Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: GEORGE HERBERT, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: GEORGE HERBERT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: And then I saw a reverend figure come
Last Line: "but this one never."
Subject(s): Herbert, George (1593-1633)


And then I saw a reverend figure come,
Walking with meditative steps and slow,
Who listened as the blest Cecilia erst
To high celestial music, else unheard;
And straight I knew the Priest, from whose full heart
Welled a clear spring of quaint and sacred song,
And seemed again to tread the dewy meads
Of Sarum, and to see the thin spire pierce
The sunset skies, as I by Bemerton
Strayed rapt in thought. And as we passed, my guide:

"Not of one Church, or age, or race alone
The saints are born, nor of one clime they come,
But 'mid the grass-green English landscapes dwell
Pure saintly souls, as by the slender towers
Of olive-grey Assisi, or white shrines
Washed by the purple sea. There, walked on earth
The saint thou seest, high of birth and name,
Yet lowly as his Lord, when once he gave
His life to Him, and with each day that dawned
Renewed his saintly vows, and lived content
For the brief years Heaven would.
Not always turned
His soul to Heaven; the splendours of the Court
Dazzled his youth, and the fair boundless dreams
Of youthful hope. For he, by name and blood
A noble, 'neath our Abbey's reverend shade,
Amid the cloistered courts of Westminster,
Drank with deep draughts the lore of Greece and Rome,
And then within the time-worn Halls which watch
The slow-paced Cam; and there his studious eyes
Kept nightly vigil, and his sweet shy Muse
Tuned her clear voice for Heaven, a stainless youth
Who to his loved and gracious mother vowed
The firstlings of his song. For him the flow
Of sweet concordant descants soothed his soul
Till Heaven stood open. But not yet his thought
Turned to the Altar, since in high respect
And favour of his king, he stayed to take
What high advancement his unwearied thirst
For knowledge, and his gay and polished wit,
Wielding the tongues of France and Spain, and thine,
Great Dante, and his courtly presence clad
In robes of price, might offer. Then at length,
When now his growing soul grew sick of Courts,
Yearning for Heaven, the hand of Death removed
His potent friends, and last, the king himself;
And one by one the fetters broke which bound
His soul to earth, and soon he turned to hear
His mother's pleading words; and, stronger still,
The voice within which called him set him free --
Free from himself and wholly vowed to God.

Then, when the courtiers scoffed at him and bade him
Pursue some nobler life and worthier,
Thus made he answer: 'Though the sacred name
Of priest be now despised, yet will I strive
To do it honour. All my little store
Of learning cheerful will I yield to Him
Who gave it, grieving sore I yield Him naught
Who made me His. Oh, let me strive to be
Likened to Him, and make Humility
Lovely in all men's eyes, following still
My merciful meek King.'
So he became
A servant of the Altar, for awhile
A deacon only, fearing yet to take
The priestly office. At the last, when now
His struggling years had reached life's midmost way,
Whence turn our faces homewards, weak in frame
Though strong in spirit, 'mid the golden meads
He ministered a priest, where the gray spire
Of Sarum points to Heaven, and consecrates
The rich low vale with grace. There he should see
Three brief and saintly years before the end.

There from him all his courtly robes, his silks,
His sword, he put away, and in the garb
Of priesthood did indue himself, and vow
His contrite soul to Heaven. Within his church,
With all doors closed, he passed, as the law bade,
To take full seisin, and, their pastor now,
To toll, with his own hand, the bell which called
The faithful. Then because he came not back
After long hours, they sought him, and, behold,
Through the low casement looking, saw the saint
Prostrate before the altar, rapt in prayer
For strength to do God's work; and there he framed
His rule of life, and vowed to keep it still.

Even so the good Priest lived his tranquil days,
His saintly helpmeet working with him still
In alms and prayer. Daily the orisons
Of those pure souls, and theirs who dwelt with them,
Three orphaned girls, rose morn and eve to Heaven,
Following the sober uses of their Church,
Matins and vespers. All the country side
Loved that white life, and knelt with reverent hearts
Whene'er within the little oratory
The daily Liturgies were sung. The hind
Paused at his task when o'er the neighbouring leas,
Summer and winter, thrilled the solemn bell
That called the saint to prayer, and oftentimes,
Touched by some new devouter impulse, left
The patient oxen at the plough, and knelt
Awhile within the reverend walls, and took
The good man's blessing, and returned with strength
Fresh braced for toil. Thus he, within a realm
Whereon the coming shadow of strife and blood,
The fanatic's guile and hate, the atheist's sneer,
Brooded already, and the darkling stain
Of worldly ease, and sloth, and sensual sin,
Renewed the pure devotion of a Church
Stripped of its Pagan gauds and robed for Heaven.

Ah! saintly life, for which the round of praise
And duty was enough, far from the din
And noise of Courts; for which to praise the Lord
And feed His helpless poor sufficed to fill
The days with blessedness! I hear thee yet
Bid the poor wife who stammered forth her need
Be of good cheer, nor fear to tell thee all.
I see thee, clad in courtly silks erewhile,
Stoop when thy neighbour's wagon, with its load
Of humble produce, on the rugged way
To Sarum fell, raise him, and from the mire
Replace his burden with long toil, and then,
Giving an alms and bidding him take heed,
Even as he loved his soul, to spare his beast,
Pace half-unconscious the astonished street
Of the prim city, miry, unashamed.
Ah! yet I see thee clearly, when the strain
Of unheard rhythms filled thy happy ears,
Wander from field to field; and on the road
To the great Minster, when thy soul had need
Of new refreshment, ever on thy way,
Hoarding faint echoes of a voice Divine,
Glow into fervent verse, and stone by stone
Build up thy 'Temple;' and anon sit rapt,
Leaving thy humbler liturgies awhile,
Within the heaven-kissed fane the centuries
Mellow, and listen to the soaring chant
Sung daily still, the jubilant anthem's voice
Of praise, the firstborn precious harmonies
Of England's sacred song; the o'ermastering joy
Of the full organ-music glooming deep
From aisle to aisle, or caught from height to height,
Till lost at last as at Heaven's gate, and thou
And thy rapt soul floated with it to joy.

Ah! blessed blameless years, to which too soon
Stern Nature set her limit. Thy weak frame
Three little years of too great happiness
Strained first, then wore out quite; thy failing strength
First to the Minster might not bear thee more
To foretaste Heaven. Then to thy lowly church
No more thy footsteps fared. Thy oratory
Thou still didst keep; and each succeeding day,
Matins and vespers, would thy feeble voice
Give praise as thou wert wont, nor would thy soul
Deny, while still thy body could, her due
Of worship to the Lord who succoured thee,
Lauding Him always. Last, when now 'twas grown
Too weak to serve, a faithful priest and friend
Said the loved prayers while thou with thankful heart
Listenedst and wert content, and on thy lips
Hovered a saintly smile!
Now when his life
Flowed nearer to its sea, there came a priest,
Sent from his lifelong friend of youth and age,
Nicholas Ferrar. 'Prithee,' cried the saint,
'Take to my friend this message. God is good,
And just in all His ways. Of His great grace
I do rejoice in that which pleaseth Him,
Ay, even to wane and die. Tell him my heart
Is fixed on Him, and waits the appointed change
With hope and patience. Sir, I pray you, give him
This little book, the portrait of long strife
Betwixt my soul and Heaven, ere yet I took
My Master's name, wherein I now go free.
See, it is called "The Temple;" it and I
Are less than His least mercies. Bid him, sir,
Burn it, if judged unhelpful to weak souls.
I prize it not. I look back from this place
On my past life, the music that I loved,
The beauty I held dear, the pleasant talk
Of books and men, and all are but a dream
And unreturning shadow, and I know
I go, as did my sires, to make my bed
In darkness; and I praise the Hand which gives
Such patience to me now, and brings me safe
Through Death's dark gate to Heaven.'
And he, when come
To his last earthly Sunday, suddenly
Rose in his bed, and, taking in his hand
His viol, once again with feeble voice
Sang his own hymn:

'The Sundays of Man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the Eternal Glorious King.
On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope,
Blessings are plentiful and ripe, More plentiful than hope!'"

"More plentiful,"
I cried, "and poured from no unfruitful horn.
Ay, but thy hope was great, pure saint, who thus
From out thy dying chamber wentest forth
Cheerful into the void, and didst defy
The Enemy, yielding thy grateful soul
Into His hands who gave it. Shall thy life
Fade from our thoughts, dear heart? Nay, while thy clear
And yearning soul distils in verse that breathes
Fresh odours of the Heaven it loved, and decks
With quaint conceits thy Church, thy Faith, thy Lord,
As erst the kneeling kings who honoured Him
With frankincense and myrrh; nay, while the spire
Thou lovedst, still points its finger to the skies,
And this our England keeps her sober faith --
Not of the zealot born, nor of the priest --
And men still prize the gentle life and path
Of contemplation, lit with flowers of good,
And scented sweet with praise and works of ruth
And charity. The fashion of our lives,
Our thoughts, our faiths, our Heaven may suffer change,
But this one never."





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