The poems of Herbert are now read throughout the world; no longer confined to that Church which inspired them. They are echoed at times in the pulpits of all denominations, while their practical lines are, if we remember rightly, scattered among the sage aphorisms of Poor Richard, and their wide philosophy commends itself to the genius of Emerson. It is pleasant in these old poets to admire what has been admired by others--to read the old verses with the indorsement of genius. The name adds value to the bond. Coleridge, for instance, whose "paper," in a mercantile sense, would have been, on "change," the worst in England, has given us many of these notable "securities." They live in his still echoing "Table-Talk," and are sprinkled generously over his writings--while what record is there of the "good," the best financial names of the day? One sonnet of Herbert was an especial favorite with Coleridge. It was that heart-searching, sympathizing epitome of spiritual life, entitled SIN. "Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round! Parents first season us; then school-masters Deliver us to laws; they send us bound To rules of reason, holy messengers. "Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, Bibles laid open, millions of surprises. "Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness. The sound of Glory ringing in our ears: Without, our shame; within, our consciences: Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears. "Yet all these fences and their whole array, One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away." These poems, it should be remembered, are private devotional heart-confessions, not written for sale, for pay or reputation; they were not printed at all during the author's life, but were brought forth by faithful friends from the sacred coffer of his dying-room, in order that posterity might know the secret of that honorable life and its cheerful end. Izaak Walton has given a beautiful setting to one stanza from the eloquent ode "Sunday." "The Sunday before his death," his biographer tells us, "he rose suddenly from his bed or couch, called for one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and said: "'My God, my God My music shall find thee, And every string Shall have his attribute to sing. And having tuned it, he played and sung: "'The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sundays, heaven's door stands ope; Blessings are plentiful and rife; More plentiful than hope.' "Thus he sung on earth such hymns and anthems as the angels and he, and Mr. Farrer, now sing in heaven."