All and Ever Consecrated to God’s Glory

George Herbert – Early Poems

And in Cambridge we may find our George Herbert’s behaviour to be such, that we may conclude he consecrated the first-fruits of his early age to virtue, and a serious study of learning. And that he did so, this following letter and sonnet, which were, in the first year of his going to Cambridge, sent his dear mother for a New Year’s gift, may appear to be some testimony:— “But I fear the heat of my late ague hath dried up those springs by which scholars say the Muses use to take up their habitations. However, I need not their help to reprove the vanity of those many love-poems that are daily writ and consecrated to Venus; nor to bewail that so few are writ that look towards God and heaven. For my own part, my meaning—dear mother—is, in these sonnets, to declare my resolution to be, that my poor abilities in poetry shall be all and ever consecrated to God’s glory: and I beg you to receive this as one testimony.” ^[1]

My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee,
  Wherewith whole shoals of Martyrs once did burn,
Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry
  Wear Venus’ livery? only serve her turn?
Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and lays
  Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love
Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise
  As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove
Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?
  Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the same,
  Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name?
Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might
  Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose
  Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse?

Sure, Lord, there is enough in thee to dry
  Oceans of ink; for as the Deluge did
Cover the Earth, so doth thy Majesty;
  Each cloud distils thy praise, and doth forbid
Poets to turn it to another use.
  Roses and lilies speak Thee; and to make
A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse.
  Why should I women’s eyes for crystal take?
Such poor invention burns in their low mind
  Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go
  To praise, and on thee, Lord, some ink bestow.
Open the bones, and you shall nothing find
  In the best face but filth; when Lord, in Thee
  The beauty lies in the discovery.

Resources

1. Izaak Walton (1593–1683).  The Lives of John Donne and George Herbert. The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.  http://www.bartleby.com/15/2/21.html