On George Herbert's Poems

What are these leaves dark-spotted and acerb?
'A very holy herb.'
To what good use may I this herb convert?
'Press it on thy soul's hurt.'
When herb unto the hurt I thus apply?
'Herb-ert is sanctity.'

James Thomson

No biography available

James Thomson

Art

James Thomson, Simple Poetry

Night

James Thomson, Simple Poetry

A Polish Insurgent

James Thomson, Simple Poetry

To H.A.B. on My Forty-Seventh Birthday

James Thomson, Simple Poetry

English

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To His Book. Another.

Who with thy leaves shall wipe, at need,
The place where swelling piles do breed;
May every ill that bites or smarts
Perplex him in his hinder parts.

Robert Herrick

To The King, To Cure The Evil.

To find that tree of life whose fruits did feed
And leaves did heal all sick of human seed:
To find Bethesda and an angel there
Stirring the waters, I am come; and here,
At last, I find (after my much to do)
The tree, Bethesda and the angel too:
And all in your blest hand, which has the powers
Of all those suppling-healing herbs and flowers.
To that soft charm, that spell, that magic bough,
That high enchantment, I betake me now,
And to that hand (the branch of heaven's fair tree),
I kneel for help; O! lay that hand on me,
Adored Cæsar! and my faith is such
I shall be heal'd if that my king but touch.
The evil is not yours: my sorrow sings,
"Mine is the evil, but the cure the king's".

Robert Herrick

Upon Leech.

Leech boasts, he has a pill, that can alone
With speed give sick men their salvation:
'Tis strange, his father long time has been ill,
And credits physic, yet not trusts his pill:
And why? he knows he must of cure despair,
Who makes the sly physician his heir.

Robert Herrick

Upon A Virgin.

Spend, harmless shade, thy nightly hours
Selecting here both herbs and flowers;
Of which make garlands here and there
To dress thy silent sepulchre.
Nor do thou fear the want of these
In everlasting properties,
Since we fresh strewings will bring hither,
Far faster than the first can wither.

Robert Herrick

The Eucharist.

He that is hurt seeks help: sin is the wound;
The salve for this i' th' Eucharist is found.

Robert Herrick

Inversnaid

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáawn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins