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 SONG. Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may, And this same flower that smiles to-day, 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, TO MEADOWS. Ye have been fresh and green, Where maids have spent their hours. Ye have beheld where they To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing, But now we see none here, And, with disheveled hair, Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts having spent Your stock, and needy grown ; You're left here to lament, TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see, 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, But you are lovely leaves, where we 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; Spite of all the world could do. And consume the sullen night; And those sweets the spring-tide yields; 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 Whence she should be driven too, She doth tell me where to borrow By her help I also now Some things, that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness: The dull loneness, the black shade That these hanging vaults have made, Beating on these hollow caves, This black den, which rocks emboss Overgrown with eldest moss; From all these, and this dull air She hath brought me by her might Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, Whose dull thoughts can not conceive thee; |