[SIR JOHN DENHAM, the son of the Chief Baron of the Exchequer in Ireland, was born in Dublin, in 1615, and was educated at Oxford, where he is said to have been more attentive to cards than study: a propensity which prevented his making any progress in the law, when he entered Lincoln's Inn. To please his father, he wrote an essay, proving the pernicious tendency of gaming; nevertheless, he seriously in, ured his patrimony by this vice. He was a zealous adherent of Charles I. and being discovered in secret correspondence with Cowley, he fled, to save his life, and his estate was sold by the Parliament. At the Restoration he was made a Knight of the Bath, and SurveyorGeneral of the Royal Buildings. He died in 1668, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.

"Cooper's Hill" is his best production; his poetry was written chiefly in the earlier portion of his life.]

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys

Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays;

Thames the most loved of all the ocean's sons

THE THAMES AND WINDSOR FOREST.

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By his old sire, to his embraces runs,

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,

Like mortal life to meet eternity.

Though with those streams he no remembrance hold,
Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold,

His genuine and less guilty wealth to explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring,

And then destroys it with too fond a stay,

Like mothers which their infants overlay;

Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,

Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave.

No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil,

But Godlike his unwearied bounty flows;

First loves to do, then loves the good he does.
Nor are his blessings to his banks confined,

But free and common as the sea or wind.
When he to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,

Visits the world, and in his flying towers

Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours: Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,

Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants;

So that to us no thing, no place is strange,
While his fair bosom is the world's exchange.

O, could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Some youths will now a mumming go,

Some others play at Roland-bo,

And twenty other game boys mo,

Because they will be merry.

Then, wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller ?
No, let us sing some roundelays,
To make our mirth the fuller:
And while we thus inspired sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods and hills, and everything,

Bear witness we are merry.

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

GEORGE WITHER.

SHALL I, wasting in despaire,

Dye, because a woman's faire?

Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosie are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flow'ry meads in May;
If she be not so to me,

What care I how faire she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
The turtle-dove or pelican:

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kinde she be?

Shall a woman's virtue move

Me to perish for her love?

Or her well-deservings knowne,

Make me quite forget mine owne?

Be she with that goodnesse blest,

Which may merit name of best;
If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,

Shall I play the foole and dye?

Those that beare a noble minde,

Where they want of riches finde,

Thinke what with them they would doe,

That without them dare to wooe;

And unlesse that minde I see,

What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kinde, or faire,
I will ne'er the more despaire ;
If she love me, this beleeve;
I will dye ere she shall grieve,
If she slight me when I wooe,
I can scorn and let her goe:
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?