The 5 Affliction Poems
WHen first thou didst entice to thee my heart, I thought the service brave: So many joyes I writ down for my part, Besides what I might have Out of my stock of naturall delights, Augmented with thy gracious benefits. I looked on thy furniture so fine, And made it fine to me: Thy glorious houshold-stuffe did me entwine, And tice me unto thee. Such starres I counted mine: both heavn and earth Payd me my wages in a world of mirth. What pleasures could I want, whose King I served, Where joyes my fellows were? Thus argud into hopes, my thoughts reserved No place for grief or fear. Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fiercenesse seek thy face. At first thou gavst me milk and sweetnesses; I had my wish and way: My dayes were strawd with flowrs and happinesse; There was no moneth but May. But with my yeares sorrow did twist and grow, And made a partie unawares of wo. My flesh began unto my soul in pain, Sicknesses cleave my bones; Consuming agues dwell in evry vein, And tune my breath to grones. Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce beleeved, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived. When I got health, thou tookst away my life, And more; for my friends die: My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knife Was of more use then I. Thus thinne and lean without a fence or friend, I was blown through with evry storm and winde. Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingring 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 threatned oft the siege to raise, Not simpring all mine age, Thou often didst with Academick praise Melt and dissolve my rage. I took thy sweetned pill, till I came where I could not go away, nor persevere. Yet lest perchance I should too happie be In my unhappinesse, Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me Into more sicknesses. Thus doth my power crosse-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my wayes taking. Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me None of my books will show: I reade, 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 houshold to me, and I should be just. Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek; In weaknesse must be stout. Well, I will change the service, and go seek Some other master out. Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not. |
Criticism by Ralph Waldo Emerson: What Herbert most excels in is in exciting that feeling which we call the moral sublime. The highest affections are touched by his muse. I know nothing finer than the turn with which his poem on affliction concludes. |
KIll me not evry day, Thou Lord of life; since thy one death for me Is more then all my deaths can be, Though I in broken pay Die over each hour of Methusalems1 stay. If all mens tears were let Into one common sewer, sea, and brine; What were they all, compard to thine? Wherein if they were set, They would discolour thy most bloudy sweat. Thou art my grief alone, Thou Lord conceal it not: and as thou art All my delight, so all my smart; Thy cross took up in one, By way of imprest, all my future mone. |
1 Methusalem or Methuselah: See Genesis 5:21-27. 27 And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died. [Return] The King James Version, (Cambridge: Cambridge) 1769. |
MY heart did heave, and there came forth, O God! By that I knew that thou wast in the grief, To guide and govern it to my relief, Making a scepter of the rod: Hadst thou not had thy part, Sure the unruly sigh had broke my heart. But since thy breath gave me both life and shape, Thou knowst my tallies; and when theres assignd So much breath to a sigh, whats then behinde? Or if some yeares with it escape, The sigh then onely is A gale to bring me sooner to my blisse. Thy life on earth was grief, and thou art still Constant unto it, making it to be A point of honour, now to grieve in me, And in thy members suffer ill. They who lament one crosse, Thou dying dayly, praise thee to thy losse. |
BRoken in pieces all asunder, Lord, hunt me not, A thing forgot, Once a poore creature, now a wonder, A wonder torturd in the space Betwixt this world and that of grace. My thoughts are all a case of knives, Wounding my heart With scatterd smart, As watring pots give flowers their lives. Nothing their furie can controll, While they do wound and prick my soul. All my attendants are at strife, Quitting their place Unto my face: Nothing performs the task of life: The elements are let loose to fight, And while I live, trie out their right. Oh help, my God! let not their plot Kill them and me, And also thee, Who art my life: dissolve the knot, As the sunne scatters by his light All the rebellions of the night. Then shall those powers, which work for grief, Enter thy pay, And day by day Labour thy praise, and my relief; With care and courage building me, Till I reach heavn, and much more, thee. |
Criticism: "Betwixt this world and that of grace: George Herberts potential spaces" by Julia Guernsey. Music: Adaptation of J. S. Bachs Fugue #8, Well Tempered Clavier I, with the words of "Affliction (IV)." Arranged by Red Dragon. |
MY God, I read this day, That planted Paradise was not so firm, As was and is thy floting Ark; whose stay And anchor thou art onely, to confirm And strengthen it in evry age, When waves do rise, and tempests rage. At first we livd in pleasure; Thine own delights thou didst to us impart; When we grew wanton, thou didst use displeasure To make us thine: yet that we might not part, As we at first did board with thee, Now thou wouldst taste our miserie. There is but joy and grief; If either will convert us, we are thine: Some Angels usd the first; if our relief Take up the second, then thy double line And sevrall baits in either kinde Furnish thy table to thy minde. Affliction then is ours; We are the trees, whom shaking fastens more, While blustring winds destroy the wanton bowres, And ruffle all their curious knots and store. My God, so temper joy and wo, That thy bright beams may tame thy bow.
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Musical Interpretation: "Affliction (V)" in D Minor, a choral anthem To open music in another window. |
Editors Note: The Affliction Poems appear in the 1633 text with several poems in between each. Read together they show the spiritual development of the persona/Christian/author/poet. Essays: A personal and creative relation to these poems by Tom Andrews |
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