Walton relates an anecdote of one of these walks to Salisbury. When Herbert was some way on his journey, he overtook a poor man, standing by a "poorer horse," that had fallen down beneath too heavy a burden; and seeing the distress of one, and the suffering of the other, he put off his canonical dress, and helped the man to unload, and afterward to reload the horse, and then giving him money to refresh himself and the animal, departed, at the same time telling him that if he loved himself, he should be merciful to his beast. This incident afforded a subject to the Royal Academician, Cooper, for an interesting design. Donne's intimacy with Herbert's mother has been already noticed, and he entertained an equal regard for the poet. This sympathy was "maintained by many sacred endearments." Not long before Donne's death, "he caused to be drawn a figure of the body of Christ, extended upon an anchor," the emblem of hope. Many of these figures were minutely engraved on heliotropes, called by the jewellers, from their peculiar colour, blood-stones, and being set in gold, under the form of seals or rings, were sent to some of his friends as tokens of his esteem. Among these were the learned Sir Henry Wotton, the eloquent Bishop Hall, Dr. Duppa, Dr. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester, and George Herbert, to whom the gift was accompanied by some verses, full of affectionate piety and interest in his welfare. An engraving of one of the seals, traditionally handed down as the identical one belonging to Herbert, was given in the 77th volume of the Gentleman's Magazine*. No reader of Donne's poetry would imagine him to have been a high-minded enthusiast, overflowing with romance and kindliness. While he was in Spain, he prepared to visit the Holy Sepulchre, and only relinquished * Part i. p. 313. the undertaking when convinced of its impracticability. And when he wrote from the fire-side in his parlour, "in the noise of three gamesome children, and by the side of her whom he had transplanted into a wretched fortune," and therefore laboured the more to beguile her sorrows by his "company and discourse," all his words were dictated by domestic tenderness*. As a poet, he has not had his reward; he has perished through not being understood. His friend, Ben Jonson, considered his applause the guarantee of future fame, and was fond of repeating that passage in the Calm : And in one place lay Feathers and dust, to day, and yesterday †. His versification is modulated with no art, and the location of the words is often careless and incorrect; but some of his strains have a depth of meaning, and a solemnity of thought, not found in his smoother rivals. A Hymn, composed on a sick-bed, presents a fine specimen of his manner : TO GOD THE FATHER. Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I begun, Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won *See Letters, ed. 1654, p. 137. + This anecdote is told on the authority of Drummond of Hawthornden, but the lines referred to are printed from the edition of Donne's Poems in 1650. Drummond, quoting, perhaps, from memory, writes them thus, "Dust and feathers do not stirr, all was so quiet." I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread I shall perish on the shore; I fear no more. This Hymn was set to a most grave and solemn tune," and he delighted to hear it sung to the organ by the choristers of St. Paul's, at the evening service. Like Herbert, he was an ardent admirer of Sacred melody, and was wont to exclaim, "O, the power of Church-music." From Donne's Holy Sonnets, one extract may be offered. The thought on Death is not unworthy of the bard who knelt at "the footstool of the Ancient of Days:" Death be not proud, though some have called thee For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And Death shall be no more-Death thou shalt die ? But though his poetical fame has been extinguished, his eloquent and splendid prose can never pass away. The sermons of Donne are a mine of gold, from which no diligent student will depart without an abundant treasure. The evening of Herbert's life was now rapidly drawing nigh. His constitution, always delicate, evinced symptoms of a fatal decline. The sword had worn out the scabbard; but he did not cease to labour; and in the midst of his griefs, prepared some notes for The Considerations of John Valdesso, a Spanish reformer of the 16th century, which his friend, Mr. Ferrar, had translated, and sent them to him with a letter, printed in his Remains. Unaffected by the ills of the body, the inner man grew stronger every hour; and though almost unable to leave his house, he still persevered in reading prayers twice a-day in his chapel, until prevailed on by the importunities of his wife to confide the duty to his Curate, Mr. Bostock. About a month before his death, Mr. N. Ferrar, whom I believe he had not met since their separation at Cambridge, sent Mr. Edmund Duncon to inquire after his health, and to assure him of his prayers*. When Mr. Duncon entered the room, Herbert was lying on the bed quite exhausted, but turning to him he said, "I see by your habit that you are a Priest, and I desire you to pray with me." When Mr. Duncon asked what prayers he would prefer, he replied "O, Sir, the prayers of my mother, the Church of England; no other prayers are equal to them." He was, however, too weak to hear more than the Litany. Mr. Duncon remained at Bemerton three weeks, when his place was supplied by one of Herbert's dearest friends, Mr. A. Woodnot; who declared, after the lapse of well-nigh forty years, that the patience and resignation of the sufferer were fresh in his memory. Walton's narrative of the last days of the poet is exceedingly pathetic. On the Sunday preceding his death, he called for his lute, and played and sung a verse from his poem named Sunday. It is a composition peculiarly characteristic of the author: O day most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, *"On Friday (date not mentioned), Mr. Mapletoft brought us word that Mr. Herbert was said to be past hope of recovery, which was very grievous news to us, and so much the more so, being altogether unexpected. We presently, therefore, made our public supplication for his health, in the words and manner following." The prayer is printed in the appendix to the life of Nicholas Ferrar, in Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Biography, vol. v., p. 265. The endorsement of supreme delight, On which heaven's palace arched lies; And hollow room with vanities. Which parts their ranks and orders. Thus he continued meditating, and praying, and rejoicing, until he expired. On the morning of that melancholy day, he said to Mr. Woodnot: "My dear friend, I am sorry I have nothing to present to my merciful God, but sin and misery; but the first is pardoned, and a few hours will now put a period to the latter, for I shall suddenly go hence, and be no more seen.” When Mr. Woodnot reminded him of his benefactions to Leighton Church, and his numberless acts of private. charity, he only answered, "They be good works if they be sprinkled with the blood of Christ, and not otherwise." He often conversed with his wife and Mr. Woodnot about his approaching dissolution. "I now look back," he said, “upon the pleasures of my life past, and see the content I have taken in beauty, in wit, in music, and pleasant conversation, which are now all past by me like a dream, or as a shadow that returns not, and are all now become dead to me, or I to them; and I see, that as my father and generation have done before me, so I, also, |