I sat me down to spell them, and perceived
That to my broken heart, he was I ease you,
And to my whole is Jesu.
Space will not permit us to make further extracts from these poems of Herbert’s. Those that we have given, illustrate the pious ardor of the subject of our sketch, while at the same time they give evidence of some claim to take position with the minor poets of his day. His prose compositions undoubtedly possess more merit than his poetical, and clearly entitle him to rank with the best of his contemporaries. The beautiful simplicity of the character of our poet, has never been surpassed in any age. His disposition was of the most sweet and engaging nature, adorned with all the graces of a most saint-like piety. “He lived like a saint,” says his enthusiastic biographer, old Walton, “and like a saint did he die.” The Sunday before his death, raising himself from his bed, he called for his instrument, and having tuned it, played and sung that verse from his poems, commencing,
The Sundays of man’s life
Threaded together on time’s string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious king.
Like the dying swan,
As death darkened his eye and unplumed his wings,