The Sepulchral Recesses: Herbert

Meek Herbert, ere of thee I sing,
'Tis thou must lend the string,
On Jesus' breast thou art asleep,
Or thou wouldst wake and weep,
That any one should sing of thee
Laid in thy poverty.

But all our Church doth bear along
The echoes of thy song,
Thy Country Pastor sweet and stern
Her children fain would learn ;
Then let the light that fills her shrine
On thy meek urn recline.

For now thou art a holy thing,
And singing the great King
For ever with a nobler strain ;
Nor praise of ours can pain,
If we be tuned by thy lays
To sing thy " Master's " praise.

Meek Herbert, would that such as I
Could learn thy lesson high,
Those ways that made thy spirit's tone
A midnight orison,
Thy more than manly wisdom free,
And child's simplicity.

For Angels ever with thee are,
And, in their presence fair,
Thy spirit feels it poor and mean,
But golden thoughts doth glean
Which fall like light from off their wings,
When bow'd to earth it sings.