New-York tribune., 1900-08-04
WHERE HERRICH LIES.
EDEN PHILLPOTTs. THE NOVELIST AND
DRAMATIST, PAYS A VISIT TO
THE POETS GRAVE
From Black and White.

From Black and White.
Yew trees throw their shadows over the moist
grasses, and above them tower Scotch frs
whose stems glow warmly in the sunshine.
whose crowns rise against the misty spring
green of the hills. All is light and life above
the graves and dewdrops tremble in the little
ewes of unnumbered flowers where seek amid
galaxies of pale blossoms for spot that shall
seem good to be a poets resting place.
Is there no magic wand of the mind that may
dip, as the water-fnders hazel. when a live
mortal walks here among the primrose above
dust immortal? Cannot my heart pulse higher
or the thrush sing sweeter. or the little violet
open a bluer eye and yield sweeter perfume
above Robin Herrick's grave?
| move among the humble hillocks at Dean
Prior, guess at all where once the poets
proper mound arose. Ancient stones there are.
but none that arises to him; Hchens still gnaw
and nibble the names of common men from
slate and slab; but no decaying monument
marks his resting place; the immortal pageant
of newborn buds alone dresses il. And this is
good, for so we seek him, not in the perishing
records of a Slanting stone. but upon the bosom
of the spring; in the petals of the violets and
anemones and cuckoo flowers now hanging cut
their jewels above mis- head; in the nOdding
grasses il the silver crosiers of uncurIing FERNS
in the music of birds and laughter of little
children.
1t is a playground of sungleams and shadows
this churchyard of Dean Prior; a place meet
for any singers Sleep seQueSJered acre. slid
ing away into fields and diUgles and cOpses-
gem set in the gloom of funereal yewS. vet
agleam with all he opal colors of springtime
and alive with whole seasons treasures OF
mortared stones OF ancient tombs; each green
grave is a garden. slate and stone are the
hosts of obscure Ife-the familiar homes of
feeting insect and enduring moss and HCheu
Here Herrick mnistered, and the plump. jo-
cund body of him passed To and fro met coarse
lives with coarse Jests. enjoyed the feshpOts
with frank and wholesome pleasure dreamed of
wine and women and the old joys between ser
mon times. and fashioned some Of the most eX-
quisite lyrics this language shall ever know
The cloth cannot forgive him. and never will
Clergymen do not understand. Only Grosart
of Clerics has grasped the truth about Herrick:
so has Richard John King SO in q measure has
GOsSe; but Hazlett and since his time a whole
foOtlight row of lesser Cocknev critics only
throw cC>lfused shadows upon him
Away In the adjacent orchard lands a gray
pile rises, and, as in his church. consider
the poet and his ljfe'S duty, so there at Dean
Court. it may be remembered gladly that ne
found the lighter joys of ufe-congeniaI com
lanionS, good cheer, and an attentive audience
Here aforetime. dwelt Sir Edward Giles. and
here at tho instance of that knight. Herrick
watched many an old world TeveI and set down
perlshable manners and customs in imperishable
poetry. Here first he sang OF
"Maypoles, Hock-carts. wassans wakes"
while the peaceful hamlet of his home-the
woodland, the meadow, and the river music in
many a ferny dell awoke other notes and in
spired all that is most beautiful and most true
in "Hesperdes"
No man loved his work better: no man knew
Its sweep and scope more thoroughly. He rates
1t with justice and those who would suck the
sweetness must first, il the power lies In them
obey the poets own command and read him as
he directs, in no sober. hungry, morning hour
but
When LAUREL spirits 18th fire. and when the
hearth
Smiles to itselfe and guilds the hoofe with
mrth."
Yet, for my part, had sooner read him here
ano now, In the very life and throb and scent
OF the things he loved The hook cart has van
lshed' the song OF the walkers is still, and the
'iaypoie rises no more: but youth and love.