For Love there’s no oblivion. I have cherished An idol beautiful, but in this hour, Hopes that had bloomed for years have wholly perished, And left me but the fragrance of the flower: But be the hopes of love like blossoms blighted, Wherever in the temples of the heart Hath stood an altar with their splendor lighted, The glory will not utterly depart; Still as we enter life’s forgetful haven, And every form of beauty disappears, The pictures on the memory engraven Of early love, win our last smiles and tears; The inspiration of the first endeavor After the love of woman dwells forever. * * * * * EARLY ENGLISH POETS. GEORGE HERBERT. BY JAMES W. WALL. How few in our day have read the pious verses of George Herbert, “the sweet singer of The Temple,” as his biographer, old Walton, so loves to call him—verses overflowing with the sensibilities of a heart consecrated to pious uses, all aglow with love for humanity, and an ardent desire to bring it nearer to Him who so freely gave himself for it. Sweet George Herbert! Who that has ever read the rich outpourings of your warm and pious spirit, but has felt how poor and cold in the comparison were the promptings of his own? Who that has ever pondered over your verse, radiant with the praises of that sanctuary in whose hallowed courts you so loved to tread, but has felt the full force of your own sweet words? A verse may find him who a sermon flies, And turn delight into a sacrifice. George Herbert, the author of “The Temple,” a collection of sacred poems, was of a most noble, generous, and ancient family. His brother was the famous Edward Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, who was himself a poet, but attained higher distinction as a statesman and historian, having filled, during the reign of James I., the responsible posts of privy counselor, and ambassador to France; it was while engaged in the duties of this embassy that he composed his famous history of Henry the Eighth, so often quoted and referred to by the modern English historian.