Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above And still, as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn And with those living spangles gild (0 greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head Thy quire of birds about thee play, All the world's bravery that delights our eyes, Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st. ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW. Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; Next that of Godhead, with humanity. Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death, A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. Hail, bard triumphant! and some care bestow Oppos'd by our old enemy, adverse chance, Enchain'd by beauty, tortured by desires, Expos'd by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires; Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise, And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies. OF SOLITUDE. Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Hail, the poor Muse's richest manor-seat! Ye country-houses and retreat, Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above. Here nature does a house for me erect, Nature! the fairest architect, Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect, Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Ah! wretched, and too solitary he, O Solitude! first state of humankind! As soon as two, alas! together join'd, Though God Himself, through countless ages, thee Thee, sacred Solitude! alone, Before the branchy head of number's tree Sprang from the trunk of one; Thou (though men think thine an unactive part) Making it move, well managed by thy art, Thou the faint beams of reason's scatter'd light Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright WITHER. GEORGE WITHER was born A.D. 1588, the descendant of a good family in Hampshire. He went to London in order to try his for tunes at court; but, writing there his Abuses stripped and whipped, he found no other preferment than a prison. It was for him a fortunate imprisonment, since, while undergoing it, he composed his Shepherd's Hunting. Wither became a violent Puritan, and wrote innumerable tracts, poetical, political, and polemical, which allowed no sphere for the exercise of his genius. When the civil wars broke out, he sold his estate in order to raise a troop of horse for the Parliament. He rose to the rank of major-general, and served, with various success, till he was taken prisoner by the Royalists; when his life was spared by Charles at the intercession of Denham, who urged for him the singular plea, "that, while Wither lived, he (Denham) could not be accounted the worst poet in England." On the Restoration, the property which he had acquired during the interregnum was confiscated; he was subsequently imprisoned for libel, and died in obscurity and poverty A.D. 1669. The Shepherd's nting has survived the wreck of Wither's numerous works, owing to its fidelity to Nature. There is a truthfulness in its rural delineations which makes it an anticipation of the descriptive poetry of a later age. The following extract alludes to the imprisonment above mentioned. THE MUSE'S CONSOLATIONS. [From The Shepherd's Hunting.] Now though for her sake I'm crost, With those sweets the spring-tide yields; Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last, But remembrance (poor relief), That more makes than mends my grief,— Maugre Envy's evil will: (Whence she should be driven too, By the murmur of a spring, Make this churlish place allow The dull loneness, the black shade She hath taught me by her might Therefore thou, best earthly bliss, I will cherish thee for this! Poesie, thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent; Though they as a trifle leave thee, Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn That to naught but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee! Though our wise ones call it madness, What makes knaves and fools of them. |