POESIE.

[George Wither, born 1588, died 1677.]

Though I miss the flowery fields,

With those sweets the spring-tide yields;

Though I may not see those groves,

Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,

And the lasses more excel,

Then the sweet-voiced Philomel;

Though of all those pleasures past,

Nothing now remains at last,

But remembrance (poor relief)

That more makes, then mends my grief;

She’s my mind’s companion still,

Maugre Envy’s evil will.

She doth tell me where to borrow

Comfort in the midst of sorrow;

Makes the desolated place

To 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,

Or a shady bush or tree,

She could more infuse in me,

Then 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 those 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 taught me by her might

To draw comfort and delight.

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 nought but earth are born;

Let my life no longer be,

Than I am in love with thee.

George Wither, the author of the above lines, was several times subjected to long and severe imprisonment for his political opinions. While in the Marshalsea prison in 1613, he wrote his ‘Shepherd’s Hunting,’ a pastoral poem, from which this is an extract. The verses are not only beautiful in themselves, but they point out how a vigorous mind will secure happiness under the most unfavourable circumstances. The imagination of Wither was delighted to repose upon the most common natural objects;—and in the same way, the man who possesses the least of the outward gifts of fortune, if his faculties be awake to the beauties which nature has so plenteously scattered around his path, may possess in himself a source of pleasure of the purest kind. The rapture which Wither expresses for ‘Poesie,’ may to some appear overstrained; but let it not be thought that the poet attributed this power of imparting delight to his faculty alone of making verses. The exercise of his fancy, by which he could “raise pleasure to her height,” consisted in presenting to his “mind’s eye” the infinite beauties of the creation. The “daisy,” whose remembrance gladdened even his prison-walls, brought to him images of the quiet and purity of the “flowery fields.” Such images every body may enjoy, and may gradually learn to associate the commonest appearances of nature with a high moral feeling. We have many instances of this power of association in our finest poets; let us take as an example the following lines by a writer of our own day:—

TO A DAISY.

Bright flower, whose home is every where

A pilgrim bold in Nature’s care,

And oft, the long year through, the heir

Of joy or sorrow.

Methinks that there abides in thee

Some concord with humanity,

Given to no other flower I see

The forest thorough!

And wherefore? Man is soon deprest;

A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest,

Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason.

But thou would’st teach him how to find

A shelter under every wind;

A hope for times that are unkind,

And every season.

Wordsworth.