They were, in
the main, obscure individuals, whose identity is scarcely worth
establishing. His London life, at two different periods, brought him
into contact with many of the celebrities of the day; but his verse has
helped to confer immortality on very few of them. That his verse had the
secret of conferring immortality was one of his unshaken convictions.
Shakespeare had not a finer confidence when he wrote,
Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
than has Herrick whenever he speaks of his own poetry, and he is not by
any means backward in speaking of it. It was the breath of his nostrils.
Without his Muse those nineteen years in that dull, secluded Devonshire
village would have been unendurable.
His poetry has the value and the defect of that seclusion. In spite,
however, of his contracted horizon there is great variety in Herrick's
themes. Their scope cannot be stated so happily as he has stated it:
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes;
I write of Youth, of Love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris;
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairy King;
I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
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