Wither was a man of real genius, but seems to have been partially insane. His political zeal was a frenzy; and his religion was deeply tinged with puritanic gloom. His 'Collection of Emblems' never became so popular as those of Quarles, and are now nearly as much forgotten as his satires, his psalms, and his controversial treatises. But his early poems are delightful--full of elegant and playful fancy, ease of language, and delicacy of sentiment. Some passages in 'The Shepherd's Hunting,' and in the 'Address to Poetry,' resemble the style of Milton in his 'L'Allegro' and 'Penseroso.' His 'Christmas' catches the full spirit of that joyous carnival of Christian England. Altogether, it is refreshing to turn from the gnarled oak of Wither's struggling and unhappy life, to the beautiful flowers, nodding over it, of his poesy. FROM 'THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.' See'st thou not, in clearest days, Oft thick fogs could heavens raise? 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 rise so high As to stain thy poesy. As that sun doth oft exhale Vapours from each rotten vale; Poesy so sometimes drains Gross conceits from muddy brains; Mists of envy, fogs of spite, 'Twixt men's judgments and her light; But so much her power may do That she can dissolve them too. If thy verse do bravely tower, As she makes wing, she gets power! Yet the higher she doth soar, She's affronted still the more: Till she to the high'st hath past, Then she rests with Fame at last. Let nought therefore thee affright, But make forward in thy flight: For if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reached eternity. But, alas! my Muse is slow; For thy pace she flags too low. Yes, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipped of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am myself put up a-muing. But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did. And though for her sake I'm cross'd, 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, With those sweets the springtide 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, Were 't in mortals' power to do.