George Herbert: The Temple

Allegra Villarreal, Editor; Ryna May

39 George Herbert: The Temple

“The 17th-century text of George Herbert’s poem ‘The Altar'” by George Herbert. Wikimedia Commons.

Introduction

by Hani Kamee

Biography

George Herbert (1593-1633) was born in Wales and grew to be one of the most lauded orators and poets of his generation. Herbert’s father died when he was three, leaving his mother with ten children, all of whom she was determined to educate and raise as loyal Anglicans. Herbert left for Westminster School at age ten and went on to become one of three to win scholarships to Trinity College, Cambridge. He went on to receive two degrees (a BA in 1613 and an MA in 1616) and was elected a major fellow of Trinity. Two years after his college graduation, he was appointed Reader in Rhetoric at Cambridge, and in 1620 he was elected public oratora post wherein Herbert was called upon to represent Cambridge at public occasions and that he described as “the finest place in the university”(“George Herbert”). He would go on to serve in Parliament but ultimately gave up his secular life in favor of a quiet, parish post at St. Andrews’ church in Salisbury. Herbert was a conscientious and kind rector throughout his short life; he ultimately died of consumption at the age of 39 (“George Herbert”). His poems, often referred to as love poems to God, have caused him to be remembered as the greatest devotional poet in the English language.

Literary Context

The poems below, by the orator and Anglican cleric George Herbert (1593-1633), were first published in Herbert’s collection The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations which contains all of the poems he wrote in English (he also wrote in Greek and Latin) and was published posthumously.

He was part of the metaphysical tradition of English poetry, and all his poetry addressed religious themes (“The Altar (Herbert Poem)”). “The Altar,” the most famous of the collection, is regularly called a “pattern poem” or “shape poem” in which the form of the poem on the page is meant to mirror its visual image (in this case, an altar; “Easter Wings” is another example). Herbert had a playful style; in any case, the term is useful, since it suggests that for Herbert everything—including the shapes of the sonnets—can contain religious meaning. Herbert is ranked amongst the best of religious Christian writers or poets, and this sonnet conveys the experience of faith through verse.

Works Cited

“The Altar (Herbert Poem).” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 5 Apr. 2019, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Altar_(Herbert_poem). Accessed 02 May 2020.

“George Herbert: 1593-1633” Poets.org, Academy of American Poets, n.d., poets.org/poet/george-herbert. Accessed 02 May 2020.

Discussion Questions

What is the significance of the “pattern poem”? Is it merely a “gimmick” or does it enhance meaning in this case?
Is devotional poetry still relevant? Of what value is it to modern-day audiences?
Do you think the rhyme scheme plays a major contribution to the poem? Why or why not?
How does the poem help the reader understand the relationship between George Herbert and God?
Can these be read as love poems? Might this explain their enduring appeal?

Further Resources

A musical rendition of “The Altar” from St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Albany NY
A YouTube clip of Cambridge University’s Helen Wilcox discussing the importance of George Herbert
A webpage with a complete version of Herbert’s The Temple

Reading: From The Temple

The Altar

A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears,

Made of a heart and cemented with tears;

Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;

No workman’s tool hath touch’d the same.

A HEART alone

Is such a stone,

As nothing but

Thy pow’r doth cut.

Wherefore each part

Of my hard heart

Meets in this frame

To praise thy name.

That if I chance to hold my peace,

These stones to praise thee may not cease.

Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,

And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.

Redemption

Having been tenant long to a rich lord,

Not thriving, I resolvèd to be bold,

And make a suit unto him, to afford

A new small-rented lease, and cancel th’ old.

In heaven at his manor I him sought;

They told me there that he was lately gone

About some land, which he had dearly bought

Long since on earth, to take possessiòn.

I straight returned, and knowing his great birth,

Sought him accordingly in great resorts;

In cities, theaters, gardens, parks, and courts;

At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth

Of thieves and murderers; there I him espied,

Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.

Easter

Rise heart; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delays,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
With him mayst rise:
That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and much more just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all thy art.
The cross taught all wood to resound his name,
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long:
Or since all music is but three parts vied
And multiplied;
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got me flowers to straw thy way:
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st thy sweets along with thee.

The Sun arising in the East,
Though he give light, and th’East perfume;
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,
Though many suns to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we miss:
There is but one, and that one ever.

Easter Wings

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,

Though foolishly he lost the same,

Decaying more and more,

Till he became

Most poore:

With thee

O let me rise

As larks, harmoniously,

And sing this day thy victories:

Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne

And still with sicknesses and shame.

Thou didst so punish sinne,

That I became

Most thinne.

With thee

Let me combine,

And feel thy victorie:

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

The Affliction (I)

When first thou didst entice to thee my heart,

I thought the service brave;

So many joys I writ down for my part,

Besides what I might have

Out of my stock of natural delights,

Augmented with thy gracious benefits.

I looked on thy furniture so fine,

And made it fine to me;

Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine,

And ‘tice me unto thee.

Such stars I counted mine: both heav’n and earth;

Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I serv’d,

Where joys my fellows were?

Thus argu’d into hopes, my thoughts reserv’d

No place for grief or fear.

Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,

And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face.

At first thou gav’st me milk and sweetnesses;

I had my wish and way;

My days were straw’d with flow’rs and happiness;

There was no month but May.

But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,

And made a party unawares for woe.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain,

“Sicknesses cleave my bones;

Consuming agues dwell in ev’ry vein,

And tune my breath to groans.”

Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believ’d,

Till grief did tell me roundly, that I liv’d.

When I got health, thou took’st away my life,

And more, for my friends die;

My mirth and edge was lost, a blunted knife

Was of more use than I.

Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend,

I was blown through with ev’ry storm and wind.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took

The way that takes the town;

Thou didst betray me to a ling’ring book,

And wrap me in a gown.

I was entangled in the world of strife,

Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet, for I threaten’d oft the siege to raise,

Not simp’ring all mine age,

Thou often didst with academic praise

Melt and dissolve my rage.

I took thy sweet’ned pill, till I came where

I could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happy be

In my unhappiness,

Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me

Into more sicknesses.

Thus doth thy power cross-bias me, not making

Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me

None of my books will show;

I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,

For sure then I should grow

To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust

Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek;

In weakness must be stout;

Well, I will change the service, and go seek

Some other master out.

Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot,

Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.

Prayer (I)

Prayer the church’s banquet, angel’s age,

God’s breath in man returning to his birth,

The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth

Engine against th’ Almighty, sinner’s tow’r,

Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,

The six-days world transposing in an hour,

A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,

Exalted manna, gladness of the best,

Heaven in ordinary, man well drest,

The milky way, the bird of Paradise,

Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul’s blood,

The land of spices; something understood.

Jordan (I)

Who says that fictions only and false hair

Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty?

Is all good structure in a winding stair?

May no lines pass, except they do their duty

Not to a true, but painted chair?

Is it no verse, except enchanted groves

And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines?

Must purling streams refresh a lover’s loves?

Must all be veil’d, while he that reads, divines,

Catching the sense at two removes?

Shepherds are honest people; let them sing;

Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime;

I envy no man’s nightingale or spring;

Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme,

Who plainly say, my God, my King.

Church Monuments

While that my soul repairs to her devotion,

Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes

May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;

To which the blast of death’s incessant motion,

Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,

Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust

My body to this school, that it may learn

To spell his elements, and find his birth

Written in dusty heraldry and lines ;

Which dissolution sure doth best discern,

Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.

These laugh at jet, and marble put for signs,

To sever the good fellowship of dust,

And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,

When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat

To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?

Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem

And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,

And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,

That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust

That measures all our time; which also shall

Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below,

How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,

That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.

The Windows

Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?

He is a brittle crazy glass;

Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford

This glorious and transcendent place,

To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,

Making thy life to shine within

The holy preachers, then the light and glory

More reverend grows, and more doth win;

Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one

When they combine and mingle, bring

A strong regard and awe; but speech alone

Doth vanish like a flaring thing,

And in the ear, not conscience, ring.

Denial

When my devotions could not pierce

Thy silent ears,

Then was my heart broken, as was my verse;

My breast was full of fears

And disorder.

My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,

Did fly asunder:

Each took his way; some would to pleasures go,

Some to the wars and thunder

Of alarms.

“As good go anywhere,” they say,

“As to benumb

Both knees and heart, in crying night and day,

Come, come, my God, O come!

But no hearing.”

O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue

To cry to thee,

And then not hear it crying! All day long

My heart was in my knee,

But no hearing.

Therefore my soul lay out of sight,

Untuned, unstrung:

My feeble spirit, unable to look right,

Like a nipped blossom, hung

Discontented.

O cheer and tune my heartless breast,

Defer no time;

That so thy favors granting my request,

They and my mind may chime,

And mend my rhyme.

Virtue

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky;

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye;

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie;

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season’d timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

Man

My God, I heard this day

That none doth build a stately habitation

But he that means to dwell therein.

What house more stately hath there been,

Or can be, than is man, to whose creation

All things are in decay?

For man is ev’ry thing,

And more: he is a tree, yet bears more fruit;

A beast, yet is, or should be, more;

Reason and speech we only bring;

Parrots may thank us if they are not mute,

They go upon the score.

Man is all symmetry,

Full of proportions, one limb to another,

And all to all the world besides;

Each part may call the furthest brother,

For head with foot hath private amity,

And both with moons and tides.

Nothing hath got so far

But man hath caught and kept it as his prey;

His eyes dismount the highest star;

He is in little all the sphere;

Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they

Find their acquaintance there.

For us the winds do blow,

The earth doth rest, heav’n move, and fountains flow.

Nothing we see but means our good,

As our delight, or as our treasure;

The whole is either our cupboard of food,

Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed;

Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;

Music and light attend our head;

All things unto our flesh are kind

In their descent and being; to our mind

In their ascent and cause.

Each thing is full of duty;

Waters united are our navigation;

Distinguished, our habitation;

Below, our drink; above, our meat;

Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty?

Then how are all things neat!

More servants wait on man

Than he’ll take notice of; in ev’ry path

He treads down that which doth befriend him,

When sickness makes him pale and wan.

Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath

Another to attend him.

Since then, my God, thou hast

So brave a palace built, O dwell in it,

That it may dwell with thee at last!

Till then, afford us so much wit,

That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,

And both thy servants be.

Source Text:

Hebert, George. The temple Sacred poems and private ejaculations. University of Michigan, n.d, and is licensed under CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication.

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