Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TEMPLE, by ROBERT HERRICK


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TEMPLE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: A way enchased with glass and beads
Last Line: Goes to the feast that's now provided.
Subject(s): Fairies; Elves


A way enchac't with glasse & beads
There is, that to the Chappel leads:
Whose structure (for his holy rest)
Is here the Halcion's curious nest:
Into the which who looks shall see
His Temple of Idolatry:
Where he of God-heads has such store,
As Rome's Pantheon had not more.
His house of Rimmon, this he calls,
Girt with small bones, instead of walls.
First, in a Neech, more black than jet,
His Idol-Cricket there is set:
Then in a Polisht Ovall by
There stands his Idol-Beetle-flie:
Next in an Arch, akin to this,
His Idol-Canker seated is:
Then in a Round, is plac't by these,
His golden god, Cantharides.
So that where ere ye look, ye see,
No Capitoll, no Cornish free,
Or Freeze, from this fine Fripperie.
Now this the Fairies wo'd have known,
Theirs is a mixt Religion.
And some have heard the Elves it call
Part Pagan, part Papisticall.
If unto me all tongues were granted,
I co'd not speak the Saints here painted.
Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,
Who 'gainst Mabs-state plac't here right is.
Saint Will o'th' Wispe (of no great bignes)
But alias call'd here Fatuus ignis.
Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, S. Fillie,
Neither those other-Saint-ships will I
Here goe about for to recite
Their number (almost) infinite,
Which one by one here set downe are
In this most curious Calendar.
First, at the entrance of the gate,
A little-Puppet-Priest doth wait,
Who squeaks to all the commers there,
Favour your tongues, who enter here.
Pure hands bring hither, without staine.
A second pules, Hence, hence, profane.
Hard by, i'th'shell of halfe a nut
The Holy-water there is put:
A little brush of Squirrils haires,
(Compos'd of odde, not even paires)
Stands in the Platter, or close by,
To purge the Fairie Family.
Neere to the Altar stands the Priest,
There off'ring up the Holy-Grist:
Ducking in Mood, and perfect Tense,
With (much-good-do't him) reverence.
The Altar is not here foure-square,
Nor in a forme Triangular;
Nor made of glasse, or wood, or stone,
But of a little Transverce bone;
Which boyes, and Bruckel'd children call
(Playing for Points and Pins) Cockall.
Whose Linnen-Drapery is a thin
Subtile and ductile Codlin's skin;
Which o're the board is smoothly spred,
With little Seale-work Damasked.
The Fringe that circumbinds it too,
Is Spangle-work of trembling dew,
Which, gently gleaming, makes a show,
Like Frost-work glitt'ring on the Snow.
Upon this fetuous board doth stand
Something for Shew-bread, and at hand
(Just in the middle of the Altar)
Upon an end, the Fairie-Psalter,
Grac't with the Trout-flies curious wings,
Which serve for watched Ribbanings.
Now, we must know, the Elves are led
Right by the Rubrick, which they read.
And if Report of them be true,
They have their Text for what they doe;
I, and their Book of Canons too.
And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,
They have their Book of Articles:
And if that Fairie Knight not lies,
They have their Book of Homilies:
And other Scriptures, that designe
A short, but righteous discipline.
The Bason stands the board upon
To take the Free-Oblation:
A little Pin-dust; which they hold
More precious, then we prize our gold:
Which charity they give to many
Poore of the Parish, (if there's any)
Upon the ends of these neat Railes
(Hatcht, with the Silver-light of snails)
The Elves, in formall manner, fix
Two pure, and holy Candlesticks:
In either which a small tall bent
Burns for the Altars ornament.
For sanctity, they have, to these,
Their curious Copes and Surplices
Of cleanest Cobweb, hanging by
In their Religious Vesterie.
They have their Ash-pans, & their Brooms
To purge the Chappel and the rooms:
Their many mumbling Masse-priests here,
And many a dapper Chorister.
There ush'ring Vergers, here likewise,
Their Canons, and their Chaunteries:
Of Cloyster-Monks they have enow,
I, and their Abby-Lubbers too:
And if their Legend doe not lye,
They much affect the Papacie:
And since the last is dead, there's hope,
Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.
They have their Cups and Chalices;
their Pardons and Indulgences:
Their Beads of Nits, Bels, Books, & Wax
Candles (forsooth) and other knacks:
Their Holy Oyle, their Fasting-Spittle;
Their sacred Salt here, (not a little.)
Dry chips, old shooes, rags, grease, & bones;
Beside their Fumigations,
To drive the Devill from the Cod-piece
Of the Fryar, (of work an odde-piece.)
Many a trifle too, and trinket,
And for what use, scarce man wo'd think it.
Next, then, upon the Chanters side
An Apples-core is hung up dry'd,
With ratling Kirnils, which is rung
To call to Morn, and Even-Song.
The Saint, to which the most he prayes
And offers Incense Nights and dayes,
The Lady of the Lobster is,
Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kisse
And, humbly, chives of Saffron brings,
For his most cheerfull offerings.
When, after these, h'as paid his vows,
He lowly to the Altar bows:
And then he dons the Silk-worms shed,
(Like a Turks Turbant on his head)
And reverently departeth thence,
Hid in a cloud of Frankincense:
And by the glow-worms light wel guided,
Goes to the Feast that's now provided.





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