Through the thick woods; the gloomy shades awhile All earth-born fears and sorrows take their flight. A sacred calm shines through his peaceful breast. The things thou sawest are full of truth and light, Thy fate's all white; from thy blest seed shalt spring The Ecstacy. I leave mortality, and things below; For I am call'd to go. A whirlwind bears up my dull feet, The officious clouds beneath them meet, And lo! I mount, and lo! How small the biggest parts of earth's proud tittle show! Where shall I find the noble British land? Which in the sea does lie, And seems a grain o' th' sand! COWLEY. And is it this, alas! which we, Oh, irony of words! do call Great Britannie? I pass'd by th' arched magazines, which hold Nor shake with fear, or cold. Without affright or wonder I meet clouds charged with thunder, And lightnings in my way Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play. Now into a gentle sea of rolling flame I'm plunged, and still mount higher there, So perfect, yet so tame, So great, so pure, so bright a fire My faithful breast did cover, Then, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover. Through several orbs which one fair planet bear, The hints of Galileo's glass, I touch at last the spangled sphere. Here all the extended sky Is but one galaxy, 'Tis all so bright and gay, And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day. Where am I now? angels and God is here: Swallows my senses quite, And drowns all what, or how, or where. Not Paul, who first did thither pass, The tyrannous pleasure could express; Oh, 'tis too much for man! but let it ne'er be less. The mighty Elijah mounted so on high, That second man, who leap'd the ditch where all 103 The rest of mankind fall, And went not downwards to the sky. As conquering kings in triumph go, Did he to heav'n approach, And wondrous was his way, and wondrous was his coach. 'Twas gaudy all, and rich in every part, Drawn forth by chymic angels' art. Figures that did transcend a vulgar angel's wit. The horses were of temper'd lightning made, And flaming manes their necks array'd. Not such as here are found, But such light solid ones as shine On the transparent rocks o' the heavenly crystalline. Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies: Wonder'd from hence to see one rise. The soft clouds melted him away, The snow and frosts which in it lay Awhile the sacred footsteps bore, The wheels and horses' hoofs hiss'd as they past them o'er. He past by the moon and planets, and did fright With the unexampled sight. But where he stopp'd will ne'er be known, To a better being do aspire, And mount herself, like him, to eternity on fire. GEORGE WITHER. 105 GEORGE WITHER. George Wither was born in 1588. After two years at Oxford, he came to Lincoln's Inn to study law; but, making the acquaintance of William Brown, the poet, his thoughts were turned to literature, and he commenced the career of authorship. His publications are very numerous, and they are distinguished by a force and depth of thought, and a sweetness of versification, which entitle them to more attention than they have received during the last hundred and fifty years. His life was one of many virtues and great vicissitudes. During a great plague which ravaged London in 1625, he devoted himself to the care of the sick and dying, and his habits were of "almost patriarchal simplicity." But for the freedom with which he satirised the vices of the times, in one of his earlier volumes, he was thrown into Newgate; and, owing to his puritanism, on the restoration of Charles II., he was committed to the Tower, where he had well-nigh ended his days. He died May 2, 1667. The Suffering Saviour. You that like heedless strangers pass along, The greatest king that ever wore a crown, The truest lover that ever was known, By them He loved was most unkindly usel: * Introduction to Wither's "Hymns and Songs of the Church." Edited by E. Farr. London: 1856. And He that lived from all transgressions clear, Was plagued for all the sins that ever were. Oh! could we but the thousandth part relate, Of those afflictions which they made Him bear, Our hearts with passion would dissolve thereat, And we should sit and weep for ever here; Nor should we glad again hereafter be, But that we hope in glory Him to see. For while upon the cross He pained hung, Or in the hearts of mortals be conceived); One offer'd to Him vinegar and gall; A second did His pious works deride; To dicing for His robes did others fall; And many mock'd Him, when to God He cried; Yet He, as they His pain still more procured, Still loved, and for their good the more endured. But, though his matchless love immortal were, That could no more than mortal bodies bear; Their malice, therefore, did prevail thereon: Whose death, though cruel, unrelenting man Oh, therefore, let us all that present be, |