Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, No change, no measure: A painted cask, but nothing in't, Nor wealth, nor pleasure: Vain earth that falsely thus comply'st With man; vain man! that thou rely'st On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure The height of whose enchanting pleasure Are these the goods that thou supply'st Us mortals with ? Are these the high'st? Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st. Delight in God only. I love and have some cause to love-the earth. She is my tender nurse-she gives me food; But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee? I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; I love the sea she is my fellow-creature, But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee, To heaven's high city I direct my journey, But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee? The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares; In having all things, and not Thee, what have I? Decay of Life. The day grows old, the low-pitched lamp hath made And the descending damp doth now prepare To uncurl bright Titan's hair; Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold Her purples, fringed with gold, To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms. Nature now calls to supper, to refresh The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams, The droiling swincherd knocks away, and feasts The boxbill ousel, and the dappled thrush, Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush. DR. HENRY KING. DR. HENRY KING (1592-1669), who was chaplain to ames I. and did honour to the church preferment which was bestowed upon him, was best known as a religious poet. He was the author of Sermons,' 1621-65; and of poems, elegies, &c. 1657. His language and imagery are chaste and refined. Of his lighter verse, the following song may suffice: The Dirge. What is the existence of man's life, Till Death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm-where the hot blood It is a flower-which buds, and grows It is a dream-whose seeming truth It is a dial-which points out It is a weary interlude- GEORGE WITHER. GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667) was a voluminous author, in the midst of disasters and sufferings that would have damped the spirit of any but the most adventurous and untiring enthusiast. Some of his happiest strains were composed in prison; his limbs were incarcerated within stone walls and iron bars, but his fancy was among the hills and plains, with shepherds hunting, or loitering with Poesy by rustling boughs and murmuring springs. There is a freshness and natural vivacity in the poetry of Wither, that renders his early works a perpetual feast.' We cannot say that it is a feast where no crude surfeit reigns,' for he is often harsh, obscure, and affected; but he has an endless diversity of style and subjects, and truc poetical feeling and expression. Wither was a native of Hampshire, and received his education at Magdalen College, Oxford. He first appeared as an author in the year 1613, when he published a satire, entitled 'Abuses Stript and Whipt.' For this he was thrown into the Marshalsea, where he composed his fine poem, the 'Shepherds' Hunting.' the abuses satirised by the poet had accumulated and brought on the Civil War, Wither took the popular side, and sold his paternal estate to raise a troop of horse for the parliament. He rose to the rank of a major, and in 1612, was made governor of Farnham Castle, afterwards held by Denham. Wither was accused of deserting his appointment, and the castle was ceded the same year to Sir William Waller. During the struggles of that period, the poet was made prisoner by the royalists, and stood in danger of captital punishment, when Denham interfered for his brother-bard, alleging, that as long as Wither lived, he (Denham) would not be considered the worst poet in England. The joke was a good one, if it saved Wither's life; but George was not frightened from the perilous contentions of the times. When He was afterwards one of Cromwell's majors-general, and kept watch and ward over the royalists of Surrey. From the sequestrated estates of these gentlemen, Wither obtained a considerable fortune; but the Restoration came, and he was stripped of all his possessions. He remonstrated loudly and angrily; his remonstrances were voted libels, and the unlucky poet was again thrown into prison. He published various treatises, satires, and poems during this period, though he was treated with great rigour. He was released, under bond for good behaviour, in 1663, and survived nearly four years afterwards, dying in London on the 2d of May 1667. Wither's fame as a poet is derived chiefly from his early produc tions, written before he had imbibed the sectarian gloom of the Puritans, or become embroiled in the struggles of the Civil War. A collection of his poems was published by himself in 1622, with the title, Mistress of Philarete;' his 'Shepherds' Hunting,' being certain eclogues written during the time of the author's imprisonment in the Marshalsea, appeared in 1633. His 'Collection of Emblems, Ancient and Modern, quickened with Metrical Illustrations,' made their appearance in 1635. His satirical and controversial works were numerous but are now forgotten. Some authors of our own day-Southey in particular-have helped to popularise Wither, by frequent quotation and culogy; but Mr. Ellis, in his 'Specimens of Early English Poets,' was the first to point out that playful fancy, pure taste, and artless delicacy of sentiment, which distinguish the poetry of his early youth.' His poem on Christmas affords a lively picture of the manners of the times His 'Address to Poetry, the sole yet cheering companion of his prison solitude, is worthy of the theme, and superior to most of the effusions of that period. The pleasure with which he recounts the various charms and the 'divine skill' of his Muse, that had derived nourishment and delight from the meanest objects' of external nature-a daisy, a bush, or a tree; and which, when these picturesque and beloved scenes of the country were denied him, could gladden even the vaults and shades of a prison, is one of the richest offerings that have yet been made to the pure and hallowed shrine of poesy. The superiority of intellectual pursuits over the gratifications of sense, and all the malice of fortune, has never been more touchingly or finely illustrated. The Companionship of the Muse.-From the 'Shepherds' Hunting." See'st thou not in clearest days, Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays; And the vapours that do breathe From the earth's gross womb beneath, Seem they not with their black steams To pollute the sun's bright beams, And yet vanish into air, Leaving it, unblemished, fair? So, my Willy, shall it be With detraction's breath and thee: It shall never risc so high That she can dissolve them too. Ii thy verse do bravely tower, With those sweets the spring-tide yields, Than the sweet-voiced Philomel. That more makes than mends my grief: (Whence she would be driven, too, In my former days of bliss, Make this churlish place allow Some things that may sweeten gladness, The dull loneness, the black shade, She hath taught me by her might thee, Though thou be to them a scorn, That to nought but earth are born, Than I am in love with thee! Though our wise ones call it madness, If I love not thy maddest fits Thou dost teach me to contemn What makes knaves and fools of them. |