He enjoys the unenviable distinction of having no rival in ruggedness of
metric movement and associated sounds. This is clearly the result of
indifference; an indifference, however, which grows very strange to us
when we find that he _can_ write a lovely verse and even an exquisite
stanza.
Greatly for its own sake, partly for the sake of illustration, I quote a
poem containing at once his best and his worst, the result being such an
incongruity that we wonder whether it might not be called his best _and_
his worst, because we cannot determine which. He calls it _Hymn to God,
my God, in my Sickness_. The first stanza is worthy of George Herbert in
his best mood.
Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where with the choir of saints for evermore
I shall be made thy music, as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.
To recognize its beauty, leaving aside the depth and truth of the phrase,
"Where I shall be made thy music," we must recall the custom of those
days to send out for "a noise of musicians." Hence he imagines that he
has been summoned as one of a band already gone in to play before the
king of "The High Countries:" he is now at the door, where he is
listening to catch the tone, that he may have his instrument tuned and
ready before he enters.
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