230-1.)
The hush, the tranquil stillness of a church-aisle, within which 'sleep' old recumbent figures, comes over one in reading these most pathetically beautiful words. Of the whole poem, Dodd in his 'Epigrammatists' (as onward) remarks, 'after reading this Epitaph, all others on the same subject must suffer by comparison. Yet there is much to be admired in the following by Bishop Hall, on Sir Edward and Lady Lewkenor. It is translated from the Latin by the Bishop's descendant and editor, the Rev. Peter Hall (Bp. Hall's Works, 1837-9, xii. 331):
'In bonds of love united, man and wife,
Long, yet too short, they spent a happy life;
United still, too soon, however late,
Both man and wife receiv'd the stroke of fate:
And now in glory clad, enraptur'd pair,
The same bright cup, the same sweet draught they share.
Thus, first and last, a married couple see,
In life, in death, in immortality.'
There is much beauty also in an anonymous epitaph in the 'Festoon' 143, 'On a Man and his Wife:'
'Here sleep, whom neither life nor love,
Nor friendship's strictest tie,
Could in such close embrace as thou,
Their faithful grave, ally;
Preserve them, each dissolv'd in each,
For bands of love divine,
For union only more complete,
Thou faithful grave, than thine.' (p. 253.)
His 'Wishes to his (supposed) Mistresse' has things in it vivid and subtle as anything in Shelley at his best; and I affirm this deliberately. His little snatch on 'Easter Day' with some peculiarities, culminates in a grandeur Milton might bow before. The version of 'Dies Irae' is wonderfully severe and solemn and intense. Roscommon undoubtedly knew it. And so we might go on endlessly. His melody—with exceptional discords—is as the music of a Master, not mere versification. Once read receptively, and the words haunt almost awfully, and, I must again use the word, unearthlily. Summarily—as in our claim for Vaughan, as against the preposterous traditional assertions of his indebtedness to Herbert poetically, while really it was for spiritual benefits he was obligated—we cannot for an instant rank George Herbert as a Poet with Crashaw. Their piety is alike, or the 'Priest' of Bemerton is more definite, and clear of the 'fine mist' of mysticism of the recluse of 'Little St. Mary's;' but only very rarely have you in 'The Temple' that light of genius which shines as a very Shekinah-glory in the 'Steps to the Temple.' These 'Steps' have been spoken of as 'Steps' designed to lead into Herbert's 'Temple,' whereas they were 'Steps' to the 'Temple' or Church of the Living God. Crashaw 'sang' sweetly and generously of Herbert (vol. i. pp. 139-140); but the two Poets are profoundly distinct and independent. Clement Barksdale, probably, must bear the blame of foolishly subordinating Crashaw to Herbert, in his Lines in 'Nympha Libethris' (1651):
'HERBERT AND CRASHAW.
When unto Herbert's Temple I ascend
By Crashaw's Steps, I do resolve to mend
My lighter verse, and my low notes to raise,
And in high accent sing my Maker's praise.
Meanwhile these sacred poems in my sight
I place, that I may learn to write.'