From the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick | Page 9

cannot bear the competition of the full modern orchestra. Yet this author need not fear! That exquisite: and lofty pleasure which it is the first and the last aim of all true art to give, must, by its own nature, be lasting also. As the eyesight fluctuates, and gives the advantage to different colours in turn, so to the varying moods of the mind the same beauty does not always seem equally beautiful. Thus from the 'purple light' of our later poetry there are hours in which we may look to the daffodil and rose-tints of Herrick's old Arcadia, for refreshment and delight. And the pleasure which he gives is as eminently wholesome as pleasurable. Like the holy river of Virgil, to the souls who drink of him, Herrick offers 'securos latices.' He is conspicuously free from many of the maladies incident to his art. Here is no overstrain, no?spasmodic cry, so wire-drawn analysis or sensational rhetoric, no music without sense, no mere second-hand literary inspiration, no mannered archaism:--above all, no sickly sweetness, no subtle, unhealthy affectation. Throughout his work, whether when it is strong, or in the less worthy portions, sanity, sincerity,?simplicity, lucidity, are everywhere the characteristics of Herrick: in these, not in his pretty Pagan masquerade, he shows the note,--the only genuine note,--of Hellenic descent. Hence, through whatever changes and fashions poetry may pass, her true lovers he is likely to 'please now, and please for long.' His verse, in the words of a poet greater than himself, is of that quality which 'adds sunlight to daylight'; which is able to 'make the happy happier.' He will, it may be hoped, carry to the many Englands across the seas, east and west, pictures of English life exquisite in truth and grace:--to the more fortunate inhabitants (as they must perforce hold themselves!) of the old country, her image, as she was two centuries since, will live in the 'golden apples' of the West, offered to us by this sweet singer of?Devonshire. We have greater poets, not a few; none more faithful to nature as he saw her, none more perfect in his art;--none, more companionable:--
F. T. P.?Dec. 1876
? C H R Y S O M E L A **
A SELECTION FROM THE LYRICAL POEMS OF ROBERT HERRICK
? PREFATORY **
*1*
THE ARGUMENT OF HIS BOOK
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,?Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers;?I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,?Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.?I write of Youth, of Love;--and have access?By these, to sing of cleanly wantonness;?I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,?Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.?I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write?How roses first came red, and lilies white.?I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing?The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King.?I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall?Of Heaven,--and hope to have it after all.
*2*
TO HIS MUSE
Whither, mad maiden, wilt thou roam??Far safer 'twere to stay at home;?Where thou mayst sit, and piping, please?The poor and private cottages.?Since cotes and hamlets best agree?With this thy meaner minstrelsy.?There with the reed thou mayst express?The shepherd's fleecy happiness;?And with thy Eclogues intermix:?Some smooth and harmless Bucolics.?There, on a hillock, thou mayst sing?Unto a handsome shepherdling;?Or to a girl, that keeps the neat,?With breath more sweet than violet.?There, there, perhaps such lines as these?May take the simple villages;?But for the court, the country wit?Is despicable unto it.?Stay then at home, and do not go?Or fly abroad to seek for woe;?Contempts in courts and cities dwell?No critic haunts the poor man's cell,?Where thou mayst hear thine own lines read?By no one tongue there censured.?That man's unwise will search for ill,?And may prevent it, sitting still.
*3*
WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ
In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse?The holy incantation of a verse;?But when that men have both well drunk, and fed,?Let my enchantments then be sung or read.?When laurel spirts i' th' fire, and when the hearth?Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth;?When up the Thyrse is raised, and when the sound?Of sacred orgies, flies A round, A round;?When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine,?Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.
*4*
TO HIS BOOK
Make haste away, and let one be?A friendly patron unto thee;?Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie?Torn for the use of pastery;?Or see thy injured leaves serve well?To make loose gowns for mackarel;?Or see the grocers, in a trice,?Make hoods of thee to serve out spice.
*5*
TO HIS BOOK
Take mine advice, and go not near?Those faces, sour as vinegar;?For these, and nobler numbers, can?Ne'er please the supercilious man.
*6*
TO HIS BOOK
Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear?The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe;?But by the Muses swear, all here is good,?If but well read, or ill read, understood.
*7*
TO MISTRESS