The rose was sick, and smiling died;

And being to be sanctified.

About the bed there sighing stood

The sweet and flowery sisterhood.

Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring;

Some laid her forth, while others wept,

But all a solemn fast there kept.

The holy sisters some among

The sacred dirge and trental sung;

But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere
As heaven had spent all perfumes there!
At last, when prayers for the dead
And rites were all accomplished,
They, weeping, spread a lawny loom,
And closed her up, as in a tomb.

SONG.

Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a getting,

The sooner will his race be run,

The nearer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer ; But, being spent, the worse and worse Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

TO MEADOWS.

Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been filled with flowers;
And ye the walks have been,

Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld where they
With wicker arks did come;

To kiss and bear away

The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round;
Each virgin, like the spring,
With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here,
Whose silvery feet did tread;

And, with disheveled hair,

Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts having spent

Your stock, and needy grown ;

You're left here to lament,
Your poor estates alone.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair daffodils, we weep to see,
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun,
Has not attained its noon.
Stay, stay,

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile they glide
Into the grave.

The want in these graceful and delicate lyrics is thew and And yet they are what they pretend to be-airy petals of the cherry-blossom, hinting of fruit, bees fluttering and musical, giving token of honey.

The Muse fares ill in civil contentions. As Herrick fled before the Roundheads, so was George Wither oppressed by the Cavaliers. The following noble praise of poetry was written in a prison; in a prison the poor poet passed many of his latter years, and it is still a question whether he actually died in confinement, or perished of want and misery after his release.

But, alas! my muse is slow;
For thy pace she flags too low.
But though for her sake I'm curst,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble,
Ten times more than ten times double;
I would love and keep her too

Spite of all the world could do.
For though banished from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,

And consume the sullen night;
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,

And those sweets the spring-tide yields;
Though I may not see those groves,

Where the shepherds chant their loves,

And the lasses more excel

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;

She's my mind's companion still
Maugre Envy's evil will:

Whence she should be driven too,
Wer't in mortal's power to do.

She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
In her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw;
And raise Pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight:
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
On a shady bush or tree
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow

Some things, that may sweeten gladness

In the very gall of sadness:

The dull loneness, the black shade

That these hanging vaults have made,
The strange music of the waves

Beating on these hollow caves,

This black den, which rocks emboss

Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of neglect
Walled about with disrespect;

From all these, and this dull air
A fit object for despair,

She hath brought me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this!
Poetry, thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent;
Though they as a trifle leave thee

Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee;