The
Oxford Book
Of English Verse
1250-1900
_Impression of 1931_
_First edition, 1900_
The
Oxford Book
Of English Verse
1250-1900
Chosen & Edited by
Arthur Quiller-Couch
Oxford
At the Clarendon Press
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
TO
THE PRESIDENT
FELLOWS AND SCHOLARS
OF
TRINITY COLLEGE OXFORD
A HOUSE OF LEARNING
ANCIENT LIBERAL HUMANE
AND MY MOST KINDLY NURSE
PREFACE
For this Anthology I have tried to range over the whole field of English
Verse from the beginning, or from the Thirteenth Century to this closing
year of the Nineteenth, and to choose the best. Nor have I sought in
these Islands only, but wheresoever the Muse has followed the tongue
which among living tongues she most delights to honour. To bring home
and render so great a spoil compendiously has been my capital
difficulty. It is for the reader to judge if I have so managed it as to
serve those who already love poetry and to implant that love in some
young minds not yet initiated.
My scheme is simple. I have arranged the poets as nearly as possible in
order of birth, with such groupings of anonymous pieces as seemed
convenient. For convenience, too, as well as to avoid a dispute-royal, I
have gathered the most of the Ballads into the middle of the Seventeenth
Century; where they fill a languid interval between two winds of
inspiration--the Italian dying down with Milton and the French following
at the heels of the restored Royalists. For convenience, again, I have
set myself certain rules of spelling. In the very earliest poems
inflection and spelling are structural, and to modernize is to destroy.
But as old inflections fade into modern the old spelling becomes less
and less vital, and has been brought (not, I hope, too abruptly) into
line with that sanctioned by use and familiar. To do this seemed wiser
than to discourage many readers for the sake of diverting others by a
scent of antiquity which--to be essential--should breathe of something
rarer than an odd arrangement of type. But there are scholars whom I
cannot expect to agree with me; and to conciliate them I have excepted
Spenser and Milton from the rule.
Glosses of archaic and otherwise difficult words are given at the foot
of the page: but the text has not been disfigured with reference-marks.
And rather than make the book unwieldy I have eschewed
notes--reluctantly when some obscure passage or allusion seemed to ask
for a timely word; with more equanimity when the temptation was to
criticize or ‘appreciate.’ For the function of the anthologist includes
criticizing in silence.
Care has been taken with the texts. But I have sometimes thought it
consistent with the aim of the book to prefer the more beautiful to the
better attested reading. I have often excised weak or superfluous
stanzas when sure that excision would improve; and have not hesitated to
extract a few stanzas from a long poem when persuaded that they could
stand alone as a lyric. The apology for such experiments can only lie in
their success: but the risk is one which, in my judgement, the
anthologist ought to take. A few small corrections have been made, but
only when they were quite obvious.
The numbers chosen are either lyrical or epigrammatic. Indeed I am
mistaken if a single epigram included fails to preserve at least some
faint thrill of the emotion through which it had to pass before the
Muse’s lips let it fall, with however exquisite deliberation. But the
lyrical spirit is volatile and notoriously hard to bind with
definitions; and seems to grow wilder with the years. With the
anthologist--as with the fisherman who knows the fish at the end of his
sea-line--the gift, if he have it, comes by sense, improved by practice.
The definition, if he be clever enough to frame one, comes by
after-thought. I don’t know that it helps, and am sure that it may
easily mislead.
Having set my heart on choosing the best, I resolved not to be dissuaded
by common objections against anthologies--that they repeat one another
until the proverb δὶς ἢ τρὶς τὰ καλά loses all application--or perturbed
if my judgement should often agree with that of good critics. The best
is the best, though a hundred judges have declared it so; nor had it
been any feat to search out and insert the second-rate merely because it
happened to be recondite. To be sure, a man must come to such a task as
mine haunted by his youth and the favourites he loved in days when he
had much enthusiasm but little reading.
A deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years
Than lies upon that truth we live to learn.
Few of my contemporaries can erase--or would wish to erase--the dye
their minds took from the late Mr. Palgrave’s _Golden Treasury_: and he
who has returned to it again and again with an affection born of
companionship on many journeys must remember not only what the _Golden
Treasury_ includes, but the moment when this or that poem appealed to
him, and even how it lies on the page. To Mr. Bullen’s _Lyrics from the
Elizabethan Song Books_ and his other treasuries I own a more advised
debt. Nor am I free of obligation to anthologies even more recent--to
Archbishop Trench’s _Household Book of Poetry_, Mr. Locker-Lampson’s
_Lyra Elegantiarum_, Mr. Miles’ _Poets and Poetry of the Century_, Mr.
Beeching’s _Paradise of English Poetry_, Mr. Henley’s _English Lyrics_,
Mrs. Sharp’s _Lyra Celtica_, Mr. Yeats’ _Book of Irish Verse_, and Mr.
Churton Collins’ _Treasury of Minor British Poetry_: though my rule has
been to consult these after making my own choice. Yet I can claim that
the help derived from them--though gratefully owned--bears but a
trifling proportion to the labour, special and desultory, which has gone
to the making of my book.
For the anthologist’s is not quite the _dilettante_ business for which
it is too often and ignorantly derided. I say this, and immediately
repent; since my wish is that the reader should in his own pleasure
quite forget the editor’s labour, which too has been pleasant: that,
standing aside, I may believe this book has made the Muses’ access
easier when, in the right hour, they come to him to uplift or to
console--
ἄκλητος μὲν ἔγωγε μὲνοιμί κεν ἐς δὲ καλεύντων
θαρσήσας Μοίσαισι σὺν ἁμετέραισιν ἱκοίμαν
My thanks are here tendered to those who have helped me with permission
to include recent poems: to Mr. A. C. Benson, Mr. Laurence Binyon, Mr.
Wilfrid Blunt, Mr. Robert Bridges, Mr. John Davidson, Mr. Austin Dobson,
Mr. Aubrey de Vere, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. Bret Harte, Mr. W. E. Henley,
Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson, Mr. W. D. Howells, Dr. Douglas Hyde, Mr.
Rudyard Kipling, Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Richard Le Gallienne, Mr. George
Meredith, Mrs. Meynell, Mr. T. Sturge Moore, Mr. Henry Newbolt, Mr.
Gilbert Parker, Mr. T. W. Rolleston, Mr. George Russell (‘A. E.’), Mrs.
Clement Shorter (Dora Sigerson), Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Francis Thompson,
Dr. Todhunter, Mr. William Watson, Mr. Watts-Dunton, Mrs. Woods, and Mr.
W. B. Yeats; to the Earl of Crewe for a poem by the late Lord Houghton;
to Lady Ferguson, Mrs. Allingham, Mrs. A. H. Clough, Mrs.
Locker-Lampson, Mrs. Coventry Patmore; to the Lady Betty Balfour and the
Lady Victoria Buxton for poems by the late Earl of Lytton and the Hon.
Roden Noel; to the executors of Messrs. Frederic Tennyson (Captain
Tennyson and Mr. W. C. A. Ker), Charles Tennyson Turner (Sir Franklin
Lushington), Edward FitzGerald (Mr. Aldis Wright), William Bell Scott
(Mrs. Sydney Morse and Miss Boyd of Penkill Castle, who has added to her
kindness by allowing me to include an unpublished ‘Sonet’ by her
sixteenth-century ancestor, Mark Alexander Boyd), William Philpot (Mr.
Hamlet S. Philpot), William Morris (Mr. S. C. Cockerell), William
Barnes, and R. L. Stevenson; to the Rev. H. C. Beeching for two poems
from his own works, and leave to use his redaction of _Quia Amore
Langueo_; to Messrs. Macmillan for confirming permission for the
extracts from FitzGerald, Christina Rossetti, and T. E. Brown, and
particularly for allowing me to insert the latest emendations in Lord
Tennyson’s non-copyright poems; to the proprietors of Mr. and Mrs.
Browning’s copyrights and to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for a similar
favour, also for a copyright poem by Mrs. Browning; to Mr. George Allen
for extracts from Ruskin and the author of _Ionica_; to Messrs. G. Bell
& Sons for poems by Thomas Ashe; to Messrs. Chatto & Windus for poems by
Arthur O’Shaughnessy and Dr. George MacDonald, and for confirming Mr.
Bret Harte’s permission; to Mr. Elkin Mathews for a poem by Mr. Bliss
Carman; to Mr. John Lane for two poems by William Brighty Rands; to the
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge for two extracts from
Christina Rossetti’s _Verses_; and to Mr. Bertram Dobell, who allows me
not only to select from James Thomson but to use a poem of Traherne’s, a
seventeenth-century singer rediscovered by him. To mention all who in
other ways have furthered me is not possible in this short Preface;
which, however, must not conclude without a word of special thanks to
Dr. W. Robertson Nicoll for many suggestions and some pains kindly
bestowed, and to Professor F. York Powell, whose help and wise counsel
have been as generously given as they were eagerly sought, adding me to
the number of those many who have found his learning to be his friends’
good fortune.
A.T.Q.C.
_October 1900_
CONTENTS
NUMBER PAGE
1-7. Anonymous. XIII-XIV Century.....1-10
8. Robert Mannyng of Brunne. b. 1260, d. 1340......10
9. John Barbour. d. 1395.....10-11
10-12. Geoffrey Chaucer. b. ? 1340, d. 1400.....11-14
13. Thomas Hoccleve. b. 1368-9, d. ? 1450.....14-15
14. John Lydgate. b. ? 1370, d. ? 1450.....15
15. King James I of Scotland. b. 1394, d. 1437.....15
16-17. Robert Henryson. b. 1425, d. ? 1500.....16-25
18-21. William Dunbar. b. 1465, d. ? 1520.....25-33
22-29. Anonymous. XV-XVI Century.....33-57
30-31. John Skelton. b. ? 1460, d. 1529.....57-59
32-33. Stephen Hawes. d. 1523.....59-60
34-38. Sir Thomas Wyatt. b. 1503, d. 1542.....60-65
39-41. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey b. 1516, d. 1547.....65-68
42. Nicholas Grimald. b. 1519, d. 1562.....68-69
43-44. Alexander Scott. b. ? 1520, d. 158-.....69-71
45. Robert Wever. _c._ 1550.....72
46. Richard Edwardes. b. 1523, d. 1566.....72-73
47. George Gascoigne. b. 1523, d. 1566.....74-75
48. Alexander Mongtomerie. b. ? 1540, d. ? 1610.....75-77
49. William Stevenson. b. 1530, d. 1575.....77-78
50-72. Anonymous. XVI-XVII Century.....79-99
73-74. Nicholas Breton. b. 1542, d. 1626.....100-102
75-78. Sir Walter Raleigh. b. 1552, d. 1618.....102-104
79-84. Edmund Spenser. b. 1552, d. 1599.....104-129
85-86. John Lyly. b. 1533, d. 1606.....129-130
87. Anthony Munday. b. 1553, d. 1633.....130
88-95. Sir Philip Sidney. b. 1554, d. 1586.....131-136
96. Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. b. 1554, d. 1628.....136-137
97-100. Thomas Lodge. b. ? 1556, d. 1625.....137-141
101-102. George Peele. b. ? 1558, d. 1597.....141-143
103-105. Robert Greene. b. ? 1560, d. 1592.....143-145
106. Alexander Hume. b. 1560, d. 1609.....146-150
107. George Chapman. b. 1560, d. 1634.....150
108-109. Robert Southwell. b. 1561, d. 1595.....151-153
110. Henry Constable. b. ? 1562, d. ? 1613.....153
111-113. Samuel Daniel. b. 1562, d. 1619.....153-159
114. Mark Alexander Boyd. b. 1563, d. 1601.....160
115. Joshua Sylvester, b. 1563, d. 1618......160-161
116-120. Michael Drayton. b. 1563, d. 1631.....161-173
121. Christopher Marlowe. b. 1564, d. 1593.....173-174
122. Sir Walter Raleigh. b. 1552, d. 1618.....174-175
123-164. William Shakespeare. b. 1564, d. 1616.....175-200
165. Richard Rowlands. b. 1565, d. ? 1630.....200-201
166-167. Thomas Nashe. b. 1567, d. 1601.....201-203
168-176. Thomas Campion. b. ? 1567, d. 1619.....203-209
177. John Reynolds. XVI Century.....209-210
178-180. Sir Henry Wotton. b. 1568, d. 1639.....210-212
181. Sir John Davies. b. 1569, d. 1626.....212-213
182-183. Sir Robert Ayton. b. 1570, d. 1638.....213-215
184-194. Ben Jonson. b. 1573, d. 1637.....215-225
195-202. John Donne. b. 1573, d. 1631.....225-231
203. Richard Barnefield. b. 1574, d. 1627.....232
204. Thomas Dekker. b. 1575, d. 1641.....233
205-206. Thomas Heywood. b. ? 157-, d. 1650.....233-235
207-217. John Fletcher. b. 1579, d. 1625.....235-241
218-220. John Webster. d. ? 1630.....242-243
221. William Alexander, Earl of Stirling. b. ? 1580,
d. 1640.....243-244
222. Phineas Fletcher. b. 1580, d. 1650.....244
223. Sir John Beaumont. b. 1583, d. 1627.....245
224-232. William Drummond, of Hawthornden. b. 1585,
d. 1649.....245-250
233. Giles Fletcher. b. 158-, d. 1623.....250-252
234. Francis Beaumont. b. 1586, d. 1616.....252
235. John Ford. b. 1586, d. 1639.....253
236-239. George Wither. b. 1588, d. 1667.....253-260
240-246. William Browne, of Tavistock. b. 1588, d. 1643.....260-264
247-275. Robert Herrick. b. 1591, d. 1674.....264-284
276-277. Francis Quarles. b. 1592, d. 1644.....285
278-280. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. b. 1592,
d. 1669.....286-290
281-286. George Herbert. b. 1593, d. 1632.....290-295
287-288. James Shirley. b. 1596, d. 1666.....295-296
289-295. Thomas Carew. b ? 1595, d. ? 1639.....297-301
296. Jasper Mayne. b. 1604, d. 1672.....301-302
297-298. William Habington. b. 1605, d. 1654.....302-304
299-300. Thomas Randolph. b. 1605, d. 1635.....305-308
301-303. Sir William Davenant. b. 1606, d. 1668.....308-309
304-306. Edmund Waller. b. 1606, d. 1687.....310-311
307-324. John Milton. b. 1608, d. 1674.....311-347
325-328. Sir John Suckling. b. 1609, d. 1642.....347-350
329. Sir Richard Fanshawe. b. 1608, d. 1666.....350
330-333. William Cartwright. b. 1611, d. 1643.....351-353
334. James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. b. 1612,
d. 1650.....353-354
335. Thomas Jordan. b. ? 1612, d. 1685.....354-355
336-342. Richard Crashaw. b. ? 1613, d. 1649.....355-370
343-348. Richard Lovelace. b. 1618, d. 1658.....370-374
349-353. Abraham Cowley. b. 1618, d. 1667.....374-380
354. Alexander Brome. b. 1620, d. 1666.....381
355-361. Andrew Marvell. b. 1621, d. 1678.....382-394
362-365. Henry Vaughan. b. 1621, d. 1695.....395-399
366. John Bunyan. b. 1628, d. 1688.....399
367-392. Anonymous: Ballads.....400-459
393. William Strode. b. 1602, d. 1645.....459
394. Thomas Stanley. b. 1625, d. 1678.....460
395. Thomas D’Urfey. b. 1653, d. 1723.....460-461
396. Charles Cotton. b. 1630, d. 1687.....461
397. Katherine Philips (‘Orinda’). b. 1631, d. 1664.....462
398-402. John Dryden. b. 1631, d. 1700.....462-471
403. Charles Webbe. c. 1678.....472
404-405. Sir George Etherege. b. 1635, d. 1691.....472-473
406. Thomas Traherne. b. ? 1637, d. 1674.....473-475
407. Thomas Flatman. b. 1637, d. 1688.....475-476
408. Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. b. 1638,
d. 1706.....476-478
409-410. Sir Charles Sedley. b. 1639, d. 1701.....479-480
411-412. Aphra Behn. b. 1640, d. 1689.....480-481
413-416. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. b. 1647,
d. 1680.....481-484
417-418. John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire.
b. 1649, d. 1720.....485-486
419. Thomas Otway. b. 1652, d. 1685.....486
420. John Oldham. b. 1653, d. 1683.....487
421. John Cutts, Lord Cutts. b. 1661, d. 1707.....487
422-428. Matthew Prior. b. 1664, d. 1721.....488-493
429. William Walsh. b. 1663, d. 1708.....493
430. Lady Grisel Baillie. b. 1665, d. 1746.....494-495
431-432. William Congreve. b. 1670, d. 1729.....495-496
433. Joseph Addison. b. 1672, d. 1719.....496-497
434-435. Isaac Watts. b. 1674, d. 1748.....497-500
436. Thomas Parnell. b. 1679, d. 1718.....501
437. Allan Ramsay. b. 1686, d. 1758.....501-502
438. William Oldys. b. 1687, d. 1761.....503
439. John Gay. b. 1688, d. 1732.....503
440-442. Alexander Pope. b. 1688, d. 1744.....504-507
443. George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe.
b. 1691, d. 1762.....508
444-445. Henry Carey. b. ? 1693, d. 1743.....509-511
446-447. William Broome. d. 1745.....511-512
448. James Thomson. b. 1700, d. 1748.....512
449. George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton. b. 1709,
d. 1773.....512-513
450-451. Samuel Johnson. b. 1709, d. 1784.....513-516
452. Richard Jago. b. 1715, d. 1781.....516
453-456. Thomas Gray. b. 1716, d. 1771.....516-528
457-460. William Collins. b. 1721, d. 1759.....528-533
461-463. Mark Akenside. b. 1721, d. 1770.....534-537
464. Tobias George Smollett. b. 1721, d. 1771.....538
465. Christopher Smart. b. 1722, d. 1770.....538-542
466. Jane Elliot. b. 1727, d. 1805.....542-543
467-468. Oliver Goldsmith. b. 1728, d. 1774.....543-544
469. Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore.
b. 1735, d. 1797.....544-545
470-471. William Cowper. b. 1731, d. 1800.....545-547
472. James Beattie. b. 1735, d. 1803.....548
473. Isobel Pagan. b. 1740, d. 1821.....548-549
474. Anna Lætitia Barbauld. b. 1743, d. 1825.....549-550
475. Fanny Greville. XVIII Century.....550-551
476. John Logan. b. 1748, d. 1788.....551-552
477. Lady Anne Lindsay. b. 1750, d. 1825.....552-553
478. Sir William Jones. b. 1746, d. 1794.....554
479. Thomas Chatterton. b. 1752, d. 1770.....554-556
480-482. George Crabbe. b. 1754, d. 1832.....556-557
483-492. William Blake. b. 1757, d. 1827.....558-566
493-506. Robert Burns. b. 1759, d. 1796.....566-577
507-508. Henry Rowe. b. 1750, d. 1819.....578-579
509. William Lisle Bowles. b. 1762, d. 1850.....579
510. Joanna Baillie. b. 1762, d. 1851.....580
511. Mary Lamb. b. 1765, d. 1847.....581
512. Carolina, Lady Nairne. b. 1766, d. 1845.....581-582
513-514. James Hogg. b. 1770, d. 1835.....582-594
515-541. William Wordsworth. b. 1770, d. 1850.....594-618
542-548. Sir Walter Scott. b. 1771, d. 1832.....619-628
549-555. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. b. 1772, d. 1834.....628-658
556. Robert Southey. b. 1774, d. 1843.....658-659
557-576. Walter Savage Landor. b. 1775, d. 1864.....659-667
577-579. Charles Lamb. b. 1775, d. 1834.....668-672
580-581. Thomas Campbell. b. 1777, d. 1844.....672-675
582-585. Thomas Moore. b. 1779, d. 1852.....675-678
586. Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. b. 1781,
d. 1829.....678-679
587-588. Ebenezer Elliott. b. 1781, d. 1849.....679-681
589-591. Allan Cunningham. b. 1784, d. 1842.....681-683
592. Leigh Hunt. b. 1784, d. 1859.....683
593-595. Thomas Love Peacock. b. 1785, d. 1866.....684-687
596. Caroline Southey. b. 1787, d. 1854.....687-688
597-601. George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. b. 1788,
d. 1824.....688-694
602. Sir Aubrey de Vere. b. 1788, d. 1846.....694-695
603-604. Charles Wolfe. b. 1791, d. 1823.....695-697
605-618. Percy Bysshe Shelley. b. 1792, d. 1822.....697-717
619. Hew Ainslie. b. 1792, d. 1878.....717
620. John Keble. b. 1792, d. 1866.....718-720
621. John Clare. b. 1793, d. 1864.....720
622. Felicia Dorothea Hemans. b. 1793, d. 1835.....721
623-637. John Keats. b. 1795, d. 1821.....721-744
638. Jeremiah Joseph Callanan. b. 1795, d. 1839.....745
639. William Sidney Walker. b. 1795, d. 1846.....746
640-642. George Darley. b. 1795, d. 1846.....746-749
643-646. Hartley Coleridge. b. 1796, d. 1849.....749-751
647-654. Thomas Hood. b. 1798, d. 1845.....752-762
655. William Thom. b. 1798, d. 1848.....762-764
656. Sir Henry Taylor. b. 1800, d. 1886.....764
657. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay.
b. 1800, d. 1859.....765
658-659. William Barnes. b. 1801, d. 1886.....765-767
660. Winthrop Mackworth Praed. b. 1802, d. 1839.....767-768
661-662. Sara Coleridge. b. 1802, d. 1850.....768-770
663. Gerald Griffin. b. 1803, d. 1840.....770-772
664-665. James Clarence Mangan. b. 1803. d. 1849.....772-776
666-668. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. b. 1803, d. 1849.....777-778
669-672. Ralph Waldo Emerson. b. 1803, d. 1882.....779-785
673. Richard Henry Horne. b. 1803, d. 1884.....785-786
674-675. Robert Stephen Hawker. b. 1804, d. 1875.....786-787
676. Thomas Wade. b. 1805, d. 1875.....787
677. Francis Mahony. b. 1805, d. 1866.....788-790
678-687. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. b. 1806, d. 1861.....790-800
688. Frederick Tennyson. b. 1807, d. 1898.....800
689. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. b. 1807, d. 1882.....801-803
690. John Greenleaf Whittier. b. 1807, d. 1892.....804
691. Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin. b. 1807, d. 1867.....805-807
692. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. b. 1808,
d. 1876.....807-808
693. Charles Tennyson Turner. b. 1808, d. 1879.....808
694-696. Edgar Allan Poe. b. 1809, d. 1849.....809-814
697-698. Edward Fitzgerald. b. 1809, d. 1883.....814-818
699-709. Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. b. 1809,
d. 1892.....819-847
710. Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton.
b. 1809, d. 1885.....848
711. Henry Alford. b. 1810, d. 1871.....849
712-714. Sir Samuel Ferguson. b. 1810, d. 1886.....849-851
715-730. Robert Browning. b. 1812, d. 1889.....852-867
731. William Bell Scott. b. 1812, d. 1890.....867-872
732-733. Aubrey De Vere. b. 1814, d. 1902.....872-873
734. George Fox. b. 1815.....874
735-738. Emily Brontë. b. 1818, d. 1848.....875-879
739-740. Charles Kingsley. b. 1819, d. 1875.....879-880
741. Arthur Hugh Clough. b. 1819, d. 1861.....880-881
742-743. Walt Whitman. b. 1819, d. 1892.....881-882
744. John Ruskin. b. 1819, d. 1900.....882
745. Ebenezer Jones. b. 1820, d. 1860.....883
746. Frederick Locker-Lampson. b. 1821, d. 1895.....884
747-754. Matthew Arnold. b. 1822, d. 1888.....885-903
755-756. William Brighty Rands. b. 1823, d. 1880.....904-905
757. William Philpot. b. 1823, d. 1880.....906-907
758-759. William (Johnson) Cory. b. 1823, d. 1892.....907-908
760-764. Coventry Patmore. b. 1823, d. 1896.....908-913
765-768. Sydney Dobell. b. 1824, d. 1874.....913-921
769. William Allingham. b. 1824, d. 1889.....921-923
770. George MacDonald. b. 1824, d. 1905.....923
771. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. b. 1828, d. 1882.....923-928
772-776. George Meredith. b. 1828, d. 1909.....929-942
777-778. Alexander Smith. b. 1829, d. 1867.....942-945
779-789. Christina Georgina Rossetti. b. 1830, d. 1894.....946-954
790-793. Thomas Edward Brown. b. 1830, d. 1897.....955-956
794-795. Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton.
b. 1831, d. 1892.....957-962
796-799. James Thomson. b. 1834, d. 1882.....963-964
800-802. William Morris. b. 1834, d. 1896.....965-967
803-804. Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. b. 1834,
d. 1894.....967-969
805-806. Thomas Ashe. b. 1836, d. 1889.....969-970
807. Theodore Watts-Dunton. b. 1836, d. 1914.....970-972
808-811. Algernon Charles Swinburne. b. 1837, d. 1909.....972-991
812. William Dean Howells. b. 1837.....991
813. Bret Harte. b. 1839, d. 1902.....992
814-815. John Todhunter. b. 1839, d. 1916.....993-995
816-823. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840.....995-1002
824-826. Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840.....1002-1004
827. Henry Clarence Kendall. b. 1841, d. 1882.....1004-1006
828-830. Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy. b. 1844,
d. 1881.....1006-1010
831. John Boyle O’Reilly. b. 1844, d. 1890.....1010
832-840. Robert Bridges. b. 1844.....1011-1018
841. Andrew Lang. b. 1844, d. 1912.....1018
842-844. William Ernest Henley. b. 1849, d. 1903.....1019-1022
845. Edmund Gosse. b. 1849.....1022-1023
846-848. Robert Louis Stevenson. b. 1850, d. 1894.....1023-1025
849. T. W. Rolleston. b. 1857.....1025-1026
850-851. John Davidson. b. 1857, d. 1909.....1026-1028
852-854. William Watson. b. 1858.....1028-1031
855-856. Henry Charles Beeching. b. 1859.....1031-1033
857. Bliss Carman. b. 1861.....1033-1034
858. Douglas Hyde. b. 1861.....1034-1035
859. Arthur Christopher Benson. b. 1862.....1035-1036
860. Henry Newbolt. b. 1862.....1036-1037
861. Gilbert Parker. b. 1862.....1038
862-864. William Butler Yeats. b. 1865.....1038-1039
865-867. Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865.....1040-1045
868-869. Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866.....1045-1047
870-871. Laurence Binyon. b. 1869.....1047
872-873. ‘A. E.’ (George William Russell).....1048-1049
874. T. Sturge Moore. b. 1870.....1049
875. Francis Thompson, b. 1859, d. 1907.....1050-1052
876. Henry Cust. b. 1861, d. 1917.....1053
877. Katharine Tynan Hinkson. b. 1861.....1053-1054
878. Frances Bannerman.....1054-1055
879-880. Alice Meynell. b. 1850.....1055-1056
881. Dora Sigerson. d. 1918.....1056-1057
882. Margaret L. Woods. b. 1856.....1057
883. Anonymous.....1058
[Illustration]
_1._ _Cuckoo Song_
c. 1250
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweth sed, and bloweth med,
And springth the wude nu--
Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteth after lomb,
Lhouth after calve cu;
Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,
Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu:
Ne swike thu naver nu;
Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,
Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!
lhude] loud. awe] ewe. lhouth] loweth. sterteth] leaps. swike]
cease.
ANONYMOUS
_2._ _Alison_
c. 1300
Bytuene Mershe ant Averil
When spray biginneth to spring,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre kid to synge:
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge,
He may me blisse bringe,
Icham in hire bandoun.
An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,
Ichot from hevene it is me sent,
From alle wymmen my love is lent
Ant lyht on Alisoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,
Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;
With lossum chere he on me loh;
With middel smal ant wel y-make;
Bote he me wolle to hire take
For to buen hire owen make,
Long to lyven ichulle forsake
Ant feye fallen adoun.
An hendy hap, etc.
Nihtes when I wende and wake,
For-thi myn wonges waxeth won;
on hyre lud] in her language. ich libbe] I live. semlokest]
seemliest. he] she. bandoun] thraldom. hendy] gracious. y hent]
seized, enjoyed. ichot] I wot. lyht] alighted. hire her] her hair.
lossum] lovesome. loh] laughed. bote he] unless she. buen] be.
make] mate. feye] like to die. nihtes] at night. wende] turn.
for-thi] on that account. wonges waxeth won] cheeks grow wan.
Levedi, al for thine sake
Longinge is y-lent me on.
In world his non so wyter mon
That al hire bountè telle con;
Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,
Ant feyrest may in toune.
An hendy hap, etc.
Icham for wowyng al for-wake,
Wery so water in wore;
Lest eny reve me my make
Ichabbe y-yerned yore.
Betere is tholien whyle sore
Then mournen evermore.
Geynest under gore,
Herkne to my roun--
An hendy hap, etc.
_2._ levedi] lady. y-lent me on] arrived to me. so wyter mon] so
wise a man. swyre] neck. may] maid. for-wake] worn out with vigils.
so water in wore] as water in a weir. reve] rob. y-yerned yore]
long been distressed. tholien] to endure. geynest under gore]
comeliest under woman’s apparel. roun] tale, lay.
_3._ _Spring-tide_
c. 1300
Lenten ys come with love to toune,
With blosmen ant with briddes roune,
That al this blisse bryngeth;
Dayes-eyes in this dales,
Notes suete of nyhtegales,
Vch foul song singeth;
_3._ to toune] in its turn.
The threstlecoc him threteth oo,
Away is huere wynter wo,
When woderove springeth;
This foules singeth ferly fele,
Ant wlyteth on huere winter wele,
That al the wode ryngeth.
The rose rayleth hire rode,
The leves on the lyhte wode
Waxen al with wille;
The mone mandeth hire bleo,
The lilie is lossom to seo,
The fenyl ant the fille;
Wowes this wilde drakes,
Miles murgeth huere makes;
Ase strem that striketh stille,
Mody meneth; so doth mo
(Ichot ycham on of tho)
For loue that likes ille.
The mone mandeth hire lyht,
So doth the semly sonne bryht.
When briddes singeth breme;
Deowes donketh the dounes,
Deores with huere derne rounes
Domes forte deme;
him threteth oo] is aye chiding them. huere] their. woderove]
woodruff. ferly fele] marvellous many. wlyteth] whistle, or look.
rayleth hire rode] clothes herself in red. mandeth hire bleo] sends
forth her light. lossom to seo] lovesome to see. fille] thyme.
wowes] woo. miles] males. murgeth] make merry. makes] mates.
striketh] flows, trickles. mody meneth] the moody man makes moan.
so doth mo] so do many. on of tho] one of them. breme] lustily.
deowes] dews. donketh] make dank. deores] dears, lovers. huere
derne rounes] their secret tales. domes forte deme] for to give
(decide) their decisions.
Wormes woweth under cloude,
Wymmen waxeth wounder proude,
So wel hit wol hem seme,
Yef me shal wonte wille of on,
This wunne weole y wole forgon
Ant wyht in wode be fleme.
_3._ cloude] clod. wunne weole] wealth of joy. y wole forgon] I
will forgo. wyht] wight. fleme] banished.
_4._ _Blow, Northern Wind_
c. 1300
Ichot a burde in boure bryht,
That fully semly is on syht,
Menskful maiden of myht;
Feir ant fre to fonde;
In al this wurhliche won
A burde of blod ant of bon
Never yete y nuste non
Lussomore in londe.
Blou northerne wynd!
Send thou me my suetyng!
Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!
With lokkes lefliche ant longe,
With frount ant face feir to fonge,
With murthes monie mote heo monge,
That brid so breme in boure.
_4._ Ichot] I know. burde] maiden. menskful] worshipful. feir]
fair. fonde] take, prove. wurhliche] noble. won] multitude. y
nuste] I knew not. lussomore in londe] lovelier on earth. suetyng]
sweetheart. lefliche] lovely. fonge] take between hands. murthes]
mirths, joys. mote heo monge] may she mingle. brid] bird. breme]
full of life.
With lossom eye grete ant gode,
With browen blysfol under hode,
He that reste him on the Rode,
That leflych lyf honoure.
Blou northerne wynd, etc.
Hire lure lumes liht,
Ase a launterne a nyht,
Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht,
So feyr heo is ant fyn.
A suetly swyre heo hath to holde.
With armes shuldre ase mon wolde,
Ant fingres feyre forte folde,
God wolde hue were myn!
Blou northerne wynd, etc.
Heo is coral of godnesse,
Heo is rubie of ryhtfulnesse,
Heo is cristal of clannesse,
Ant baner of bealtè.
Heo is lilie of largesse,
Heo is parvenke of prouesse,
Heo is solsecle of suetnesse,
Ant lady of lealtè.
For hire love y carke ant care,
For hire love y droupne ant dare,
For hire love my blisse is bare
Ant al ich waxe won,
Rode] the Cross. lure] face. lumes] beams. bleo] colour. suetly
swyre] darling neck. forte] for to. hue, heo] she. clannesse]
cleanness, purity. parvenke] periwinkle. solsecle] sunflower. won]
wan.
For hire love in slep y slake,
For hire love al nyht ich wake,
For hire love mournynge y make
More then eny mon.
Blou northerne wynd!
Send thou me my suetyng!
Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!
_5._ _This World’s Joy_
c. 1300
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Al so hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth albydene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
_5._ this leves] these leaves. sike] sigh. nys] is not. also hit
ner nere] as though it had never been. soth] sooth. bote] but,
except. thah] though. faleweth] fadeth. albydene] altogether. y not
whider] I know not whither. her duelle] here dwell.
_6._ _A Hymn to the Virgin_
c. 1300
Of on that is so fayr and bright
_Velut maris stella_,
Brighter than the day is light,
_Parens et puella_:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
_Tam pia_,
That ic mote come to thee
_Maria_.
Al this world was for-lore
_Eva peccatrice_,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
_De te genetrice_.
With _ave_ it went away
Thuster nyth and comz the day
_Salutis_;
The welle springeth ut of the,
_Virtutis_.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,
_Rosa sine spina_,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
_Gratia divina_:
Of alle thu ber’st the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys
_Electa_:
Mayde milde, moder es
_Effecta_.
on] one. levedy] lady. thuster] dark. pris] prize.
_7._ _Of a rose, a lovely rose,_
_Of a rose is al myn song._
c. 1350
Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge,
How this rose began to sprynge;
Swych a rose to myn lykynge
In al this word ne knowe I non.
The Aungil came fro hevene tour,
To grete Marye with gret honour,
And seyde sche xuld bere the flour
That xulde breke the fyndes bond.
The flour sprong in heye Bedlem,
That is bothe bryht and schen:
The rose is Mary hevene qwyn,
Out of here bosum the blosme sprong.
The ferste braunche is ful of myht,
That sprang on Cyrstemesse nyht,
The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht
That is bothe brod and long.
The secunde braunche sprong to helle,
The fendys power doun to felle:
Therein myht non sowle dwelle;
Blyssid be the time the rose sprong!
The thredde braunche is good and swote,
It sprang to hevene crop and rote,
Therein to dwellyn and ben our bote;
Every day it schewit in prystes hond.
lestenyt] listen. word] world. xuld] should. schen] beautiful.
hevene qwyn] heaven’s queen. bote] salvation.
Prey we to here with gret honour,
Che that bar the blyssid flowr,
Che be our helpe and our socour
And schyd us fro the fyndes bond.
ROBERT MANNYNG OF BRUNNE
1260-1340
_8._ _Praise of Women_
No thyng ys to man so dere
As wommanys love in gode manere.
A gode womman is mannys blys,
There her love right and stedfast ys.
There ys no solas under hevene
Of alle that a man may nevene
That shulde a man so moche glew
As a gode womman that loveth true.
Ne derer is none in Goddis hurde
Than a chaste womman with lovely worde.
_8._ nevene] name. glew] gladden. hurde] flock.
JOHN BARBOUR
d. 1395
_9._ _Freedom_
A! Fredome is a noble thing!
Fredome mays man to haiff liking;
Fredome all solace to man giffis,
He levys at ese that frely levys!
A noble hart may haiff nane ese,
Na ellys nocht that may him plese,
_9._ liking] liberty. na ellys nocht] nor aught else.
Gyff fredome fail; for fre liking
Is yarnyt our all othir thing.
Na he that ay has levyt fre
May nocht knaw weill the propyrtè,
The angyr, na the wretchyt dome
That is couplyt to foule thyrldome.
Bot gyff he had assayit it,
Than all perquer he suld it wyt;
And suld think fredome mar to prise
Than all the gold in warld that is.
Thus contrar thingis evirmar
Discoweryngis off the tothir ar.
_9._ yarnyt] yearned for. perquer] thoroughly, by heart.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
1340?-1400
_10._ _The Love Unfeigned_
O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
_10._ repeyreth] repair ye. starf] died.
_11._ _Balade_
Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;
Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;
Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun,
Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;
Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.
Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere,
Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun,
And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,
And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,
Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun;
And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.
Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere,
And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun,
And Canace, espyed by thy chere,
Ysiphile, betraysed with Jasoun,
Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun;
Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may distevne.
_11._ disteyne] bedim. y-fere] together.
_12._ _Merciles Beaute_
A TRIPLE ROUNDEL
1. CAPTIVITY
Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beautè of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beautè of hem not sustene.
Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beautè of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
2. REJECTION
So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;
So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.
Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So greet beautè, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
3. ESCAPE
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
halt] holdeth.
He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; ther is non other mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
_12._ sclat] slate
THOMAS HOCCLEVE
1368-9?-1450?
_13._ _Lament for Chaucer_
Allas! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and richesse!
Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable
Unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse
Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse
Of rethorik; for unto Tullius
Was never man so lyk amonges us.
Also who was hier in philosophie
To Aristotle in our tonge but thou?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow.
That combre-worlde that the my maister slow--
Wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf
To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf ...
_13._ hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew.
She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while
Til that sum man had egal to the be;
Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle
May never man forth brynge lyk to the,
And hir office needes do mot she:
God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!
JOHN LYDGATE
1370?-1450?
_14._ _Vox ultima Crucis_
Tarye no lenger; toward thyn heritage
Hast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere.
Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage;
Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here.
Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere,
Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse.
Come on, my frend, my brother most entere!
For the I offered my blood in sacryfice.
_14._ bygged] built. palys] palace.
KING JAMES I OF SCOTLAND
1394-1437
_15._ _Spring Song of the Birds_
Worschippe ye that loveris bene this May,
For of your blisse the Kalendis are begonne,
And sing with us, Away, Winter, away!
Cum, Somer, cum, the suete sesoùn and sonne!
Awake for schame! that have your hevynnis wonne,
And amorously lift up your hedis all,
Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call!
_15._ suete] sweet. Lufe] Love.
ROBERT HENRYSON
1425-1500
_16._ _Robin and Makyne_
Robin sat on gude green hill,
Kepand a flock of fe:
Mirry Makyne said him till
‘Robin, thou rew on me:
I haif thee luvit, loud and still,
Thir yeiris twa or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,
Doutless but dreid I de.’
Robin answerit ‘By the Rude
Na thing of luve I knaw,
But keipis my scheip undir yon wud:
Lo, quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thou shaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?
Fain wad I leir that law.’
‘At luvis lair gif thou will leir
Tak thair ane A B C;
Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy, and free:
So that no danger do thee deir
Quhat dule in dern thou dre;
Preiss thee with pain at all poweir
Be patient and previe.’
kepand] keeping. fe] sheep, cattle. him till] to him. dule in dern]
sorrow in secret. dill] soothe. but dreid] without dread, i. e.
there is no fear or doubt. raik on raw] range in row. lude] loved.
leir] learn. lair] lore. heynd] gentle. feir] demeanour. deir]
daunt. dre] endure. preiss] endeavour.
Robin answerit hir agane,
‘I wat nocht quhat is lufe;
But I haif mervel in certaine
Quhat makis thee this wanrufe:
The weddir is fair, and I am fain;
My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald pley us in this plane,
They wald us baith reproif.’
‘Robin, tak tent unto my tale,
And wirk all as I reid,
And thou sall haif my heart all haill,
Eik and my maiden-heid:
Sen God sendis bute for baill,
And for murnyng remeid,
In dern with thee bot gif I daill
Dowtles I am bot deid.’
‘Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde
And ye will meit me heir,
Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde,
Quhyle we haif liggit full neir;
But mawgre haif I, and I byde,
Fra they begin to steir;
Quhat lyis on heart I will nocht hyd;
Makyn, then mak gude cheir.’
‘Robin, thou reivis me roiff and rest;
I luve bot thee allane.’
‘Makyne, adieu! the sone gois west,
The day is neir-hand gane.’
wanrufe] unrest. haill] healthy, whole. aboif] above, up yonder.
and] if. tak tent] give heed. reid] advise. bute for baill] remedy
for hurt. bot gif] but if, unless. daill] deal. mawgre haif I] I am
uneasy. reivis] robbest. roiff] quiet.
‘Robin, in dule I am so drest
That luve will be my bane.’
‘Ga luve, Makyne, quhair-evir thow list,
For lemman I luve nane.’
‘Robin, I stand in sic a styll,
I sicht and that full sair.’
‘Makyne, I haif been here this quhyle;
At hame God gif I wair.’
‘My huny, Robin, talk ane quhyll,
Gif thow will do na mair.’
‘Makyn, sum uthir man begyle,
For hamewart I will fair.’
Robin on his wayis went
As light as leif of tre;
Makyne murnit in hir intent,
And trowd him nevir to se.
Robin brayd attour the bent:
Then Makyne cryit on hie,
‘Now may thow sing, for I am schent!
Quhat alis lufe at me?’
Makyne went hame withowttin fail,
Full wery eftir cowth weip;
Then Robin in a ful fair daill
Assemblit all his scheip.
Be that sum part of Makynis aill
Out-throw his hairt cowd creip;
He fallowit hir fast thair till assaill,
And till her tuke gude keip.
drest] beset. lemman] mistress. sicht] sigh. in hir intent] in her
inward thought. brayd] strode. bent] coarse grass. schent]
destroyed. alis] ails. be that] by the time that. till] to. tuke
keip] paid attention.
‘Abyd, abyd, thow fair Makyne,
A word for ony thing;
For all my luve, it sall be thyne,
Withowttin departing.
All haill thy hairt for till haif myne
Is all my cuvating;
My scheip to-morn, quhyle houris nyne,
Will neid of no keping.’
‘Robin, thow hes hard soung and say,
In gestis and storeis auld,
The man that will nocht quhen he may
Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.
I pray to Jesu every day,
Mot eik thair cairis cauld
That first preissis with thee to play
Be firth, forrest, or fauld.’
‘Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The weddir is warme and fair,
And the grene woid rycht neir us by
To walk attour all quhair:
Thair ma na janglour us espy,
That is to lufe contrair;
Thairin, Makyne, baith ye and I,
Unsene we ma repair.’
‘Robin, that warld is all away,
And quyt brocht till ane end:
And nevir agane thereto, perfay,
Sall it be as thow wend;
hard] heard. gestis] romances. mot eik] may add to. be] by.
janglour] talebearer. wend] weened.
For of my pane thow maid it play;
And all in vane I spend:
As thow hes done, sa sall I say,
“Murne on, I think to mend.”’
‘Makyne, the howp of all my heill,
My hairt on thee is sett;
And evirmair to thee be leill
Quhill I may leif but lett;
Never to faill as utheris feill,
Quhat grace that evir I gett.’
‘Robin, with thee I will nocht deill;
Adieu! for thus we mett.’
Makyne went hame blyth anneuche
Attour the holttis hair;
Robin murnit, and Makyne leuche;
Scho sang, he sichit sair:
And so left him baith wo and wreuch,
In dolour and in cair,
Kepand his hird under a huche
Amangis the holttis hair.
_16._ howp] hope. but lett] without hindrance. anneuche] enough.
holttis hair] grey woodlands. leuche] laughed. wreuch] peevish.
huche] heuch, cliff.
_17._ _The Bludy Serk_
This hinder yeir I hard be tald
Thair was a worthy King;
Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald,
He had at his bidding.
_17._ hinder yeir] last year.
The Lord was ancean and ald,
And sexty yeiris cowth ring;
He had a dochter fair to fald,
A lusty Lady ying.
Off all fairheid scho bur the flour,
And eik hir faderis air;
Off lusty laitis and he honour,
Meik bot and debonair:
Scho wynnit in a bigly bour,
On fold wes nane so fair,
Princis luvit hir paramour
In cuntreis our allquhair.
Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King
A foull Gyand of ane;
Stollin he has the Lady ying,
Away with hir is gane,
And kest her in his dungering
Quhair licht scho micht se nane;
Hungir and cauld and grit thristing
Scho fand into hir waine.
He wes the laithliest on to luk
That on the grund mycht gang:
His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,
Thairwith fyve quarteris lang;
ring] reign. fald] enfold. ying] young. fairheid] beauty. air]
heir. laitis] manners. bot and] and also. scho wynnit] she dwelt.
bigly] well-built. fold] earth. paramour] lovingly. our allquhair]
all the world over. a lyt besyde] a little, (i. e. close) beside.
of ane] as any. kest] cast. dungering] dungeon. into hir waine] in
her lodging. hellis cruk] hell-claw.
Thair wes nane that he ourtuk,
In rycht or yit in wrang,
Bot all in schondir he thame schuk,
The Gyand wes so strang.
He held the Lady day and nycht
Within his deip dungeoun,
He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht
For gold nor yit ransoun--
Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht,
To fecht with his persoun,
To fecht with him beth day and nycht,
Quhill ane wer dungin doun.
The King gart seik baith fer and neir,
Beth be se and land,
Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir
Wald fecht with that Gyand:
A worthy Prince, that had no peir,
Hes tane the deid on hand
For the luve of the Lady cleir,
And held full trew cunnand.
That Prince come prowdly to the toun
Of that Gyand to heir,
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presoneir,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun
Allane withouten feir,
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,
As full weill worthy weir.
quhill] until. dungin doun] beaten down. his awin persoun] himself.
withouten feir] without companion.
Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht
Unto her fadir fre.
Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht
That he behuvit to de;
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the world was thair a wicht
So peteouss for to se?
The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane,
With all her mekill mycht--
‘I luvit nevir lufe bot ane,
That dulfully now is dicht;
God sen my lyfe were fra me tane
Or I had seen yone sicht,
Or ellis in begging evir to gane
Furth with yone curtass knycht.’
He said ‘Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow;
Take ye my serk that is bludy,
And hing it forrow yow;
First think on it, and syne on me,
Quhen men cumis yow to wow.’
The Lady said ‘Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a vow.’
Quhen that scho lukit to the sark
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir hart
That lowsit hir of bandoun,
the bricht] the fair one. likame] body. lowsit hir of. bandoun]
loosed her from thraldom.
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk
Into that deip dungeoun;
And evir quhill scho wes in quert,
That was hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht
That no man wald scho tak:
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis sak,
Sa suld we do beth day and nycht,
With prayaris to him mak.
This King is lyk the Trinitie,
Baith in hevin and heir;
The manis saule to the Lady,
The Gyand to Lucefeir,
The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre
And coft our synnis deir;
The pit to Hele with panis fell,
The Syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all sin away
That in our breist is bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verray,
For ws his blud that bled,
To be our help on domisday
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.
quert] prison. coft] bought. straitly led] strictly carried out.
The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrayit with Lucefeir,
Quha sittis in hell full merk:
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
And for his lufe that bocht us deir
Think on the BLUDY SERK!
_17._ hend] gentle.
WILLIAM DUNBAR
1465-1520?
_18._ _To a Lady_
Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness,
Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,
Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,
And everie vertew that is wenit dear,
Except onlie that ye are mercyless.
Into your garth this day I did persew;
There saw I flowris that fresche were of hew;
Baith quhyte and reid most lusty were to seyne,
And halesome herbis upon stalkis greene;
Yet leaf nor flowr find could I nane of rew.
I doubt that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne,
Has slain this gentil herb, that I of mene;
Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine
That I would make to plant his root againe,--
So confortand his levis unto me bene.
_18._ rois] rose. wenit] weened, esteemed. garth] garden-close. to
seyne] to see. that I of mene] that I complain of, mourn for.
_19._ _In Honour of the City of London_
London, thou art of townes _A per se_.
Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,
Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;
Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;
Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;
Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall;
Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troynovaunt,
Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy;
In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant,
Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure and of joy,
A richer restith under no Christen roy;
For manly power, with craftis naturall,
Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie,
Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour;
Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie;
Of royall cities rose and geraflour;
Empress of townes, exalt in honour;
In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall;
Swete paradise precelling in pleasure;
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne,
Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare,
Under thy lusty wallys renneth down,
Where many a swan doth swymme with wyngis fair;
gladdith] rejoice. Troynovaunt] Troja nova or Trinovantum.
fourmeth] appeareth. geraflour] gillyflower.
Where many a barge doth saile and row with are;
Where many a ship doth rest with top-royall.
O, towne of townes! patrone and not compare,
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white
Been merchauntis full royall to behold;
Upon thy stretis goeth many a semely knyght
In velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold.
By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old
May be the hous of Mars victoryall,
Whose artillary with tonge may not be told:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Strong be thy wallis that about thee standis;
Wise be the people that within thee dwellis;
Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis;
Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis;
Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis;
Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small;
Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce,
With sword of justice thee ruleth prudently.
No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce
In dignitye or honour goeth to hym nigh.
He is exampler, loode-ster, and guye;
Principall patrone and rose orygynalle,
Above all Maires as maister most worthy:
London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
are] oar. small] slender. kellis] hoods, head-dresses. guye] guide.
_20._ _On the Nativity of Christ_
_Rorate coeli desuper_!
Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!
For now is risen the bricht day-ster,
Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris:
The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris,
Surmounting Phebus in the Est,
Is cumin of his hevinly touris:
_Et nobis Puer natus est_.
Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis,
Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir,
And all ye hevinly operationis,
Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir,
Fire, erd, air, and water cleir,
To Him gife loving, most and lest,
That come in to so meik maneir;
_Et nobis Puer natus est_.
Synnaris be glad, and penance do,
And thank your Maker hairtfully;
For he that ye micht nocht come to
To you is cumin full humbly
Your soulis with his blood to buy
And loose you of the fiendis arrest--
And only of his own mercy;
_Pro nobis Puer natus est_.
All clergy do to him inclyne,
And bow unto that bairn benyng,
And do your observance divyne
To him that is of kingis King:
schouris] showers. cumin] come, entered. seir] various. erd] earth.
lest] least. synnaris] sinners. benyng] benign.
Encense his altar, read and sing
In holy kirk, with mind degest,
Him honouring attour all thing
_Qui nobis Puer natus est_.
Celestial foulis in the air,
Sing with your nottis upon hicht,
In firthis and in forrestis fair
Be myrthful now at all your mycht;
For passit is your dully nicht,
Aurora has the cloudis perst,
The Sone is risen with glaidsum licht,
_Et nobis Puer natus est_.
Now spring up flouris fra the rute,
Revert you upward naturaly,
In honour of the blissit frute
That raiss up fro the rose Mary;
Lay out your levis lustily,
Fro deid take life now at the lest
In wirschip of that Prince worthy
_Qui nobis Puer natus est_.
Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht!
Regions of air mak armony!
All fish in flud and fowl of flicht
Be mirthful and mak melody!
All Gloria in excelsis cry!
Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,--
He that is crownit abone the sky
_Pro nobis Puer natus est_!
attour] over, above. perst] pierced. raiss] rose. best] beast.
_21._ _Lament for the Makers_
I that in heill was and gladnèss
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This fals world is but transitory,
The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,
Now dansand mirry, now like to die:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
No state in Erd here standis sicker;
As with the wynd wavis the wicker
So wannis this world’s vanitie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Unto the Death gois all Estatis,
Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,
Baith rich and poor of all degree:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He takis the knichtis in to the field
Enarmit under helm and scheild;
Victor he is at all mellie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
heill] health. bruckle] brittle, feeble. slee] sly. dansand]
dancing. sicker] sure. wicker] willow. wannis] wanes. mellie]
mellay.
That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignitie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He takis the campion in the stour,
The captain closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewtie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He spairis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awful straik may no man flee:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Art-magicianis and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Them helpis no conclusionis slee:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
In medecine the most practicianis,
Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,
Themself from Death may not supplee:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
I see that makaris amang the lave
Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;
Sparit is nocht their facultie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me._
sowkand] sucking. campion] champion. stour] fight. piscence]
puissance. straik] stroke. supplee] save. makaris] poets. the lave]
the leave, the rest. padyanis] pageants.
The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,
Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,
He has tane out of this cuntrie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
That scorpion fell has done infeck
Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek,
Fra ballat-making and tragedie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Holland and Barbour he has berevit;
Alas! that he not with us levit
Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,
That made the anteris of Gawaine;
Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill
Slain with his schour of mortal hail,
Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He has reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luve so lively write,
So short, so quick, of sentence hie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,
And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;
Two better fallowis did no man see:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
anteris] adventures. schour] shower. endite] inditing. fallowis]
fellows.
In Dunfermline he has tane Broun
With Maister Robert Henrysoun;
Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
And he has now tane, last of a,
Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,
Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Good Maister Walter Kennedy
In point of Death lies verily;
Great ruth it were that so suld be:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Sen he has all my brether tane,
He will naught let me live alane;
Of force I man his next prey be:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
Since for the Death remeid is none,
Best is that we for Death dispone,
After our death that live may we:--
_Timor Mortis conturbat me_.
_21._ wichtis] wights, persons. man] must. dispone] make
disposition.
ANONYMOUS
15th Cent.
_22._ _May in the Green-Wood_
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
_22._ sheyne] bright.
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles hee,
And shadow him in the leves grene
Under the green-wode tree.
Hit befell on Whitsontide
Early in a May mornyng,
The Sonne up faire can shyne,
And the briddis mery can syng.
‘This is a mery mornyng,’ said Litulle Johne,
‘Be Hym that dyed on tre;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Christiantè.
‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’
Litulle Johne can say,
‘And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of May.’
_23._ _Carol_
15th Cent.
I sing of a maiden
That is makeles;
King of all kings
To her son she ches.
He came al so still
There his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.
_23._ makeles] matchless. ches] chose.
He came al so still
To his mother’s bour,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flour.
He came al so still
There his mother lay,
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.
Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
Goddes mother be.
_24._ _Quia Amore Langueo_
15th Cent. (?)
In a valley of this restles mind
I sought in mountain and in mead,
Trusting a true love for to find.
Upon an hill then took I heed;
A voice I heard (and near I yede)
In great dolour complaining tho:
See, dear soul, how my sides bleed
_Quia amore langueo_.
Upon this hill I found a tree,
Under a tree a man sitting;
From head to foot wounded was he;
His hearte blood I saw bleeding:
A seemly man to be a king,
A gracious face to look unto.
I askèd why he had paining;
[He said,] _Quia amore langueo_.
_24._ yede] went.
I am true love that false was never;
My sister, man’s soul, I loved her thus.
Because we would in no wise dissever
I left my kingdom glorious.
I purveyed her a palace full precious;
She fled, I followed, I loved her so
That I suffered this pain piteous
_Quia amore langueo_.
My fair love and my spouse bright!
I saved her from beating, and she hath me bet;
I clothed her in grace and heavenly light;
This bloody shirt she hath on me set;
For longing of love yet would I not let;
Sweete strokes are these: lo!
I have loved her ever as I her het
_Quia amore langueo_.
I crowned her with bliss and she me with thorn;
I led her to chamber and she me to die;
I brought her to worship and she me to scorn;
I did her reverence and she me villany.
To love that loveth is no maistry;
Her hate made never my love her foe:
Ask me then no question why--
_Quia amore langueo_.
Look unto mine handes, man!
These gloves were given me when I her sought;
They be not white, but red and wan;
Embroidered with blood my spouse them brought.
They will not off; I loose hem nought:
het] promised.
I woo her with hem wherever she go.
These hands for her so friendly fought
_Quia amore langueo_.
Marvel not, man, though I sit still.
See, love hath shod me wonder strait:
Buckled my feet, as was her will,
With sharpe nails (well thou may’st wait!)
In my love was never desait;
All my membres I have opened her to;
My body I made her herte’s bait
_Quia amore langueo_.
In my side I have made her nest;
Look in, how weet a wound is here!
This is her chamber, here shall she rest,
That she and I may sleep in fere.
Here may she wash, if any filth were;
Here is seat for all her woe;
Come when she will, she shall have cheer
_Quia amore langueo_.
I will abide till she be ready,
I will her sue if she say nay;
If she be retchless I will be greedy,
If she be dangerous I will her pray;
If she weep, then bide I ne may:
Mine arms ben spread to clip her me to.
Cry once, I come: now, soul, assay
_Quia amore langueo_.
Fair love, let us go play:
Apples ben ripe in my gardayne.
bait] resting-place. weet] wet. in fere] together.
I shall thee clothe in a new array,
Thy meat shall be milk, honey and wine.
Fair love, let us go dine:
Thy sustenance is in my crippe, lo!
Tarry thou not, my fair spouse mine,
_Quia amore langueo_.
If thou be foul, I shall thee make clean;
If thou be sick, I shall thee heal;
If thou mourn ought, I shall thee mene;
Why wilt thou not, fair love, with me deal?
Foundest thou ever love so leal?
What wilt thou, soul, that I shall do?
I may not unkindly thee appeal
_Quia amore langueo_.
What shall I do now with my spouse
But abide her of my gentleness,
Till that she look out of her house
Of fleshly affection? love mine she is;
Her bed is made, her bolster is bliss,
Her chamber is chosen; is there none mo.
Look out on me at the window of kindeness
_Quia amore langueo_.
My love is in her chamber: hold your peace!
Make ye no noise, but let her sleep.
My babe I would not were in disease,
I may not hear my dear child weep.
With my pap I shall her keep;
Ne marvel ye not though I tend her to:
This wound in my side had ne’er be so deep
But _Quia amore langueo_.
crippe] scrip. mene] care for.
Long thou for love never so high,
My love is more than thine may be.
Thou weepest, thou gladdest, I sit thee by:
Yet wouldst thou once, love, look unto me!
Should I always feede thee
With children meat? Nay, love, not so!
I will prove thy love with adversitè
_Quia amore langueo_.
Wax not weary, mine own wife!
What mede is aye to live in comfort?
In tribulation I reign more rife
Ofter times than in disport.
In weal and in woe I am aye to support:
Mine own wife, go not me fro!
Thy mede is marked, when thou art mort:
_Quia amore langueo_.
_25._ _The Nut-Brown Maid_
15th Cent.
_He._ _Be it right or wrong, these men among_
_On women do complain;_
_Affirming this, how that it is_
_A labour spent in vain_
_To love them wele; for never a dele_
_They love a man again:_
_For let a man do what he can_
_Their favour to attain,_
_Yet if a new to them pursue,_
_Their first true lover than_
_Laboureth for naught; for from her thought_
_He is a banished man._
_25._ never a dele] never a bit. than] then.
_She._ _I say not nay, but that all day_
_It is both written and said_
_That woman’s faith is, as who saith,_
_All utterly decayd:_
_But nevertheless, right good witnèss_
_In this case might be laid_
_That they love true and continue:_
_Record the Nut-brown Maid,_
_Which, when her love came her to prove,_
_To her to make his moan,_
_Would not depart; for in her heart_
_She loved but him alone._
_He._ _Then between us let us discuss_
_What was all the manere_
_Between them two: we will also_
_Tell all the pain in fere_
_That she was in. Now I begin,_
_So that ye me answere:_
_Wherefore all ye that present be,_
_I pray you, give an ear._
_I am the Knight. I come by night,_
_As secret as I can,_
_Saying_, Alas! thus standeth the case,
I am a banished man.
_She._ _And I your will for to fulfil_
_In this will not refuse;_
_Trusting to show, in wordes few,_
_That men have an ill use--_
_To their own shame--women to blame,_
_And causeless them accuse._
in fere] in company together.
_Therefore to you I answer now,_
_All women to excuse--_
Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?
I pray you, tell anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ It standeth so: a deed is do
Whereof great harm shall grow:
My destiny is for to die
A shameful death, I trow;
Or else to flee. The t’ one must be.
None other way I know
But to withdraw as an outlàw,
And take me to my bow.
Wherefore adieu, mine own heart true!
None other rede I can:
For I must to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ O Lord, what is this worldis bliss,
That changeth as the moon!
My summer’s day in lusty May
Is darked before the noon.
I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,
We dèpart not so soon.
Why say ye so? whither will ye go?
Alas! what have ye done?
All my welfàre to sorrow and care
Should change, if ye were gone:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
rede I can] counsel I know.
_He._ I can believe it shall you grieve,
And somewhat you distrain;
But afterward, your paines hard
Within a day or twain
Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take
Comfort to you again.
Why should ye ought? for, to make thought,
Your labour were in vain.
And thus I do; and pray you to,
As hartely as I can:
For I must to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Now, sith that ye have showed to me
The secret of your mind,
I shall be plain to you again,
Like as ye shall me find.
Sith it is so that ye will go,
I will not live behind.
Shall never be said the Nut-brown Maid
Was to her love unkind.
Make you readý, for so am I,
Although it were anone:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ Yet I you rede to take good heed
What men will think and say:
Of young, of old, it shall be told
That ye be gone away
Your wanton will for to fulfil,
In green-wood you to play;
And that ye might for your delight
No longer make delay
Rather than ye should thus for me
Be called an ill womàn
Yet would I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Though it be sung of old and young
That I should be to blame,
Theirs be the charge that speak so large
In hurting of my name:
For I will prove that faithful love
It is devoid of shame;
In your distress and heaviness
To part with you the same:
And sure all tho that do not so
True lovers are they none:
For in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ I counsel you, Remember how
It is no maiden’s law
Nothing to doubt, but to run out
To wood with an outlàw.
For ye must there in your hand bear
A bow readý to draw;
And as a thief thus must you live
Ever in dread and awe;
Whereby to you great harm might grow:
Yet had I liever than
That I had to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
part with] share with. tho] those.
_She._ I think not nay but as ye say;
It is no maiden’s lore;
But love may make me for your sake,
As I have said before,
To come on foot, to hunt and shoot,
To get us meat and store;
For so that I your company
May have, I ask no more.
From which to part it maketh my heart
As cold as any stone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ For an outlàw this is the law,
That men him take and bind:
Without pitie, hangèd to be,
And waver with the wind.
If I had need (as God forbede!)
What socours could ye find?
Forsooth I trow, you and your bow
For fear would draw behind.
And no mervail; for little avail
Were in your counsel than:
Wherefore I’ll to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Right well know ye that women be
But feeble for to fight;
No womanhede it is, indeed,
To be bold as a knight:
Yet in such fear if that ye were
With enemies day and night,
I would withstand, with bow in hand,
To grieve them as I might,
And you to save; as women have
From death men many one:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ Yet take good hede; for ever I drede
That ye could not sustain
The thorny ways, the deep vallèys,
The snow, the frost, the rain,
The cold, the heat; for dry or wete,
We must lodge on the plain;
And, us above, no other roof
But a brake bush or twain:
Which soon should grieve you, I believe;
And ye would gladly than
That I had to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Sith I have here been partynere
With you of joy and bliss,
I must alsò part of your woe
Endure, as reason is:
Yet I am sure of one pleasùre,
And shortly it is this--
That where ye be, me seemeth, pardé,
I could not fare amiss.
Without more speech I you beseech
That we were shortly gone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ If ye go thyder, ye must consider,
When ye have lust to dine,
There shall no meat be for to gete,
Nether bere, ale, ne wine,
Ne shetès clean, to lie between,
Made of thread and twine;
None other house, but leaves and boughs,
To cover your head and mine.
Lo, mine heart sweet, this ill diète
Should make you pale and wan:
Wherefore I’ll to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Among the wild deer such an archère,
As men say that ye be,
Ne may not fail of good vitayle
Where is so great plentè:
And water clear of the rivere
Shall be full sweet to me;
With which in hele I shall right wele
Endure, as ye shall see;
And, or we go, a bed or two
I can provide anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ Lo yet, before, ye must do more,
If ye will go with me:
As, cut your hair up by your ear,
Your kirtle by the knee;
With bow in hand for to withstand
Your enemies, if need be:
hele] health.
And this same night, before daylight,
To woodward will I flee.
If that ye will all this fulfil,
Do it shortly as ye can:
Else will I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ I shall as now do more for you
Than ’longeth to womanhede;
To short my hair, a bow to bear,
To shoot in time of need.
O my sweet mother! before all other
For you I have most drede!
But now, adieu! I must ensue
Where fortune doth me lead.
All this make ye: Now let us flee;
The day cometh fast upon:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go,
And I shall tell you why--
Your appetite is to be light
Of love, I well espy:
For, right as ye have said to me,
In likewise hardily
Ye would answere whosoever it were,
In way of companý:
It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold;
And so is a womàn:
Wherefore I to the wood will go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ If ye take heed, it is no need
Such words to say to me;
For oft ye prayed, and long assayed,
Or I loved you, pardè:
And though that I of ancestry
A baron’s daughter be,
Yet have you proved how I you loved,
A squire of low degree;
And ever shall, whatso befall
To die therefore anone;
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ A baron’s child to be beguiled,
It were a cursèd deed!
To be felàw with an outlaw--
Almighty God forbede!
Yet better were the poor squyere
Alone to forest yede
Than ye shall say another day
That by my cursèd rede
Ye were betrayed. Wherefore, good maid,
The best rede that I can,
Is, that I to the green-wood go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Whatever befall, I never shall
Of this thing be upbraid:
But if ye go, and leave me so,
Then have ye me betrayed.
Remember you wele, how that ye dele;
For if ye, as ye said,
yede] went.
Be so unkind to leave behind
Your love, the Nut-brown Maid,
Trust me trulý that I shall die
Soon after ye be gone:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ If that ye went, ye should repent;
For in the forest now
I have purveyed me of a maid
Whom I love more than you:
Another more fair than ever ye were
I dare it well avow;
And of you both each should be wroth
With other, as I trow:
It were mine ease to live in peace;
So will I, if I can:
Wherefore I to the wood will go,
Alone, a banished man.
_She._ Though in the wood I understood
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought,
But that I will be your’:
And she shall find me soft and kind
And courteis every hour;
Glad to fulfil all that she will
Command me, to my power:
For had ye, lo, an hundred mo,
Yet would I be that one:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ Mine own dear love, I see the prove
That ye be kind and true;
Of maid, of wife, in all my life,
The best that ever I knew.
Be merry and glad; be no more sad;
The case is changèd new;
For it were ruth that for your truth
Ye should have cause to rue.
Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said
To you when I began:
I will not to the green-wood go;
I am no banished man.
_She._ These tidings be more glad to me
Than to be made a queen,
If I were sure they should endure;
But it is often seen
When men will break promise they speak
The wordis on the splene.
Ye shape some wile me to beguile,
And steal from me, I ween:
Then were the case worse than it was,
And I more wo-begone:
For, in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone.
_He._ Ye shall not nede further to drede:
I will not disparàge
You (God defend), sith you descend
Of so great a linàge.
Now understand: to Westmoreland,
Which is my heritage,
on the splene] that is, in haste.
I will you bring; and with a ring,
By way of marriàge
I will you take, and lady make,
As shortly as I can:
Thus have you won an Earles son,
And not a banished man.
_Here may ye see that women be_
_In love meek, kind, and stable;_
_Let never man reprove them than,_
_Or call them variable;_
_But rather pray God that we may_
_To them be comfortable;_
_Which sometime proveth such as He loveth,_
_If they be charitable._
_For sith men would that women should_
_Be meek to them each one;_
_Much more ought they to God obey,_
_And serve but Him alone._
_26._ _As ye came from the Holy Land_
16th Cent.
As ye came from the holy land
Of Walsinghame,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
How should I know your true love,
That have met many a one
As I came from the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?
She is neither white nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath her form divine
In the earth or the air.
Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face,
Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear
In her gait, in her grace.
She hath left me here alone
All alone, as unknown,
Who sometime did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.
What’s the cause that she leaves you alone
And a new way doth take,
That sometime did love you as her own,
And her joy did you make?
I have loved her all my youth,
But now am old, as you see:
Love likes not the falling fruit,
Nor the withered tree.
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past:
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.
His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy;
He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.
Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abusèd,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excusèd.
But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never dead, never cold,
From itself never turning.
_27._ _The Lover in Winter Plaineth for the Spring_
16th Cent.(?)
O western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
_28._ _Balow_
16th Cent.
Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep!
It grieves me sore to see thee weep.
Wouldst thou be quiet I’se be glad,
Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad:
Balow my boy, thy mother’s joy,
Thy father breeds me great annoy--
Balow, la-low!
When he began to court my love,
And with his sugred words me move,
His faynings false and flattering cheer
To me that time did not appear:
But now I see most cruellye
He cares ne for my babe nor me--
Balow, la-low!
Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile,
And when thou wak’st thou’le sweetly smile:
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid!
But yet I fear thou wilt go near
Thy father’s heart and face to bear--
Balow, la-low!
I cannot choose but ever will
Be loving to thy father still;
Where’er he go, where’er he ride,
My love with him doth still abide;
In weal or woe, where’er he go,
My heart shall ne’er depart him fro--
Balow, la-low!
But do not, do not, pretty mine,
To faynings false thy heart incline!
Be loyal to thy lover true,
And never change her for a new:
If good or fair, of her have care
For women’s banning’s wondrous sare--
Balow, la-low!
Bairn, by thy face I will beware;
Like Sirens’ words, I’ll come not near;
My babe and I together will live;
He’ll comfort me when cares do grieve.
My babe and I right soft will lie,
And ne’er respect man’s crueltye--
Balow, la-low!
Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth
That ever kist a woman’s mouth!
I wish all maids be warn’d by me
Never to trust man’s curtesye;
For if we do but chance to bow,
They’ll use us then they care not how--
Balow, la-low!
_29._ _The Old Cloak_
16th Cent.(?)
This winter’s weather it waxeth cold,
And frost it freezeth on every hill,
And Boreas blows his blast so bold
That all our cattle are like to spill.
Bell, my wife, she loves no strife;
She said unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cow Crumbock’s life!
Man, put thine old cloak about thee!
_He._ O Bell my wife, why dost thou flyte?
Thou kens my cloak is very thin:
It is so bare and over worn,
A crickè thereon cannot renn.
Then I’ll no longer borrow nor lend;
For once I’ll new apparell’d be;
To-morrow I’ll to town and spend;
For I’ll have a new cloak about me.
_She._ Cow Crumbock is a very good cow:
She has been always true to the pail;
She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow,
And other things she will not fail.
_29._ flyte] scold.
I would be loth to see her pine.
Good husband, counsel take of me:
It is not for us to go so fine--
Man, take thine old cloak about thee!
_He._ My cloak it was a very good cloak,
It hath been always true to the wear;
But now it is not worth a groat:
I have had it four and forty year’.
Sometime it was of cloth in grain:
’Tis now but a sigh clout, as you may see:
It will neither hold out wind nor rain;
And I’ll have a new cloak about me.
_She._ It is four and forty years ago
Sine the one of us the other did ken;
And we have had, betwixt us two,
Of children either nine or ten:
We have brought them up to women and men:
In the fear of God I trow they be.
And why wilt thou thyself misken?
Man, take thine old cloak about thee!
_He._ O Bell my wife, why dost thou flyte?
Now is now, and then was then:
Seek now all the world throughout,
Thou kens not clowns from gentlemen:
They are clad in black, green, yellow and blue,
So far above their own degree.
Once in my life I’ll take a view;
For I’ll have a new cloak about me.
cloth in grain] scarlet cloth. sigh clout] a rag for straining.
_She._ King Stephen was a worthy peer;
His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear,
Therefore he called the tailor ‘lown.’
He was a king and wore the crown,
And thou’se but of a low degree:
It’s pride that puts this country down:
Man, take thy old cloak about thee!
_He._ Bell my wife, she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me, if she can;
And to maintain an easy life
I oft must yield, though I’m good-man.
It’s not for a man with a woman to threap,
Unless he first give o’er the plea:
As we began, so will we keep,
And I’ll take my old cloak about me.
_29._ threap] argue.
JOHN SKELTON
1460?-1529
_30._ _To Mistress Margery Wentworth_
With margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
Ye be, as I divine,
The pretty primrose,
The goodly columbine.
_30._ margerain] marjoram.
Benign, courteous, and meek,
With wordes well devised;
In you, who list to seek,
Be virtues well comprised.
With margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
_31._ _To Mistress Margaret Hussey_
Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower:
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,
So maidenly,
So womanly
Her demeaning
In every thing,
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write
Of Merry Margaret
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
As patient and still
And as full of good will
As fair Isaphill,
Coliander,
Sweet pomander,
Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought,
Far may be sought,
Ere that ye can find
So courteous, so kind
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.
_31._ Isaphill] Hypsipyle. coliander] coriander seed, an aromatic.
pomander] a ball of perfume. Cassander] Cassandra.
STEPHEN HAWES
d. 1523
_32._ _The True Knight_
For knighthood is not in the feats of warre,
As for to fight in quarrel right or wrong,
But in a cause which truth can not defarre:
He ought himself for to make sure and strong,
Justice to keep mixt with mercý among:
And no quarrell a knight ought to take
But for a truth, or for the common’s sake.
_32._ defarre] undo.
_33._ _An Epitaph_
O mortal folk, you may behold and see
How I lie here, sometime a mighty knight;
The end of joy and all prosperitee
Is death at last, thorough his course and might:
After the day there cometh the dark night,
For though the daye be never so long,
At last the bells ringeth to evensong.
SIR THOMAS WYATT
1503-1542
_34._ _Forget not yet_
_The Lover Beseecheth his Mistress not to Forget his Steadfast Faith and
True Intent_
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!
Forget not! O, forget not this!--
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss--
Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
Forget not this!
_35._ _The Appeal_
_An Earnest Suit to his Unkind Mistress, not to Forsake him_
And wilt thou leave me thus!
Say nay, say nay, for shame!
--To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among:
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart
Never for to depart
Neither for pain nor smart:
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
_35._ grame] sorrow.
And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pitye
Of him that loveth thee?
Alas, thy cruelty!
And wilt thou leave me thus?
Say nay! say nay!
_36._ _A Revocation_
What should I say?
--Since Faith is dead.
And Truth away
From you is fled?
Should I be led
With doubleness?
Nay! nay! mistress.
I promised you,
And you promised me,
To be as true
As I would be.
But since I see
Your double heart,
Farewell my part!
Thought for to take
’Tis not my mind;
But to forsake
One so unkind;
And as I find
So will I trust.
Farewell, unjust!
Can ye say nay
But that you said
That I alway
Should be obeyed?
And--thus betrayed
Or that I wist!
Farewell, unkist!
_37._ _Vixi Puellis Nuper Idoneus ..._
They flee from me that sometime did me seek,
With naked foot stalking within my chamber:
Once have I seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild, and do not once remember
That sometime they have put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking in continual change.
Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise
Twenty times better; but once especial--
In thin array: after a pleasant guise,
When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewithal so sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, ‘_Dear heart, how like you this?_’
It was no dream; for I lay broad awaking:
But all is turn’d now, through my gentleness,
Into a bitter fashion of forsaking;
And I have leave to go of her goodness;
And she also to use new-fangleness.
But since that I unkindly so am servèd,
‘_How like you this?_’--what hath she now deservèd?
_38._ _To His Lute_
My lute, awake! perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is said and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon:
Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan?
No, no, my lute! for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affectiòn;
So that I am past remedy:
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love’s shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won;
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain,
That makest but game of earnest pain:
Trow not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lover’s plain,
Although my lute and I have done.
May chance thee lie wither’d and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon:
Thy wishes then dare not be told:
Care then who list! for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou has lost and spent
To cause thy lover’s sigh and swoon:
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.
Now cease, my lute! this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun:
Now is this song both sung and past--
My lute, be still, for I have done.
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY
1516-47
_39._ _Description of Spring_
_Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover_
The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs:
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;
The fishes flete with new repairèd scale.
_39._ make] mate.
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings;
Winter is worn that was the flowers’ bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs.
_39._ mings] mingles, mixes.
_40._ _Complaint of the Absence of Her Lover being upon the Sea_
O happy dames! that may embrace
The fruit of your delight,
Help to bewail the woful case
And eke the heavy plight
Of me, that wonted to rejoice
The fortune of my pleasant choice:
Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice.
In ship, freight with rememberance
Of thoughts and pleasures past,
He sails that hath in governance
My life while it will last:
With scalding sighs, for lack of gale,
Furthering his hope, that is his sail,
Toward me, the swete port of his avail,
Alas! how oft in dreams I see
Those eyes that were my food;
Which sometime so delighted me,
That yet they do me good:
Wherewith I wake with his return
Whose absent flame did make me burn:
But when I find the lack, Lord! how I mourn!
When other lovers in arms across
Rejoice their chief delight,
Drownèd in tears, to mourn my loss
I stand the bitter night
In my window where I may see
Before the winds how the clouds flee:
Lo! what a mariner love hath made me!
And in green waves when the salt flood
Doth rise by rage of wind,
A thousand fancies in that mood
Assail my restless mind.
Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe,
That with the spoil of my heart did go,
And left me; but alas! why did he so?
And when the seas wax calm again
To chase fro me annoy,
My doubtful hope doth cause me plain;
So dread cuts off my joy.
Thus is my wealth mingled with woe
And of each thought a doubt doth grow;
--Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no.
_40._ drencheth] i.e. is drenched or drowned.
_41._ _The Means to attain Happy Life_
Martial, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find:--
The richesse left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom join’d with simpleness;
The night dischargèd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress.
The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night:
Contented with thine own estate
Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.
NICHOLAS GRIMALD
1519-62
_42._ _A True Love_
What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see,
What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me!
As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed--
As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening’s weed--
As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be--
So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see!
The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray,
The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay,
_42._ fray] affright.
Or I my love let slip out of mine entire heart,
So deep reposèd in my breast is she for her desart!
For many blessèd gifts, O happy, happy land!
Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand!
Yet, land, more is thy bliss that, in this cruel age,
A Venus’ imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage.
Among the Muses Nine a tenth if Jove would make,
And to the Graces Three a fourth, her would Apollo take.
Let some for honour hunt, and hoard the massy gold:
With her so I may live and die, my weal cannot be told.
ALEXANDER SCOTT
1520?-158-
_43._ _A Bequest of His Heart_
Hence, heart, with her that must depart,
And hald thee with thy soverane!
For I had liever want ane heart.
Nor have the heart that dois me pain.
Therefore, go, with thy luve remain,
And let me leif thus unmolest;
And see that thou come not again,
But bide with her thou luvis best.
Sen she that I have servit lang
Is to depart so suddenly,
Address thee now, for thou sall gang
And bear thy lady company.
_43._ hald] keep. sen] since.
Fra she be gone, heartless am I,
For quhy? thou art with her possest.
Therefore, my heart, go hence in high,
And bide with her thou luvis best.
Though this belappit body here
Be bound to servitude and thrall,
My faithful heart is free entier
And mind to serve my lady at all.
Would God that I were perigall
Under that redolent rose to rest!
Yet at the least, my heart, thou sall
Abide with her thou luvis best.
Sen in your garth the lily quhyte
May not remain amang the laif,
Adieu the flower of whole delite!
Adieu the succour that may me saif!
Adieu the fragrant balme suaif,
And lamp of ladies lustiest!
My faithful heart she shall it haif
To bide with her it luvis best.
Deploir, ye ladies cleir of hue,
Her absence, sen she must depart!
And, specially, ye luveris true
That wounded bene with Luvis dart.
For some of you sall want ane heart
As well as I; therefore at last
Do go with mine, with mind inwart,
And bide with her thou luvis best!
belappit] downtrodden. perigall] made equal to, privileged. garth]
garden-close. laif] rest. with mind inwart] with inner mind, i.e.
in spirit.
_44._ _A Rondel of Love_
Lo, quhat it is to love
Learn ye that list to prove,
By me, I say, that no ways may
The ground of grief remove,
But still decay both nicht and day:
Lo, quhat it is to love!
Love is ane fervent fire
Kindlit without desire,
Short pleasure, long displeasure,
Repentance is the hire;
Ane pure tressour without measour;
Love is ane fervent fire.
To love and to be wise,
To rage with good advice;
Now thus, now than, so gois the game,
Incertain is the dice;
There is no man, I say, that can
Both love and to be wise.
Flee always from the snare,
Learn at me to beware;
It is ane pain, and double trane
Of endless woe and care;
For to refrain that danger plain,
Flee always from the snare.
ROBERT WEVER
c. 1550
_45._ _In Youth is Pleasure_
In a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay,
The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day,
I dreamèd fast of mirth and play:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Methought I walked still to and fro,
And from her company I could not go--
But when I waked it was not so:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
Therefore my hart is surely pyght
Of her alone to have a sight
Which is my joy and hartes delight:
In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure.
RICHARD EDWARDES
1523-66
_46._ _Amantium Iræ_
In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept,
I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept;
She sighèd sore and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest,
That would not cease but crièd still, in sucking at her breast.
She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child,
She rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled.
Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove,
The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.
Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write,
In register for to remain of such a worthy wight:
As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat,
Much matter utter’d she of weight, in place whereas she sat:
And provèd plain there was no beast, nor creature bearing life,
Could well be known to live in love without discord and strife:
Then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by God above,
The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.
She said that neither king nor prince nor lord could live aright,
Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might.
When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place,
Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace,
And left their force that failèd them, which did consume the rout,
That might before have lived their time, their strength and nature out:
Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove,
The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.
She said she saw no fish nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt,
That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt:
Since flesh might not endure, but rest must wrath succeed,
And force the fight to fall to play in pasture where they feed,
So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun,
And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some:
Thus in song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove,
The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.
I marvel much pardy (quoth she) for to behold the rout,
To see man, woman, boy and beast, to toss the world about:
Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some check, and some can smoothly smile,
And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile,
Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout,
Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out:
Thus ended she her song and said, before she did remove,
The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.
GEORGE GASCOIGNE
1525?-77
_47._ _A Lover’s Lullaby_
Sing lullaby, as women do,
Wherewith they bring their babes to rest;
And lullaby can I sing too,
As womanly as can the best.
With lullaby they still the child;
And if I be not much beguiled,
Full many a wanton babe have I,
Which must be still’d with lullaby.
First lullaby my youthful years,
It is now time to go to bed:
For crookèd age and hoary hairs
Have won the haven within my head.
With lullaby, then, youth be still;
With lullaby content thy will;
Since courage quails and comes behind,
Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind!
Next lullaby my gazing eyes,
Which wonted were to glance apace;
For every glass may now suffice
To show the furrows in thy face.
With lullaby then wink awhile;
With lullaby your looks beguile;
Let no fair face, nor beauty bright,
Entice you eft with vain delight.
And lullaby my wanton will;
Let reason’s rule now reign thy thought;
Since all too late I find by skill
How dear I have thy fancies bought;
With lullaby now take thine ease,
With lullaby thy doubts appease;
For trust to this, if thou be still,
My body shall obey thy will.
Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,
My will, my ware, and all that was:
I can no more delays devise;
But welcome pain, let pleasure pass.
With lullaby now take your leave;
With lullaby your dreams deceive;
And when you rise with waking eye,
Remember then this lullaby.
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE
1540?-1610?
_48._ _The Night is Near Gone_
Hey! now the day dawis;
The jolly cock crawis;
Now shroudis the shawis
Thro’ Nature anon.
The thissel-cock cryis
On lovers wha lyis:
Now skaillis the skyis;
The nicht is neir gone.
The fieldis ouerflowis
With gowans that growis,
Quhair lilies like low is
As red as the rone.
_48._ shroudis] dress themselves. shawis] woods. skaillis] clears.
gowans] daisies. low] flame. rone] rowan.
The turtle that true is,
With notes that renewis,
Her pairty pursuis:
The nicht is neir gone.
Now hairtis with hindis
Conform to their kindis,
Hie tursis their tyndis
On ground quhair they grone.
Now hurchonis, with hairis,
Aye passis in pairis;
Quhilk duly declaris
The nicht is neir gone.
The season excellis
Through sweetness that smellis;
Now Cupid compellis
Our hairtis echone
On Venus wha waikis,
To muse on our maikis,
Syne sing for their saikis--
‘The nicht is neir gone!’
All courageous knichtis
Aganis the day dichtis
The breist-plate that bright is
To fight with their fone.
The stonèd steed stampis
Through courage, and crampis,
Syne on the land lampis:
The nicht is neir gone.
pairty] partner, mate. tursis] carry. tyndis] antlers. grone]
groan, bell. hurchonis] hedgehogs, ‘urchins.’ maikis] mates. fone]
foes. stonèd steed] stallion. crampis] prances. lampis] gallops.
The freikis on feildis
That wight wapins weildis
With shyning bright shieldis
At Titan in trone;
Stiff speiris in reistis
Ouer corseris crestis
Are broke on their breistis:
The nicht is neir gone.
So hard are their hittis,
Some sweyis, some sittis,
And some perforce flittis
On ground quhile they grone.
Syne groomis that gay is
On blonkis that brayis
With swordis assayis:--
The nicht is neir gone.
_48._ freikis] men, warriors. wight wapins] stout weapons. at
Titan] over against Titan (the sun), or read ‘as.’ flittis] are
cast. blonkis] white palfreys.
WILLIAM STEVENSON
1530?-1575
_49._ _Jolly Good Ale and Old_
I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;
I am so wrapp’d and thoroughly lapp’d
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare, &c.
And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, ‘Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.’
Back and side go bare, go bare, &c.
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to;
And all poor souls that have scour’d bowls
Or have them lustily troll’d,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.
ANONYMOUS (SCOTTISH)
16th Cent.
_50._ _When Flora had O’erfret the Firth_
Quhen Flora had o’erfret the firth
In May of every moneth queen;
Quhen merle and mavis singis with mirth
Sweet melling in the shawis sheen;
Quhen all luvaris rejoicit bene
And most desirous of their prey,
I heard a lusty luvar mene
--‘I luve, but I dare nocht assay!’
‘Strong are the pains I daily prove,
But yet with patience I sustene,
I am so fetterit with the luve
Only of my lady sheen,
Quhilk for her beauty micht be queen,
Nature so craftily alway
Has done depaint that sweet serene:
--Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay.
‘She is so bricht of hyd and hue,
I luve but her alone, I ween;
Is none her luve that may eschew,
That blinkis of that dulce amene;
So comely cleir are her twa een
That she mae luvaris dois affray
Than ever of Greece did fair Helene:
--Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay!’
o’erfret] adorned. shawis] woods. sheen] beautiful. mene] mourn.
hyd] skin. blinkis] gets a glimpse. dulce amene] gentle and
pleasant one. mae] more.
_51._ _Lusty May_
16th Cent.
O lusty May, with Flora queen!
The balmy dropis from Phoebus sheen
Preluciand beams before the day:
By that Diana growis green
Through gladness of this lusty May.
Then Esperus, that is so bricht,
Til woful hairtis castis his light,
With bankis that bloomis on every brae;
And schouris are shed forth of their sicht
Through gladness of this lusty May.
Birdis on bewis of every birth,
Rejoicing notis makand their mirth
Richt plesantly upon the spray,
With flourishingis o’er field and firth
Through gladness of this lusty May.
All luvaris that are in care
To their ladies they do repair
In fresh morningis before the day,
And are in mirth ay mair and mair
Through gladness of this lusty May.
_51._ sheen] bright. til] into. schouris] showers. bewis] boughs.
birth] kind. 52. wiss] wish.
_52._ _My Heart is High Above_
16th Cent.
My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss,
For I am set in luve as well as I would wiss
I luve my lady pure and she luvis me again,
I am her serviture, she is my soverane;
She is my very heart, I am her howp and heill,
She is my joy invart, I am her luvar leal;
I am her bond and thrall, she is at my command;
I am perpetual her man, both foot and hand;
The thing that may her please my body sall fulfil;
Quhatever her disease, it does my body ill.
My bird, my bonny ane, my tender babe venust,
My luve, my life alane, my liking and my lust!
We interchange our hairtis in others armis soft,
Spriteless we twa depairtis, usand our luvis oft.
We mourn when licht day dawis, we plain the nicht is short,
We curse the cock that crawis, that hinderis our disport.
I glowffin up aghast, quhen I her miss on nicht,
And in my oxter fast I find the bowster richt;
Then languor on me lies like Morpheus the mair,
Quhilk causes me uprise and to my sweet repair.
And then is all the sorrow forth of remembrance
That ever I had a-forrow in luvis observance.
Thus never I do rest, so lusty a life I lead,
Quhen that I list to test the well of womanheid.
Luvaris in pain, I pray God send you sic remeid
As I have nicht and day, you to defend from deid!
Therefore be ever true unto your ladies free,
And they will on you rue as mine has done on me.
heill] health. invart] inward. venust] delightful. glowffin] blink
on awaking. oxter] armpit. a-forrow] aforetime.
NUMBERS
FROM
ELIZABETHAN MISCELLANIES & SONG-BOOKS
BY UNNAMED OR UNCERTAIN AUTHORS
_53._ _A Praise of His Lady_
Tottel’s Miscellany, 1557
Give place, you ladies, and begone!
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.
The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.
In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;
It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.
I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.
She may be well compared
Unto the Phœnix kind,
Whose like was never seen or heard,
That any man can find.
In life she is Diana chaste,
In troth Penelopey;
In word and eke in deed steadfast.
--What will you more we say?
If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.
Her rosial colour comes and goes
With such a comely grace,
More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,
Within her lively face.
At Bacchus’ feast none shall her meet,
Ne at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding as a stray.
The modest mirth that she doth use
Is mix’d with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.
O Lord! it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck in her such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.
Truly she doth so far exceed
Our women nowadays,
As doth the jeliflower a weed;
And more a thousand ways.
How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
--For all the rest are plain but chaff,
Which seem good corn to be.
This gift alone I shall her give;
When death doth what he can,
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.
? by _John Heywood_
_54._ _To Her Sea-faring Lover_
Tottel’s Miscellany, 1557
Shall I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare?
And shall I still complain to thee, the which me will not hear?
Alas! say nay! say nay! and be no more so dumb,
But open thou thy manly mouth and say that thou wilt come:
Whereby my heart may think, although I see not thee,
That thou wilt come--thy word so sware--if thou a live man be.
The roaring hugy waves they threaten my poor ghost,
And toss thee up and down the seas in danger to be lost.
Shall they not make me fear that they have swallowed thee?
--But as thou art most sure alive, so wilt thou come to me.
Whereby I shall go see thy ship ride on the strand,
And think and say _Lo where he comes_ and _Sure here will he land:_
_54._ neare] nearer.
And then I shall lift up to thee my little hand,
And thou shalt think thine heart in ease, in health to see me stand.
And if thou come indeed (as Christ thee send to do!)
Those arms which miss thee now shall then embrace [and hold] thee too:
Each vein to every joint the lively blood shall spread
Which now for want of thy glad sight doth show full pale and dead.
But if thou slip thy troth, and do not come at all,
As minutes in the clock do strike so call for death I shall:
To please both thy false heart and rid myself from woe,
That rather had to die in troth than live forsaken so!
_55._ _The Faithless Shepherdess_
William Byrd’s _Songs of
Sundry Natures_, 1589
While that the sun with his beams hot
Scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain,
Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
Sitting beside a crystal fountain
In shadow of a green oak tree,
Upon his pipe this song play’d he:
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
So long as I was in your sight
I was your heart, your soul, your treasure;
And evermore you sobb’d and sigh’d
Burning in flames beyond all measure:
--Three days endured your love to me,
And it was lost in other three!
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Another shepherd you did see,
To whom your heart was soon enchainèd;
Full soon your love was leapt from me,
Full soon my place he had obtainèd.
Soon came a third your love to win,
And we were out and he was in.
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
Sure you have made me passing glad
That you your mind so soon removèd,
Before that I the leisure had
To choose you for my best belovèd:
For all my love was pass’d and done
Two days before it was begun.
Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love!
Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!
Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
_56._ _Crabbed Age and Youth_
_The Passionate Pilgrim_, 1599
Crabbèd Age and Youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age’s breath is short;
Youth is nimble, Age is lame;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild, and Age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O, my Love, my Love is young!
Age, I do defy thee:
O, sweet shepherd, hie thee!
For methinks thou stay’st too long.
? by _William Shakespeare_
_57._ _Phyllida’s Love-Call_
_England’s Helicon_, 1600
_Phyllida._ Corydon, arise, my Corydon!
Titan shineth clear.
_Corydon._ Who is it that calleth Corydon?
Who is it that I hear?
_Phyl._ Phyllida, thy true love, calleth thee,
Arise then, arise then,
Arise and keep thy flock with me!
_Cor._ Phyllida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,
I come and keep my flock with thee.
_Phyl._ Here are cherries ripe for my Corydon;
Eat them for my sake.
_Cor._ Here’s my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make.
_Phyl._ Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,
To knit thee, to knit thee,
A pair of stockings white as milk.
_Cor._ Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,
To make thee, to make thee,
A bonnet to withstand the heat.
_Phyl._ I will gather flowers, my Corydon,
To set in thy cap.
_Cor._ I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.
_Phyl._ I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about his legs so tall.
_Cor._ I will buy my true love yellow say,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about her middle small.
_Phyl._ When my Corydon sits on a hill
Making melody--
_Cor._ When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily--
_Phyl._ Sure methinks my true love doth excel
For sweetness, for sweetness,
Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight.
_Cor._ And methinks my true love bears the bell
For clearness, for clearness,
Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.
_Phyl._ Had my Corydon, my Corydon,
Been, alack! her swain--
_Cor._ Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain--
say] _soie_, silk.
_Phyl._ Cynthia Endymion had refused,
Preferring, preferring,
My Corydon to play withal.
_Cor._ The Queen of Love had been excused
Bequeathing, bequeathing,
My Phyllida the golden ball.
_Phyl._ Yonder comes my mother, Corydon!
Whither shall I fly?
_Cor._ Under yonder beech, my lovely one,
While she passeth by.
_Phyl._ Say to her thy true love was not here;
Remember, remember,
To-morrow is another day.
_Cor._ Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear;
Farewell then, farewell then!
Heaven keep our loves alway!
_58._ _A Pedlar_
John Dowland’s _Second Book of
Songs or Airs_, 1600
Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new,
Good pennyworths--but money cannot move:
I keep a fair but for the Fair to view--
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,
The heart is true.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
My trifles come as treasures from my mind:
It is a precious jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:--
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
Of me a grain!
_59._ _Hey nonny no!_
Christ Church MS.
Hey nonny no!
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is’t not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is’t not fine to swim in wine,
And turn upon the toe,
And sing hey nonny no!
When the winds blow and the seas flow?
Hey nonny no!
_60._ _Preparations_
Christ Church MS.
Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord,
Should of his own accord
Friendly himself invite,
And say ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’
How should we stir ourselves, call and command
All hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand!
‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall;
See they be fitted all;
Let there be room to eat
And order taken that there want no meat.
See every sconce and candlestick made bright,
That without tapers they may give a light.
‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,
The dazie o’er the head,
The cushions in the chairs,
And all the candles lighted on the stairs?
Perfume the chambers, and in any case
Let each man give attendance in his place!’
Thus, if a king were coming, would we do;
And ’twere good reason too;
For ’tis a duteous thing
To show all honour to an earthly king,
And after all our travail and our cost,
So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.
But at the coming of the King of Heaven
All’s set at six and seven;
We wallow in our sin,
Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.
We entertain Him always like a stranger,
And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.
_61._ _The New Jerusalem_
_Song of Mary the Mother of
Christ_ (London: E. Alide), 1601
Hierusalem, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbour of the Saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.
There lust and lucre cannot dwell,
There envy bears no sway;
There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,
But pleasure every way.
Thy walls are made of precious stones,
Thy bulwarks diamonds square;
Thy gates are of right orient pearl,
Exceeding rich and rare.
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles
With carbuncles do shine;
Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing clear and fine.
Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green;
There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.
Our Lady sings _Magnificat_
With tones surpassing sweet;
And all the virgins bear their part,
Sitting about her feet.
Hierusalem, my happy home,
Would God I were in thee!
Would God my woes were at an end,
Thy joys that I might see!
_62._ _Icarus_
Robert Jones’s _Second Book of
Songs and Airs_, 1601
Love wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to fly
Far from base earth, but not to mount too high:
For true pleasure
Lives in measure,
Which if men forsake,
Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take.
But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight,
Enamour’d sought to woo the sun’s fair light,
Whose rich brightness
Moved their lightness
To aspire so high
That all scorch’d and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie.
And none but Love their woeful hap did rue,
For Love did know that their desires were true;
Though fate frownèd,
And now drownèd
They in sorrow dwell,
It was the purest light of heav’n for whose fair love they fell.
_63._ _Madrigal_
Davison’s _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602
My Love in her attire doth show her wit,
It doth so well become her;
For every season she hath dressings fit,
For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty’s self she is
When all her robes are gone.
_64._ _How can the Heart forget her?_
Davison’s _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602
At her fair hands how have I grace entreated
With prayers oft repeated!
Yet still my love is thwarted:
Heart, let her go, for she’ll not be converted--
Say, shall she go?
O no, no, no, no, no!
She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted.
How often have my sighs declared my anguish,
Wherein I daily languish!
Yet still she doth procure it:
Heart, let her go, for I can not endure it--
Say, shall she go?
O no, no, no, no, no!
She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it.
But shall I still a true affection owe her,
Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her,
And shall she still disdain me?
Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me--
Say, shall she go?
O no, no, no, no, no!
She made me hers, and hers she will retain me.
But if the love that hath and still doth burn me
No love at length return me,
Out of my thoughts I’ll set her:
Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her!
Say, shall she go?
O no, no, no, no, no!
Fix’d in the heart, how can the heart forget her?
? _F._ or _W. Davison_
_65._ _Tears_
John Dowland’s _Third and Last
Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603
Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven’s sun doth gently waste!
But my Sun’s heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets;
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
_66._ _My Lady’s Tears_
John Dowland’s _Third and Last
Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603
I saw my Lady weep,
And Sorrow proud to be advancèd so
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.
Her face was full of woe;
But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.
Sorrow was there made fair,
And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing;
Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:
She made her sighs to sing,
And all things with so sweet a sadness move
As made my heart at once both grieve, and love.
O fairer than aught else
The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!
Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:
Tears kill the heart, believe.
O strive not to be excellent in woe,
Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.
_67._ _Sister, Awake!_
Thomas Bateson’s _First Set of
English Madrigals_, 1604
Sister, awake! close not your eyes!
The day her light discloses,
And the bright morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.
See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,
In at our window peeping:
Lo, how he blusheth to espy
Us idle wenches sleeping!
Therefore awake! make haste, I say,
And let us, without staying,
All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the Park a-maying!
_68._ _Devotion_
Captain Tobias Hume’s _The First
Part of Airs, &c._, 1605
Fain would I change that note
To which fond Love hath charm’d me
Long, long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm’d me:
Yet when this thought doth come,
‘Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight,’
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice
To sing or write.
O Love! they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,
I do adore thee:
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.
_69._ _Since First I saw your Face_
Thomas Ford’s _Music of
Sundry Kinds_, 1607
Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye;
If now I be disdainèd I wish my heart had never known ye.
What? I that loved and you that liked, shall we begin to wrangle?
No, no, no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle.
If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me;
Or if my hands had stray’d but a touch, then justly might you leave me.
I ask’d you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me?
No, no, no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me.
The Sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder,
And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder:
Where beauty moves and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me,
There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me!
_70._ _There is a Lady sweet and kind_
Thomas Ford’s _Music of
Sundry Kinds_, 1607
There is a Lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.
Cupid is wingèd and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change:
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.
_71._ _Love not me for comely grace_
John Wilbye’s _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part,
No, nor for a constant heart:
For these may fail or turn to ill,
So thou and I shall sever:
Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye,
And love me still but know not why--
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever!
_72._ _The Wakening_
John Attye’s _First Book of Airs_, 1622
On a time the amorous Silvy
Said to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do ye?
Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then God be with ye,
For now the morning draweth near.’
With that, her fairest bosom showing,
Op’ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing,
She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then be going,
For now the morning draweth near.’
With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,
And spying where the day was peeping,
He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me and take my soul in keeping,
Since I must go, now day is near.’
NICHOLAS BRETON
1542-1626
_73._ _Phillida and Coridon_
In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day.
Forth I walk’d by the wood-side
When as May was in his pride:
There I spièd all alone
Phillida and Coridon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love and she would not.
She said, Never man was true;
He said, None was false to you.
He said, He had loved her long;
She said, Love should have no wrong.
Coridon would kiss her then;
She said, Maids must kiss no men
Till they did for good and all;
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not Love abuse,
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida, with garlands gay,
Was made the Lady of the May.
NICHOLAS BRETON?
_74._ _A Cradle Song_
_The Arbor of Amorous
Devices_, 1593-4
Come little babe, come silly soul,
Thy father’s shame, thy mother’s grief,
Born as I doubt to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby, and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little think’st and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother’s moan;
Thou want’st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone:
Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?
And know’st not yet what thou dost ail.
Come, little wretch--ah, silly heart!
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destinies implore:
’Twas I, I say, against my will,
I wail the time, but be thou still.
And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!
Would God Himself He might thee see!--
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know right well, for thee and me:
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If death do strike me with his lance,
Yet mayst thou me to him commend:
If any ask thy mother’s name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield:
I know him of a noble mind:
Although a lion in the field,
A lamb in town thou shalt him find:
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid,
His sugar’d words hath me betray’d.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad;
Although in woe I seem to moan,
Thy father is no rascal lad,
A noble youth of blood and bone:
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock asleep;
Sing lullaby and be thou still;
I, that can do naught else but weep,
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby
From this thy father’s quality.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH
1552-1618
_The Silent Lover_
_75._ _i_
Passions are liken’d best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.
_76._ _ii_
Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,
The merit of true passion,
With thinking that he feels no smart,
That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words, though ne’er so witty:
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart,
My true, though secret passion;
He smarteth most that hides his smart,
And sues for no compassion.
_77._ _His Pilgrimage_
Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage;
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer;
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
_78._ _The Conclusion_
Even such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander’d all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
EDMUND SPENSER
1552-1599
_79._ _Whilst it is prime_
Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring.
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd--
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
For none can call againe the passèd time.
_79._ make] mate.
_80._ _A Ditty_
_In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds_
See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
And ermines white:
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
Bay leaves betweene,
And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete Violet.
Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face
Like Phœbe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
Can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:
Her modest eye,
Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like but there?
I see Calliope speede her to the place,
Where my Goddesse shines;
And after her the other Muses trace
With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
So sweetely they play,
And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.
medled] mixed. yfere] together.
Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
To the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.
She shal be a Grace,
To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.
Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
With Gelliflowres;
Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine
Worne of Paramoures:
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies:
The pretie Pawnce,
And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.
Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art
In royall aray;
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
Eche one her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:
And if you come hether
When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.
soote] sweet. coronations] carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks.
pawnce] pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris.
_81._ _Prothalamion_
Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I, (whom sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In Princes Court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,)
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes
Fit to decke maydens bowres,
And crowne their Paramours
Against the Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,
A Flocke of Nymphes I chauncèd to espy,
All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,
As each had bene a Bryde;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entraylèd curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.
Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,
They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew,
The little Dazie, that at evening closes,
The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew,
With store of vermeil Roses,
To decke their Bridegromes posies
Against the Brydale day, which was not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the Lee;
Two fairer Birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew;
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be,
For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,
Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as heavens light,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the Christal Flood;
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd still,
Their wondring eyes to fill;
Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre,
Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly Seede,
But rather Angels, or of Angels breede;
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,
In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede
The earth did fresh aray;
So fresh they seem’d as day,
Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
All which upon those goodly Birds they threw
And all the Waves did strew,
That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,
When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,
Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store,
Like a Brydes Chamber flore.
Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound
Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim Array,
Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,
Whil’st one did sing this Lay,
Prepared against that Day,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
‘Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,
And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your loves couplement;
And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,
With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.
Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessèd Plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joyes redound
Upon your Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.’
So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,
Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser starres. So they, enrangèd well,
Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
At length they all to mery London came,
To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,
That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of auncient fame:
There when they came, whereas those bricky towres
The which on Themmes brode agèd backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,
Till they decayd through pride:
Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace
Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case;
But ah! here fits not well
Olde woes, but joyes, to tell
Against the Brydale daye, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,
Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder,
Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder,
And Hercules two pillors standing neere
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!
That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes;
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes,
Which some brave muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly till I end my Song.
From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing,
Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre
In th’ Ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre,
Descended to the Rivers open vewing,
With a great traine ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight,
Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side,
Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight;
Which, at th’ appointed tyde,
Each one did make his Bryde
Against their Brydale day, which is not long:
Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
_82._ _Epithalamion_
Ye learnèd sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyèd in theyr praise;
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment:
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride!
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.
Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed,
Go to the bowre of my belovèd love,
My truest turtle dove;
Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For lo! the wishèd day is come at last,
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight:
And, whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,
tead] torch.
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare:
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay girland
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,
Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.
And let them make great store of bridale poses,
And let them eeke bring store of other flowers,
To deck the bridale bowers.
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapred lyke the discolored mead.
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,
For she will waken strayt;
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.
Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed;
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;
Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,
And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,
That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spie.
And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere,
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre;
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,
With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer;
Be also present heere,
To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her silver coche to clyme;
And Phœbus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies
And carroll of Loves praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft;
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes;
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes merriment.
Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long?
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T’ awayt the comming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds love-learnèd song,
The deawy leaves among!
Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.
My love is now awake out of her dreames,
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmèd were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight:
But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot
In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al, that ever in this world is fayre,
Doe make and still repayre:
ruddock] redbreast.
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:
And, as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene;
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.
Now is my love all ready forth to come:
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:
And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.
Set all your things in seemely good aray,
Fit for so joyfull day:
The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.
Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull heat not fervent be,
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fayrest Phœbus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be myne;
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing,
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.
Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud
Their merry Musick that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar.
croud] violin.
But, most of all, the Damzels doe delite
When they their tymbrels smyte,
And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,
That all the sences they doe ravish quite;
The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street,
Crying aloud with strong confusèd noyce,
As if it were one voyce,
Hymen, iö Hymen, Hymen, they do shout;
That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;
To which the people standing all about,
As in approvance, doe thereto applaud,
And loud advaunce her laud;
And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing,
That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.
Loe! where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phœbe, from her chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best.
So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre;
And, being crownèd with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.
Her modest eyes, abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before;
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,
Her forehead yvory white,
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,
Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,
Her paps lyke lyllies budded,
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre;
And all her body like a pallace fayre,
Ascending up, with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring?
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonisht lyke to those which red
Medusaes mazeful hed.
There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,
Regard of honour, and mild modesty;
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,
And giveth lawes alone,
The which the base affections doe obay,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,
And unrevealèd pleasures,
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,
That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring.
Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behove,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She commeth in, before th’ Almighties view;
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces:
Bring her up to th’ high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make;
And let the roring Organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,
The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.
Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne
Like crimsin dyde in grayne:
That even th’ Angels, which continually
About the sacred Altare doe remaine,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governèd with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsownd.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band!
Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,
That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.
Now al is done: bring home the bride againe;
Bring home the triumph of our victory:
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine;
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyfull day then this,
Whom heaven would heape with blis,
Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;
This day for ever to me holy is.
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,
Poure out to all that wull,
And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,
And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine;
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,
For they can doo it best:
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.
Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
With Barnaby the bright,
From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordainèd was,
To chose the longest day in all the yeare,
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:
Yet never day so long, but late would passe.
Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,
And bonefiers make all day;
And daunce about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.
Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home,
Within the Westerne fome:
Thy tyrèd steedes long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.
Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love!
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight
Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!
Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore-past;
Enough it is that all the day was youres:
Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast,
Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures.
The night is come, now soon her disaray,
And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lillies and in violets,
And silken courteins over her display,
And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly,
In proud humility!
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras,
Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,
And leave my love alone,
And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall answere, nor your echo ring.
Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected,
That long daies labour doest at last defray,
And all my cares, which cruell Love collected,
Hast sumd in one, and cancellèd for aye:
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see;
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,
From feare of perrill and foule horror free.
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy;
But let the night be calme, and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome:
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie
And begot Majesty.
And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing;
Ne let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring.
Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceivèd dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights,
Make sudden sad affrights;
Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,
Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:
Let not the shriech Oule nor the Storke be heard,
Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels;
Nor damnèd ghosts, cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard:
Ne let th’ unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.
But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe,
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne;
The whiles an hundred little wingèd loves,
Like divers-fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through covert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will!
For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.
All night therefore attend your merry play,
For it will soone be day:
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing;
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.
Who is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright?
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,
But walkes about high heaven al the night?
O! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy
My love with me to spy:
For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of wooll, which privily
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.
Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline thy will t’effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing;
Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring.
And thou, great Juno! which with awful might
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize;
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;
And eeke for comfort often callèd art
Of women in their smart;
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand
The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine,
Without blemish or staine;
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight
With secret ayde doest succour and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny;
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free!
Grant that it may so be.
Til which we cease your further prayse to sing;
Ne any woods shall answer, nor your Eccho ring.
And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadful darknesse lend desirèd light
And all ye powers which in the same remayne,
More then we men can fayne!
Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,
And happy influence upon us raine,
That we may raise a large posterity,
Which from the earth, which they may long possesse
With lasting happinesse,
Up to your haughty pallaces may mount;
And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit,
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessèd Saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring!
_Song! made in lieu of many ornaments._
_With which my love should duly have been dect,_
_Which cutting off through hasty accidents,_
_Ye would not stay your dew time to expect_
_But promist both to recompens;_
_Be unto her a goodly ornament,_
_And for short time an endlesse moniment._
_83._ _From ‘Daphnaïda’_
_An Elegy_
SHE fell away in her first ages spring,
Whil’st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde,
And whil’st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring,
She fell away against all course of kinde.
For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong;
She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye,
Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent,
But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye,
So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went,
And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse;
The whiles soft death away her spirit hent,
And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
How happie was I when I saw her leade
The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd!
How trimly would she trace and softly tread
The tender grasse, with rosie garland crownd!
And when she list advance her heavenly voyce,
Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd,
And flocks and shepheards causèd to rejoyce.
But now, ye Shepheard lasses! who shall lead
Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes?
Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead
That was the Lady of your holy-dayes?
Let now your blisse be turnèd into bale,
And into plaints convert your joyous playes,
And with the same fill every hill and dale.
For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction wast my better age:
My bread shall be the anguish of my mind,
My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may finde;
So will I wilfully increase my paine.
Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights)
Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more;
Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,
Nor failing force to former strength restore:
But I will wake and sorrow all the night
With Philumene, my fortune to deplore;
With Philumene, the partner of my plight.
And ever as I see the starres to fall,
And under ground to goe to give them light
Which dwell in darknes, I to minde will call
How my fair Starre (that shinde on me so bright)
Fell sodainly and faded under ground;
Since whose departure, day is turnd to night,
And night without a Venus starre is found.
And she, my love that was, my Saint that is,
When she beholds from her celestiall throne
(In which shee joyeth in eternall blis)
My bitter penance, will my case bemone,
And pitie me that living thus doo die;
For heavenly spirits have compassion
On mortall men, and rue their miserie.
So when I have with sorowe satisfide
Th’ importune fates, which vengeance on me seeke,
And th’ heavens with long languor pacifide,
She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke,
Will send for me; for which I daylie long:
And will till then my painful penance eeke.
Weep, Shepheard! weep, to make my undersong!
_84._ _Easter_
MOST glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day,
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin;
And, having harrowd hell, didst bring away
Captivity thence captive, us to win:
This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin;
And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye,
Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
May live for ever in felicity!
And that Thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same againe;
And for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,
With love may one another entertayne!
So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought,
--Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
JOHN LYLY
1553-1606
_85._ _Cards and Kisses_
Cupid and my Campaspe play’d
At cards for kisses--Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother’s doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes--
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
_86._ _Spring’s Welcome_
WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O ’tis the ravish’d nightingale.
_Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu!_ she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is’t now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
_Cuckoo!_ to welcome in the spring!
_Cuckoo!_ to welcome in the spring!
ANTHONY MUNDAY
1553-1633
_87._ _Beauty Bathing_
BEAUTY sat bathing by a spring,
Where fairest shades did hide her;
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
The cool streams ran beside her.
My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
To see what was forbidden:
But better memory said Fie;
So vain desire was chidden--
Hey nonny nonny O!
Hey nonny nonny!
Into a slumber then I fell,
And fond imagination
Seemèd to see, but could not tell,
Her feature or her fashion:
But ev’n as babes in dreams do smile,
And sometimes fall a-weeping,
So I awaked as wise that while
As when I fell a-sleeping.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
1554-86
_88._ _The Bargain_
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
But just exchange one for another given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
_89._ _Song_
Who hath his fancy pleasèd
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raisèd
On Nature’s sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which, dying never,
Is cause the looker dies.
She never dies, but lasteth
In life of lover’s heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
In love his chiefest part:
Thus is her life still guarded
In never-dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Look then, and die! The pleasure
Doth answer well the pain:
Small loss of mortal treasure,
Who may immortal gain!
Immortal be her graces,
Immortal is her mind;
They, fit for heavenly places--
This, heaven in it doth bind.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sense that grace descries;
Yet eyes deprivèd be not
From sight of her fair eyes--
Which, as of inward glory
They are the outward seal,
So may they live still sorry,
Which die not in that weal.
But who hath fancies pleasèd
With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raisèd
On Nature’s sweetest light!
_90._ _Voices at the Window_
_Who is it that, this dark night,_
_Underneath my window plaineth?_
It is one who from thy sight
Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth
Every other vulgar light.
_Why, alas, and are you he?_
_Be not yet those fancies changèd?_
Dear, when you find change in me,
Though from me you be estrangèd,
Let my change to ruin be.
_Well, in absence this will die:_
_Leave to see, and leave to wonder._
Absence sure will help, if I
Can learn how myself to sunder
From what in my heart doth lie.
_But time will these thoughts remove;_
_Time doth work what no man knoweth._
Time doth as the subject prove:
With time still the affection groweth
In the faithful turtle-dove.
_What if you new beauties see?_
_Will not they stir new affection?_
I will think they pictures be
(Image-like, of saints’ perfection)
Poorly counterfeiting thee.
_But your reason’s purest light_
_Bids you leave such minds to nourish._
Dear, do reason no such spite!
Never doth thy beauty flourish
More than in my reason’s sight.
_90._ leave] cease.
_91._ _Philomela_
The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing.
_O Philomela fair, O take some gladness_
_That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!_
_Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;_
_Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth._
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken;
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complains her will was broken
But I, who, daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
_O Philomela fair, O take some gladness_
_That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!_
_Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;_
_Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth._
_92._ _The Highway_
Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be,
And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,
Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feet
More oft than to a chamber-melody,--
Now blessèd you bear onward blessèd me
To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet;
My Muse and I must you of duty greet
With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully;
Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed;
By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot;
Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;
And that you know I envy you no lot
Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!
_93._ _His Lady’s Cruelty_
With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What! may it be that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case:
I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d grace
To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be loved, and yet
Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call ‘virtue’ there--ungratefulness?
_94._ _Sleep_
Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head;
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
_94._ prease] press.
_95._ _Splendidis longum valedico Nugis_
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things!
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust:
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how evil becometh him to slide
Who seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me!
FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE
1554-1628
_96._ _Myra_
I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head,
I, that ware posies of her own hand-making,
I, that mine own name in the chimneys read
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:
Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back my turn again to play?
I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found
A garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,
Which I to wear about mine arms was bound
That each of us might know that all was ours:
Must I lead now an idle life in wishes,
And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
_96._ chimneys] _cheminées_, chimney-screens of tapestry work.
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd,
I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,
I, who did make her blush when I was namèd:
Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,
Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd?
Was it for this that I might Myra see
Washing the water with her beauty’s white?
Yet would she never write her love to me.
Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight?
Mad girls may safely love as they may leave;
No man can _print_ a kiss: lines may deceive.
_96._ deceive] betray.
THOMAS LODGE
1556?-1625
_97._ _Rosalind’s Madrigal_
Love in my bosom like a bee
Doth suck his sweet:
Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah! wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye!
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,
And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence.
I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in;
I’ll make you fast it for your sin;
I’ll count your power not worth a pin.
--Alas! what hereby shall I win
If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod?
He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee;
Then let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee;
O Cupid, so thou pity me,
Spare not, but play thee!
_98._ _Phillis_ I
My Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
_99._ _Phillis_ 2
Love guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,
And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;
And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers
Then will I praise thy deity.
But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve her
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
_100._ _Rosaline_
Like to the clear in highest sphere
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of selfsame colour is her hair
Whether unfolded or in twines:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora’s face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud
That Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace.
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within whose bounds she balm encloses
Apt to entice a deity:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprison’d lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Her paps are centres of delight,
Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft to touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Nature herself her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for a fair there’s fairer none,
Nor for her virtues so divine:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
GEORGE PEELE
1558?-97
_101._ _Fair and Fair_
_Œnone._ Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
The fairest shepherd on our green,
A love for any lady.
_Paris._ Fair and fair, and twice so fair,
As fair as any may be;
Thy love is fair for thee alone
And for no other lady.
_Œnone._ My love is fair, my love is gay,
As fresh as bin the flowers in May
And of my love my roundelay,
My merry, merry, merry roundelay,
Concludes with Cupid’s curse,--
‘They that do change old love for new
Pray gods they change for worse!’
_Ambo Simul._ They that do change old love for new,
Pray gods they change for worse!
_Œnone._ Fair and fair, etc.
_Paris._ Fair and fair, etc.
Thy love is fair, etc.
_Œnone._ My love can pipe, my love can sing,
My love can many a pretty thing,
And of his lovely praises ring
My merry, merry, merry roundelays
Amen to Cupid’s curse,--
‘They that do change,’ etc.
_Paris._ They that do change, etc.
_Ambo._ Fair and fair, etc.
_102._ _A Farewell to Arms_
(TO QUEEN ELIZABETH)
His golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,
But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms,
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,--
‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’
Goddess, allow this agèd man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
ROBERT GREENE
1560-92
_103._ _Samela_
Like to Diana in her summer weed,
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela.
Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed
When wash’d by Arethusa faint they lie,
Is fair Samela.
As fair Aurora in her morning grey,
Deck’d with the ruddy glister of her love
Is fair Samela;
Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day
Whenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move,
Shines fair Samela.
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams,
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
Of fair Samela;
Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams;
Her brows bright arches framed of ebony.
Thus fair Samela
Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty
(For she’s Samela!),
Pallas in wit,--all three, if you well view,
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,
Yield to Samela.
_104._ _Fawnia_
Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such.
So as she shows she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows;
Compass’d she is with thorns and canker’d flower.
Yet were she willing to be pluck’d and worn,
She would be gather’d, though she grew on thorn.
Ah! when she sings, all music else be still,
For none must be comparèd to her note;
Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill,
Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat.
Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed
She comforts all the world as doth the sun,
And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled;
When she is set the gladsome day is done.
O glorious sun, imagine me the west,
Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast!
_105._ _Sephestia’s Lullaby_
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
Mother’s wag, pretty boy,
Father’s sorrow, father’s joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
Streaming tears that never stint,
Like pearl-drops from a flint,
Fell by course from his eyes,
That one another’s place supplies;
Thus he grieved in every part,
Tears of blood fell from his heart,
When he left his pretty boy,
Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crow’d, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.
ALEXANDER HUME
1560-1609
_106._ _A Summer Day_
O perfect Light, which shaid away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o’er the day,
Another o’er the night--
Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vively doth appear
Than at mid day unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.
The shadow of the earth anon
Removes and drawis by,
While in the East, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky.
Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe,
And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks,
O’er meadow, muir, and stripe.
Our hemisphere is polisht clean,
And lighten’d more and more,
While everything is clearly seen
Which seemit dim before:
Except the glistering astres bright,
Which all the night were clear,
Offuskit with a greater light
No longer do appear.
shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened.
The golden globe incontinent
Sets up his shining head,
And o’er the earth and firmament
Displays his beams abread.
For joy the birds with boulden throats
Against his visage sheen
Take up their kindly musick notes
In woods and gardens green.
The dew upon the tender crops,
Like pearlis white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,
Refreshis all the ground.
The misty reek, the clouds of rain,
From tops of mountains skails,
Clear are the highest hills and plain,
The vapours take the vales.
The ample heaven of fabrick sure
In cleanness does surpass
The crystal and the silver pure,
Or clearest polisht glass.
The time so tranquil is and still
That nowhere shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
An air of peeping wind.
All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall
No more they move or steir.
boulden] swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples] herbs.
Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand;
The waves that weltering wont to be
Are stable like the land.
So silent is the cessile air
That every cry and call
The hills and dales and forest fair
Again repeats them all.
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,
Through Phoebus’ fostering heat,
Refresht with dew and silver showers
Cast up an odour sweet.
The cloggit busy humming bees,
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
Collect their liquor brown.
The Sun, most like a speedy post
With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of the heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends.
The burning beams down from his face
So fervently can beat,
That man and beast now seek a place
To save them from the heat.
The herds beneath some leafy tree
Amidst the flowers they lie;
The stable ships upon the sea
Tend up their sails to dry.
cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms.
With gilded eyes and open wings
The cock his courage shows;
With claps of joy his breast he dings,
And twenty times he crows.
The dove with whistling wings so blue
The winds can fast collect;
Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.
Now noon is went; gone is midday,
The heat doth slake at last;
The sun descends down West away,
For three of clock is past.
The rayons of the sun we see
Diminish in their strength;
The shade of every tower and tree
Extendit is in length.
Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down;
The reek throws right up in the air
From every tower and town.
The gloming comes; the day is spent;
The sun goes out of sight;
And painted is the occident
With purple sanguine bright.
Our west horizon circular
From time the sun be set
Is all with rubies, as it were,
Or roses red o’erfret.
What pleasure were to walk and see,
Endlong a river clear,
The perfect form of every tree
Within the deep appear.
O then it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,
The praise of God to play and sing
With cornet and with shalm!
All labourers draw home at even,
And can to other say,
Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Which sent this summer day.
GEORGE CHAPMAN
1560-1634
_107._ _Bridal Song_
O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!
Come, naked Virtue’s only tire,
The reapèd harvest of the light
Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.
Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand
On glorious Day’s outfacing face;
And all thy crownèd flames command
For torches to our nuptial grace.
Love calls to war:
Sighs his alarms,
Lips his swords are,
The field his arms.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
1561-95
_108._ _Times go by Turns_
The loppèd tree in time may grow again,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorest wight may find release of pain,
The driest soil suck in some moist’ning shower;
Times go by turns and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tides hath equal times to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,
No endless night yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay:
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
The net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmeddled joys here to no man befall:
Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.
unmeddled] unmixed.
_109._ _The Burning Babe_
As I in hoary winter’s night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright
Did in the air appear;
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though His floods should quench His flames,
Which with His tears were bred:
‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly born
In fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire but I!
‘My faultless breast the furnace is;
The fuel, wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;
The ashes, shames and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men’s defilèd souls:
For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
To wash them in my blood.’
With this He vanish’d out of sight
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callèd unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.
HENRY CONSTABLE
1562?-1613?
_110._ _On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney_
Give pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries,
If they, importune, interrupt thy song,
Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st among
The angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies.
Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes,
That since I saw thee now it is so long,
And yet the tears that unto thee belong
To thee as yet they did not sacrifice.
I did not know that thou wert dead before;
I did not feel the grief I did sustain;
The greater stroke astonisheth the more;
Astonishment takes from us sense of pain;
I stood amazed when others’ tears begun,
And now begin to weep when they have done.
SAMUEL DANIEL
1562-1619
_111._ _Love is a Sickness_
LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries--
Heigh ho!
Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries--
Heigh ho!
_112._ _Ulysses and the Siren_
_Siren._ Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come,
Possess these shores with me:
The winds and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.
Here may we sit and view their toil
That travail in the deep,
And joy the day in mirth the while,
And spend the night in sleep.
_Ulysses._ Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain’d with ease,
Then would I come and rest me there,
And leave such toils as these.
But here it dwells, and here must I
With danger seek it forth:
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.
_Siren._ Ulysses, O be not deceived
With that unreal name;
This honour is a thing conceived,
And rests on others’ fame:
Begotten only to molest
Our peace, and to beguile
The best thing of our life--our rest,
And give us up to toil.
_Ulysses._ Delicious Nymph, suppose there were
No honour nor report,
Yet manliness would scorn to wear
The time in idle sport:
For toil doth give a better touch
To make us feel our joy,
And ease finds tediousness as much
As labour yields annoy.
_Siren._ Then pleasure likewise seems the shore
Whereto tends all your toil,
Which you forgo to make it more,
And perish oft the while.
Who may disport them diversely
Find never tedious day,
And ease may have variety
As well as action may.
_Ulysses._ But natures of the noblest frame
These toils and dangers please;
And they take comfort in the same
As much as you in ease;
And with the thought of actions past
Are recreated still:
When Pleasure leaves a touch at last
To show that it was ill.
_Siren._ That doth _Opinion_ only cause
That’s out of _Custom_ bred,
Which makes us many other laws
Than ever _Nature_ did.
No widows wail for our delights,
Our sports are without blood;
The world we see by warlike wights
Receives more hurt than good.
_Ulysses._ But yet the state of things require
These motions of unrest:
And these great Spirits of high desire
Seem born to turn them best:
To purge the mischiefs that increase
And all good order mar:
For oft we see a wicked peace
To be well changed for war.
_Siren._ Well, well, Ulysses, then I see
I shall not have thee here:
And therefore I will come to thee,
And take my fortune there.
I must be won, that cannot win,
Yet lost were I not won;
For beauty hath created been
T’ undo, or be undone.
_113._ _Beauty, Time, and Love_
SONNETS. I
Fair is my Love and cruel as she’s fair;
Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny,
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair,
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey:
A modest maid, deck’d with a blush of honour,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her,
Sacred on earth, design’d a Saint above.
Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes,
Live reconcilèd friends within her brow;
And had she Pity to conjoin with those,
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,
My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.
II
My spotless love hovers with purest wings,
About the temple of the proudest frame,
Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,
Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.
My ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face,
Affect no honour but what she can give;
My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;
I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.
For she, that can my heart imparadise,
Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;
My Fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes,
Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.
All my life’s sweet consists in her alone;
So much I love the most Unloving one.
III
And yet I cannot reprehend the flight
Or blame th’ attempt presuming so to soar;
The mounting venture for a high delight
Did make the honour of the fall the more.
For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?
Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;
Glory doth follow, courage goes before;
And though th’ event oft answers not the same--
Suffice that high attempts have never shame.
The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,
Lives without honour, dies without a name,
And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.--
And therefore, _Delia_, ’tis to me no blot
To have attempted, tho’ attain’d thee not.
IV
When men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass,
And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,
Receivèd hast this message from thy glass,
That tells the truth and says that _All is gone_;
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad’st,
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:
I that have loved thee thus before thou fad’st--
My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,
That fire can burn when all the matter’s spent:
Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,
And that thou wast unkind thou may’st repent.--
Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears,
When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.
V
Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,
And straight ’tis gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,
Short is the glory of the blushing rose;
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;
And that, in Beauty’s Lease expired, appears
The Date of Age, the Calends of our Death--
But ah, no more!--this must not be foretold,
For women grieve to think they must be old.
VI
I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither;
And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;
Pity and smiles do best become the fair;
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!
VII
Let others sing of Knights and Paladines
In agèd accents and untimely words,
Paint shadows in imaginary lines,
Which well the reach of their high wit records:
But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes
Authentic shall my verse in time to come;
When yet th’ unborn shall say, _Lo, where she lies!_
_Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!_
These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,
That fortify thy name against old age;
And these thy sacred virtues must protect
Against the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage.
Though th’ error of my youth in them appear,
Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.
MARK ALEXANDER BOYD
1563-1601
_114._ _Sonet_
Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,
Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie;
Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree,
Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.
Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin,
Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie;
The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,
And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.
Unhappy is the man for evermair
That tills the sand and sawis in the air;
But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,
That feidis in his hairt a mad desire,
And follows on a woman throw the fire,
Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn.
JOSHUA SYLVESTER
1563-1618
_115._ _Ubique_
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain,
Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the Sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done.
Wheresoe’er I am,--below, or else above you--
Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
MICHAEL DRAYTON
1563-1631
_116._ _To His Coy Love_
I pray thee, leave, love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me!
I but in vain that saint adore
That can but will not save me.
These poor half-kisses kill me quite--
Was ever man thus servèd?
Amidst an ocean of delight
For pleasure to be starvèd?
Show me no more those snowy breasts
With azure riverets branchèd,
Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;
O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell!
By me thou art prevented:
’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,
But thus in Heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life’s comfort call me,
O these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me!
But see how patient I am grown
In all this coil about thee:
Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,
I cannot live without thee!
_117._ _The Parting_
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part--
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly I myself can free.
Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retain.
Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,
--Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
From death to life thou might’st him yet recover.
_118._ _Sirena_
Near to the silver _Trent_
SIRENA dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
Taken their places;
Twisting an anadem
Wherewith to crown her,
As it belong’d to them
Most to renown her.
_On thy bank,_
_In a rank,_
_Let thy swans sing her,_
_And with their music_
_Along let them bring her._
_Tagus_ and _Pactolus_
Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us
Are they the better:
Henceforth of all the rest
Be thou the River
Which, as the daintiest,
Puts them down ever.
For as my precious one
O’er thee doth travel,
She to pearl paragon
Turneth thy gravel.
_On thy bank ..._
Our mournful Philomel,
That rarest tuner,
Henceforth in Aperil
Shall wake the sooner,
And to her shall complain
From the thick cover,
Redoubling every strain
Over and over:
For when my Love too long
Her chamber keepeth,
As though it suffer’d wrong,
The Morning weepeth.
_On thy bank ..._
Oft have I seen the Sun,
To do her honour,
Fix himself at his noon
To look upon her;
And hath gilt every grove,
Every hill near her,
With his flames from above
Striving to cheer her:
And when she from his sight
Hath herself turnèd,
He, as it had been night,
In clouds hath mournèd.
_On thy bank ..._
The verdant meads are seen,
When she doth view them,
In fresh and gallant green
Straight to renew them;
And every little grass
Broad itself spreadeth,
Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth:
Nor flower is so sweet
In this large cincture,
But it upon her feet
Leaveth some tincture.
_On thy bank ..._
The fishes in the flood,
When she doth angle,
For the hook strive a-good
Them to entangle;
And leaping on the land,
From the clear water,
Their scales upon the sand
Lavishly scatter;
Therewith to pave the mould
Whereon she passes,
So herself to behold
As in her glasses.
_On thy bank ..._
When she looks out by night,
The stars stand gazing,
Like comets to our sight
Fearfully blazing;
As wond’ring at her eyes
With their much brightness,
Which so amaze the skies,
Dimming their lightness.
The raging tempests are calm
When she speaketh,
Such most delightsome balm
From her lips breaketh.
_On thy bank ..._
In all our _Brittany_
There’s not a fairer,
Nor can you fit any
Should you compare her.
Angels her eyelids keep,
All hearts surprising;
Which look whilst she doth sleep
Like the sun’s rising:
She alone of her kind
Knoweth true measure,
And her unmatchèd mind
Is heaven’s treasure.
_On thy bank ..._
Fair _Dove_ and _Darwen_ clear,
Boast ye your beauties,
To _Trent_ your mistress here
Yet pay your duties:
My Love was higher born
Tow’rds the full fountains,
Yet she doth moorland scorn
And the _Peak_ mountains;
Nor would she none should dream
Where she abideth,
Humble as is the stream
Which by her slideth.
_On thy bank ..._
Yet my poor rustic Muse
Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,
Though her true lover:
Many a long winter’s night
Have I waked for her,
Yet this my piteous plight
Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver _Trent_,
Down to the _Humber_,
The sighs that I have spent
Never can number.
_On thy bank,_
_In a rank,_
_Let thy swans sing her,_
_And with their music_
_Along let them bring her._
_119._ _Agincourt_
Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnish’d in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow’rds Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp’d his way,
Where the French gen’ral lay
With all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
Unto him sending;
Which he neglects the while
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
‘Though they to one be ten
Be not amazèd:
Yet have we well begun;
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisèd.
‘And for myself (quoth he)
This my full rest shall be:
England ne’er mourn for me
Nor more esteem me:
Victor I will remain
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
‘Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell:
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopp’d the French lilies.’
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Among his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there;
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake:
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went--
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
bilbos] swords, from Bilboa.
Down the French host did ding
As to o’erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruisèd his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin’s Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
_120._ _To the Virginian Voyage_
You brave heroic minds
Worthy your country’s name,
That honour still pursue;
Go and subdue!
Whilst loitering hinds
Lurk here at home with shame.
Britons, you stay too long:
Quickly aboard bestow you,
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretch’d sail
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,
West and by south forth keep!
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals
When Eolus scowls
You need not fear;
So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea
Success you still entice
To get the pearl and gold,
And ours to hold
_Virginia,_
Earth’s only paradise.
Where nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish,
And the fruitfull’st soil
Without your toil
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.
To whom the Golden Age
Still nature’s laws doth give,
No other cares attend,
But them to defend
From winter’s rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land
Above the seas that flows
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell
Approaching the dear strand;
In kenning of the shore
(Thanks to God first given)
O you the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let cannons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven.
And in regions far,
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came;
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North.
And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere--
Apollo’s sacred tree--
You it may see
A poet’s brows
To crown, that may sing there.
Thy _Voyages_ attend,
Industrious Hakluyt,
Whose reading shall inflame
Men to seek fame,
And much commend
To after times thy wit.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
1564-93
_121._ _The Passionate Shepherd to His Love_
Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields
Or woods or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy-buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.
_122._ _Her Reply_
(WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH)
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
But Time drives flocks from field to fold;
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields:
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither--soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,--
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.
But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
1564-1616
_123._ _Silvia_
Who is Silvia? What is she?
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.
Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness:
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.
_124._ _The Blossom_
On a day--alack the day!--
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen ’gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
_Spring and Winter_
_125._ _i_
When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!--O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!--O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
_126._ _ii_
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!--a merry note.
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
_126._ keel] skim.
_Fairy Land_
_127._ _i_
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere.
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
_128._ _ii_
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm.
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
_129._ _iii_
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,--
The wild waves whist,--
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow, wow,
The watch-dogs bark.
Bow, wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
_130._ _iv_
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
_131._ _v_
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them--
Ding-dong, bell!
_132._ _Love_
Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd?
Reply, reply.
It is engender’d in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy’s knell:
I’ll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
_All._ Ding, dong, bell.
_133._ _Sweet-and-Twenty_
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty!
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
_134._ _Dirge_
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there!
_134._ cypres] crape.
_135._ _Under the Greenwood Tree_
_Amiens_ sings:
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
_Jaques_ replies:
If it do come to pass
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdamè, ducdamè, ducdamè:
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
_136._ _Blow blow, thou Winter Wind_
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As friend remember’d not.
Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.
_137._ _It was a Lover and his Lass_
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green corn-field did pass,
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that life was but a flower
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
And, therefore, take the present time
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crownèd with the prime
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
_138._ _Take, O take those Lips away_
Take, O take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Bring again;
Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,
Seal’d in vain!
_139._ _Aubade_
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise!
Arise, arise!
_140._ _Fidele_
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o’ the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exerciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renownèd be thy grave!
_141._ _Bridal Song_
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks’-heels trim;
All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough hoar,
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
? or _John Fletcher_.
_142._ _Dirge of the Three Queens_
URNS and odours bring away!
Vapours, sighs, darken the day!
Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials fill’d with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying!
Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!
We convènt naught else but woes.
? or _John Fletcher_.
_142._ dole] lamentation. convent] summon.
_143._ _Orpheus_
Orpheus with his lute made trees
And the mountain tops that freeze
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
? or _John Fletcher_.
_144._ _The Phœnix and the Turtle_
Let the bird of loudest lay
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.
But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.
From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing
Save the eagle, feather’d king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.
Let the priest in surplice white
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.
And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.
Here the anthem doth commence:--
Love and constancy is dead;
Phœnix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.
So they loved, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none;
Number there in love was slain.
can] knows.
Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
’Twixt the turtle and his queen:
But in them it were a wonder.
So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phœnix’ sight;
Either was the other’s mine.
Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.
Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either neither;
Simple were so well compounded,
That it cried, ‘How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.’
Whereupon it made this threne
To the phœnix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.
_THRENOS_
Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclosed in cinders lie.
Death is now the phœnix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,
Leaving no posterity:
’Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.
Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.
To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
_Sonnets_
_145._ _i_
Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
_146._ _ii_
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising--
Haply I think on thee: and then my state,
Like to the Lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with Kings.
_147._ _iii_
When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancell’d woe,
And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
_148._ _iv_
Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts
Which I, by lacking, have supposèd dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought burièd.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead!--which now appear
But things removed that hidden in thee lie.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live.
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone.
Who all their parts of me to thee did give:
--That due of many now is thine alone:
Their images I loved I view in thee,
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
_149._ _v_
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show.
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessèd shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
_149._ foison] plenty.
_150._ _vi_
O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture of the Roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:
But--for their virtue only is their show--
They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth.
_151._ _vii_
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those!
So true a fool is love, that in your Will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
_152._ _viii_
That time of year thou may’st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold--
Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after Sunset fadeth in the West,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
_153._ _ix_
Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter
In sleep a King; but waking, no such matter.
_154._ _x_
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross.
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after loss:
Ah! do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so!
_155._ _xi_
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow--
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,
And husband nature’s riches from expense;
They are the Lords and owners of their faces,
Others, but stewards of their excellence.
The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
_156._ _xii_
How like a Winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December’s bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time;
The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
Like widow’d wombs after their Lord’s decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute:
Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the Winter’s near.
_157._ _xiii_
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the Lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it Winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
_158._ _xiv_
My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming
The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays;
As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.
_159._ _xv_
To me, fair friend, you never can be old;
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold
Have from the forests shook three Summers’ pride;
Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’d
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green,
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.
_160._ _xvi_
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime
In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they look’d but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
_161._ _xvii_
O never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify!
As easy might I from myself depart,
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love; if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign’d
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so prepost’rously be stain’d,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
For nothing this wide Universe I call,
Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
_162._ _xviii_
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:--
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
_163._ _xix_
Th’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy’d no sooner but despisèd straight;
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
_164._ _xx_
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth--
My sinful earth these rebel powers array--
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men;
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
RICHARD ROWLANDS
1565-1630?
_165._ _Lullaby_
Upon my lap my sovereign sits
And sucks upon my breast;
Meantime his love maintains my life
And gives my sense her rest.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
When thou hast taken thy repast,
Repose, my babe, on me;
So may thy mother and thy nurse
Thy cradle also be.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
I grieve that duty doth not work
All that my wishing would;
Because I would not be to thee
But in the best I should.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
Yet as I am, and as I may,
I must and will be thine,
Though all too little for thyself
Vouchsafing to be mine.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
THOMAS NASHE
1567-1601
_166._ _Spring_
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing--
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay--
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet--
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!
_167._ _In Time of Pestilence_
1593
ADIEU, farewell earth’s bliss!
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life’s lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen’s eye;
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;
_Come, come!_ the bells do cry;
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death’s bitterness;
Hell’s executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply;
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Haste therefore each degree
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player’s stage.
Mount we unto the sky;
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
THOMAS CAMPION
1567?-1619
_168._ _Cherry-Ripe_
There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow;
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy
Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry.
_169._ _Laura_
Rose-cheek’d _Laura_, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s
Silent music, either other
Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framèd:
Heaven is music, and thy beauty’s
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord;
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew’d by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
selves eternal.
_Devotion_
_170._ _i_
Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Though thou be black as night,
And she made all of light,
Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!
Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!
Though here thou liv’st disgraced,
And she in heaven is placed,
Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth!
Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth!
That so have scorchèd thee
As thou still black must be,
Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.
Follow her, while yet her glory shineth!
There comes a luckless night
That will dim all her light;
And this the black unhappy shade divineth.
Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd!
The sun must have his shade,
Till both at once do fade,--
The sun still proud, the shadow still disdainèd.
_171._ _ii_
Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!
There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again!
All that I sung still to her praise did tend;
Still she was first, still she my songs did end;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy:
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.
_172._ _Vobiscum est Iope_
When thou must home to shades of underground,
And there arrived, a new admirèd guest,
The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,
White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,
To hear the stories of thy finish’d love
From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;
Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,
Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make,
Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake:
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!
_173._ _Hymn in Praise of Neptune_
Of Neptune’s empire let us sing,
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers tribute pay,
Down the high mountains sliding:
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields
Wherein they dwell:
And every sea-dog pays a gem
Yearly out of his wat’ry cell
To deck great Neptune’s diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring
Before his palace gates do make
The water with their echoes quake,
Like the great thunder sounding:
The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill,
And the sirens, taught to kill
With their sweet voice,
Make ev’ry echoing rock reply
Unto their gentle murmuring noise
The praise of Neptune’s empery.
_174._ _Winter Nights_
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o’erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine.
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love,
While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
Sleep’s leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers’ long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
_175._ _Integer Vitae_
The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
From thunder’s violence:
He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.
Thus, scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.
_176._ _O come quickly!_
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore,
Never tirèd pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest!
Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise,
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!
JOHN REYNOLDS
16th Cent.
_177._ _A Nosegay_
Say, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,
With Violet blue;
Since you have seen the beauty of my saint,
And eke her view;
Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill,
With sweet delight
Of goddess’ grace and angels’ sacred teint
In fine, most bright?
Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,
With Pink most fine;
Since you beheld the visage of my dear,
And eyes divine;
_177._ teint] tint, hue.
Did not her globy front, and glistering hair,
With cheeks most sweet,
So gloriously like damask flowers appear,
The gods to greet?
Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower,
With Daisy gay;
Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire,
In her array;
Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus’ bower,
With heavenly glee,
A Juno’s grace, conjure you to require
Her face to see?
Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue,
With Primrose fair,
Since ye have seen my nymph’s sweet dainty face
And gesture rare,
Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view
(White Lily) shine--
(Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a grace
Like stars divine?
SIR HENRY WOTTON
1568-1639
_178._ _Elizabeth of Bohemia_
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies;
What are you when the moon shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dime Nature’s lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what’s your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design’d
Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind.
_179._ _The Character of a Happy Life_
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;
--This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
_180._ _Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton’s Wife_
He first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.
SIR JOHN DAVIES
1569-1626
_181._ _Man_
I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet she is blind and ignorant in all:
I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.
I know my life’s a pain and but a span;
I know my sense is mock’d in everything;
And, to conclude, I know myself a Man--
Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.
SIR ROBERT AYTON
1570-1638
_182._ _To His Forsaken Mistress_
I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could move, had power to move thee;
But I can let thee now alone
As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind
That kisseth everything it meets:
And since thou canst with more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none.
The morning rose that untouch’d stands
Arm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells!
But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands,
Her sweets no longer with her dwells:
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide
When thou hast handled been awhile,
With sere flowers to be thrown aside;
And I shall sigh, while some will smile,
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
_183._ _To an Inconstant One_
I loved thee once; I’ll love no more--
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o’erthrown
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall
That it thou might elsewhere enthral:
And then how could I but disdain
A captive’s captive to remain?
When new desires had conquer’d thee
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so:
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.
Yet do thou glory in thy choice--
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a beggar’s door.
BEN JONSON
1573-1637
_184._ _Hymn to Diana_
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia’s shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak’st a day of night--
Goddess excellently bright.
_185._ _To Celia_
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither’d be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!
_186._ _Simplex Munditiis_
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’ adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
_187._ _The Shadow_
Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn and even, shades are longest;
At noon they are or short or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they’re not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
_188._ _The Triumph_
See the Chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour’d do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love’s world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love’s star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arch’d brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touch’d it?
Have you mark’d but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutch’d it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swan’s down ever?
O have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
_189._ _An Elegy_
Though beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay so gone
Throughout your form as, though that move
And draw and conquer all men’s love,
This subjects you to love of one.
Wherein you triumph yet--because
’Tis of your flesh, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith or honour’s laws.
_189._ allay] alloy.
But who should less expect from you?
In whom alone Love lives again:
By whom he is restored to men,
And kept and bred and brought up true.
His falling temples you have rear’d,
The withered garlands ta’en away;
His altars kept from that decay
That envy wish’d, and nature fear’d:
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalty’s expense,
As Love to acquit such excellence
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he--the deity
To whom all lovers are design’d
That would their better objects find
Among which faithful troop am I--
Who as an off’ring at your shrine
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine.
Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view;
Yet give me leave to adore in you
What I in her am grieved to want!
_190._ _A Farewell to the World_
False world, good night! since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age;
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear
As little as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst not show nor bear
More hatred than thou hast to me.
My tender, first, and simple years
Thou didst abuse and then betray;
Since stir’d’st up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.
Then in a soil hast planted me
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;
Where envious arts professèd be,
And pride and ignorance the schools;
Where nothing is examined, weigh’d,
But as ’tis rumour’d, so believed;
Where every freedom is betray’d,
And every goodness tax’d or grieved.
But what we’re born for, we must bear:
Our frail condition it is such
That what to all may happen here,
If ’t chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else I my state should much mistake
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind--that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn
As shall not need thy false relief.
Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.
_191._ _The Noble Balm_
High-spirited friend,
I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound:
Your fate hath found
A gentler and more agile hand to tend
The cure of that which is but corporal;
And doubtful days, which were named critical,
Have made their fairest flight
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind
Wrapp’d in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you misapply,
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,
Happy in that fair honour it hath gain’d,
Must now be rein’d.
True valour doth her own renown command
In one full action; nor have you now more
To do, than be a husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought
This fame which you have caught:
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.
’Tis wisdom, and that high,
For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.
_Epitaphs_
_i_
_192._ _On Elizabeth L. H._
Wouldst thou hear what Man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much Beauty as could die:
Which in life did harbour give
To more Virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was _Elizabeth_,
The other, let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it died, to tell
Than that it lived at all. Farewell.
_ii_
_193._ _On Salathiel Pavy_
_A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel_
Weep with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death’s self is sorry.
’Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seem’d to strive
Which own’d the creature.
Years he number’d scarce thirteen
When Fates turn’d cruel,
Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he been
The stage’s jewel;
And did act (what now we moan)
Old men so duly,
As sooth the Parcae thought him one,
He play’d so truly.
So, by error, to his fate
They all consented;
But, viewing him since, alas, too late!
They have repented;
And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;
But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.
_194._ _A Part of an Ode_
_to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius
Cary and Sir H. Morison_
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Call, noble _Lucius_, then for wine,
And let thy looks with gladness shine:
Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,
And think--nay, know--thy _Morison_’s not dead.
He leap’d the present age,
Possest with holy rage
To see that bright eternal Day
Of which we Priests and Poets say
Such truths as we expect for happy men;
And there he lives with memory--and Ben
_Jonson_: who sung this of him, ere he went
Himself to rest,
Or tast a part of that full joy he meant
To have exprest
In this bright Asterism
Where it were friendship’s schism--
Were not his _Lucius_ long with us to tarry--
To separate these twy
Lights, the Dioscuri,
And keep the one half from his _Harry_.
But fate doth so alternate the design,
Whilst that in Heav’n, this light on earth must shine.
And shine as you exalted are!
Two names of friendship, but one star:
Of hearts the union: and those not by chance
Made, or indenture, or leased out to advance
The profits for a time.
No pleasures vain did chime
Of rimes or riots at your feasts,
Orgies of drink or feign’d protests;
But simple love of greatness and of good,
That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.
This made you first to know the _Why_
_You liked_, then after, to apply
That liking, and approach so one the t’other
Till either grew a portion of the other:
Each stylèd by his end
The copy of his friend.
You lived to be the great surnames
And titles by which all made claims
Unto the Virtue--nothing perfect done
But as a _CARY_ or a _MORISON_.
And such the force the fair example had
As they that saw
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad
That such a law
Was left yet to mankind,
Where they might read and find
Friendship indeed was written, not in words,
And with the heart, not pen,
Of two so early men,
Whose lines her rules were and records:
Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin,
Had sow’d these fruits, and got the harvest in.
JOHN DONNE
1573-1631
_195._ _Daybreak_
Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!
The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not: it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay! or else my joys will die
And perish in their infancy.
_196._ _Song_
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the Devil’s foot;
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be’st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights
Till Age snow white hairs on thee;
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find’st one, let me know;
Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet do not; I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet.
Though she were true when you met her,
And last till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two or three.
_197._
_That Time and Absence proves_
_Rather helps than hurts to loves_
Absence, hear thou my protestation
Against thy strength,
Distance and length:
Do what thou canst for alteration,
For hearts of truest mettle
Absence doth join and Time doth settle.
Who loves a mistress of such quality,
His mind hath found
Affection’s ground
Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
To hearts that cannot vary
Absence is present, Time doth tarry.
My senses want their outward motion
Which now within
Reason doth win,
Redoubled by her secret notion:
Like rich men that take pleasure
In hiding more than handling treasure.
By Absence this good means I gain,
That I can catch her
Where none can watch her,
In some close corner of my brain:
There I embrace and kiss her,
And so enjoy her and none miss her.
_198._ _The Ecstasy_
Where, like a pillow on a bed,
A pregnant bank swell’d up, to rest
The violet’s reclining head,
Sat we two, one another’s best.
Our hands were firmly cèmented
By a fast balm which thence did spring;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string.
So to engraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one;
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
As ’twixt two equal armies Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls--which to advance their state
Were gone out--hung ’twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.
_199._ _The Dream_
Dear love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream,
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it best
Not to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.
As lightning, or a taper’s light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;
Yet I thought thee--
For thou lov’st truth--an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,
And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,
When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then,
I must confess it could not choose but be
Profane to think thee anything but thee.
Coming and staying show’d thee thee,
But rising makes me doubt that now
Thou art not thou.
That Love is weak where Fear’s as strong as he;
’Tis not all spirit pure and brave
If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me.
Thou cam’st to kindle, go’st to come: then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
_200._ _The Funeral_
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,
For ’tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all;
Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do’t: except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die.
Whate’er she meant by ’t, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into other hands these reliques came.
As ’twas humility
T’ afford to it all that a soul can do,
So ’tis some bravery
That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
_201._ _A Hymn to God the Father_
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow’d in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore:
And having done that, Thou hast done;
I fear no more.
_202._ _Death_
Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go--
Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
RICHARD BARNEFIELD
1574-1627
_203._ _Philomel_
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
_Fie, fie, fie!_ now would she cry;
_Tereu, Tereu!_ by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
THOMAS DEKKER
1575-1641
_204._ _Sweet Content_
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex’d?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex’d
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny--hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O sweet content!
Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want’s burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny--hey nonny nonny!
THOMAS HEYWOOD
157?-1650
_205._ _Matin Song_
Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft
To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!
To give my Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them all I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow,
You pretty elves, among yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
_205._ stare] starling.
_206._ _The Message_
Ye little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks
Within her garden-alleys;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah me! methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tell her through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,
To her is only known my love,
Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so,
See that your notes strain not too low.
For still methinks I see her frown;
Ye pretty wantons, warble.
Go tune your voices’ harmony
And sing, I am her lover;
Strain loud and sweet, that every note
With sweet content may move her:
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice:
--Yet still methinks I see her frown!
Ye pretty wantons, warble.
O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber!
Sing round about her rosy bed
That waking she may wonder:
Say to her, ’tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you!
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.
JOHN FLETCHER
1579-1625
_207._ _Sleep_
Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving
Lock me in delight awhile;
Let some pleasing dreams beguile
All my fancies; that from thence
I may feel an influence
All my powers of care bereaving!
Though but a shadow, but a sliding,
Let me know some little joy!
We that suffer long annoy
Are contented with a thought
Through an idle fancy wrought:
O let my joys have some abiding!
_208._ _Bridal Song_
Cynthia, to thy power and thee
We obey.
Joy to this great company!
And no day
Come to steal this night away
Till the rites of love are ended,
And the lusty bridegroom say,
Welcome, light, of all befriended!
Pace out, you watery powers below;
Let your feet,
Like the galleys when they row,
Even beat;
Let your unknown measures, set
To the still winds, tell to all
That gods are come, immortal, great,
To honour this great nuptial!
_209._ _Aspatia’s Song_
Lay a garland on my herse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
_210._ _Hymn to Pan_
Sing his praises that doth keep
Our flocks from harm,
Pan, the father of our sheep;
And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.
Pan, O great god Pan, to thee
Thus do we sing!
Thou who keep’st us chaste and free
As the young spring:
Ever be thy honour spoke
From that place the morn is broke
To that place day doth unyoke!
_211._ _Away, Delights_
Away, delights! go seek some other dwelling,
For I must die.
Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling
Lie after lie.
For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;
Alas, for pity go
And fire their hearts
That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.
Never again deluding love shall know me,
For I will die;
And all those griefs that think to overgrow me
Shall be as I:
For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry--
‘Alas, for pity stay,
And let us die
With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’
_212._ _Love’s Emblems_
Now the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view:
Everywhere on every green
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full:
All love’s emblems, and all cry,
‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’
Yet the lusty spring hath stay’d;
Blushing red and purest white
Daintily to love invite
Every woman, every maid:
Cherries kissing as they grow,
And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,
Winding gently to the waist:
All love’s emblems, and all cry,
‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’
_213._ _Hear, ye Ladies_
Hear, ye ladies that despise
What the mighty Love has done;
Fear examples and be wise:
Fair Callisto was a nun;
Leda, sailing on the stream
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doted on a silver swan;
Danaë, in a brazen tower,
Where no love was, loved a shower.
Hear, ye ladies that are coy,
What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy:
The chaste Moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build, and once more fire.
_214._ _God Lyaeus_
God Lyaeus, ever young,
Ever honour’d, ever sung,
Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes
Dance upon the mazer’s brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
_214._ mazer] a bowl of maple-wood.
From thy plenteous hand divine
Let a river run with wine:
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear.
_215._ _Beauty Clear and Fair_
Beauty clear and fair,
Where the air
Rather like a perfume dwells;
Where the violet and the rose
Their blue veins and blush disclose,
And come to honour nothing else;
Where to live near
And planted there
Is to live, and still live new;
Where to gain a favour is
More than light, perpetual bliss--
Make me live by serving you!
Dear, again back recall
To this light,
A stranger to himself and all!
Both the wonder and the story
Shall be yours, and eke the glory;
I am your servant, and your thrall.
_216._ _Melancholy_
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There’s naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see’t,
But only melancholy--
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that’s fasten’d to the ground,
A tongue chain’d up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan--
These are the sounds we feed upon:
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
_217._ _Weep no more_
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Sorrow calls no time that’s gone:
Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain
Makes not fresh nor grow again.
Trim thy locks, look cheerfully;
Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see.
Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
Grief is but a wound to woe;
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.
JOHN WEBSTER
?-1630?
_218._ _A Dirge_
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o’er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,
For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.
_218._ dole] lamentation.
_219._ _The Shrouding of the Duchess of Malfi_
Hark! Now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay’s now competent:
A long war disturb’d your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign’d.
Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And--the foul fiend more to check--
A crucifix let bless your neck:
’Tis now full tide ’tween night and day;
End your groan and come away.
_220._ _Vanitas Vanitatum_
All the flowers of the spring
Meet to perfume our burying;
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time:
Survey our progress from our birth--
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.
Courts adieu, and all delights,
All bewitching appetites!
Sweetest breath and clearest eye
Like perfumes go out and die;
And consequently this is done
As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain the ambition of kings
Who seek by trophies and dead things
To leave a living name behind,
And weave but nets to catch the wind.
WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING
1580?-1640
_221._ _Aurora_
O happy Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap,
And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,
Then need’st thou not--which ah! I grieve to grant--
Repine at Jove, lull’d in his leman’s lap:
That golden shower in which he did repose--
One dewy drop it stains
Which thy Aurora rains
Upon the rural plains,
When from thy bed she passionately goes.
Then, waken’d with the music of the merles,
She not remembers Memnon when she mourns:
That faithful flame which in her bosom burns
From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls:
Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed,
She so her grief delates.
--O favour’d by the fates
Above the happiest states,
Who art of one so worthy well-beloved!
PHINEAS FLETCHER
1580-1650
_222._ _A Litany_
Drop, drop, slow tears,
And bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from Heaven
The news and Prince of Peace:
Cease not, wet eyes,
His mercy to entreat;
To cry for vengeance
Sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods
Drown all my faults and fears;
Nor let His eye
See sin, but through my tears.
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT
1583-1627
_223._ _Of his Dear Son, Gervase_
Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love
To me was like a friendship, far above
The course of nature or his tender age;
Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage:
Let his pure soul, ordain’d seven years to be
In that frail body which was part of me,
Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show
How to this port at every step I go.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN
1585-1649
_224._ _Invocation_
Phœbus, arise!
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;
Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed,
That she thy career may with roses spread;
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing;
Make an eternal spring!
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And emperor-like decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,
That day, long wishèd day
Of all my life so dark
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
And fates not hope betray),
Which, only white, deserves
A diamond for ever should it mark:
This is the morn should bring into this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
Fair King, who all preserves,
But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see than those which by Penèus’ streams
Did once thy heart surprise:
Nay, suns, which shine as clear
As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye, winds, would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion’s lyre,
Your stormy chiding stay;
Let zephyr only breathe
And with her tresses play,
Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
The winds all silent are;
And Phœbus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels
Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels:
The fields with flowers are deck’d in every hue,
The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue;
Here is the pleasant place--
And everything, save Her, who all should grace.
_225._ _Madrigal_
Like the Idalian queen,
Her hair about her eyne,
With neck and breast’s ripe apples to be seen,
At first glance of the morn
In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flow’rs
Which of her blood were born,
I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.
The Graces naked danced about the place,
The winds and trees amazed
With silence on her gazed,
The flowers did smile, like those upon her face;
And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,
That she might read my case,
A hyacinth I wish’d me in her hand.
_225._ paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound.
_226._ _Spring Bereaved 1_
That zephyr every year
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her: that wrapp’d in gowns of green
Meads were so early seen,
That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,
It was for her; for her trees dropp’d forth pearls.
That proud and stately courts
Did envy those our shades and calm resorts,
It was for her; and she is gone, O woe!
Woods cut again do grow,
Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done;
But we, once dead, no more do see the sun.
_227._ _Spring Bereaved 2_
Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs:
The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs.
Thou turn’st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours
And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain
Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours.
Thou art the same which still thou wast before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;
But she, whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air,
Is gone--nor gold nor gems her can restore.
Neglected virtue, seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie closèd in a tomb.
_228._ _Spring Bereaved 3_
Alexis, here she stay’d; among these pines,
Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;
Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,
More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines.
She set her by these muskèd eglantines,
--The happy place the print seems yet to bear:
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar’d lines,
To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear.
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o’erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And I first got a pledge of promised grace:
But ah! what served it to be happy so?
Sith passèd pleasures double but new woe?
_229._ _Her Passing_
The beauty and the life
Of life’s and beauty’s fairest paragon
--O tears! O grief!--hung at a feeble thread
To which pale Atropos had set her knife;
The soul with many a groan
Had left each outward part,
And now did take his last leave of the heart:
Naught else did want, save death, ev’n to be dead;
When the afflicted band about her bed,
Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,
Cried, ‘_Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?_’
_230._ _Inexorable_
My thoughts hold mortal strife;
I do detest my life,
And with lamenting cries
Peace to my soul to bring
Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise:
--But he, grim-grinning King,
Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise.
Late having deck’d with beauty’s rose his tomb,
Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
_231._ _Change should breed Change_
New doth the sun appear,
The mountains’ snows decay,
Crown’d with frail flowers forth comes the baby year.
My soul, time posts away;
And thou yet in that frost
Which flower and fruit hath lost,
As if all here immortal were, dost stay.
For shame! thy powers awake,
Look to that Heaven which never night makes black,
And there at that immortal sun’s bright rays,
Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days!
_232._ _Saint John Baptist_
The last and greatest Herald of Heaven’s King,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
Which he than man more harmless found and mild.
His food was locusts, and what young doth spring
With honey that from virgin hives distill’d;
Parch’d body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
There burst he forth: ‘All ye, whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn;
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!’
--Who listen’d to his voice, obey’d his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their marble caves ‘Repent! Repent!’
GILES FLETCHER
158?-1623
_233._ _Wooing Song_
Love is the blossom where there blows
Every thing that lives or grows:
Love doth make the Heav’ns to move,
And the Sun doth burn in love:
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Soften’d by love, grow tame and mild:
Love no med’cine can appease,
He burns the fishes in the seas:
Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leavy coat to wear,
While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play
And of all love’s joyful flame
I the bud and blossom am.
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be
See, see the flowers that below
Now as fresh as morning blow;
And of all the virgin rose
That as bright Aurora shows;
How they all unleavèd die,
Losing their virginity!
Like unto a summer shade,
But now born, and now they fade.
Every thing doth pass away;
There is danger in delay:
Come, come, gather then the rose,
Gather it, or it you lose!
All the sand of Tagus’ shore
Into my bosom casts his ore:
All the valleys’ swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne:
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine:
While ten thousand kings, as proud,
To carry up my train have bow’d,
And a world of ladies send me
In my chambers to attend me:
All the stars in Heav’n that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine:
Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be!
FRANCIS BEAUMONT
1586-1616
_234._ _On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey_
Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal’d with dust
They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’
Here’s an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall’st seed
That the earth did e’er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried--
‘Though gods they were, as men they died.’
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin’d sides of kings;
Here’s a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
JOHN FORD
1586-1639
_235._ _Dawn_
Fly hence, shadows, that do keep
Watchful sorrows charm’d in sleep!
Tho’ the eyes be overtaken,
Yet the heart doth ever waken
Thoughts chain’d up in busy snares
Of continual woes and cares:
Love and griefs are so exprest
As they rather sigh than rest.
Fly hence, shadows, that do keep
Watchful sorrows charm’d in sleep!
GEORGE WITHER
1588-1667
_236._ _I loved a Lass_
I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e’er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
_Falero, lero, loo_!
Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,
She did surpass her sister,
Which pass’d all others far;
She would me honey call,
She’d--O she’d kiss me too!
But now, alas! she’s left me,
_Falero, lero, loo_!
Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes
Like to the morning dew:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
_Falero, lero, loo_!
Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
_Falero, lero, loo_!
In summer time or winter
She had her heart’s desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she’s left me,
_Falero, lero, loo_!
To maidens’ vows and swearing
Henceforth no credit give;
You may give them the hearing.
But never them believe;
They are as false as fair,
Unconstant, frail, untrue:
For mine, alas! hath left me,
_Falero, lero, loo_!
_237._ _The Lover’s Resolution_
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman’s fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
’Cause another’s rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow’ry meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?
Shall my silly heart be pined
’Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman’s virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness 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 fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
That without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne’er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
_238._ _The Choice_
Me so oft my fancy drew
Here and there, that I ne’er knew
Where to place desire before
So that range it might no more;
But as he that passeth by
Where, in all her jollity,
Flora’s riches in a row
Do in seemly order grow,
And a thousand flowers stand
Bending as to kiss his hand;
Out of which delightful store
One he may take and no more;
Long he pausing doubteth whether
Of those fair ones he should gather.
First the Primrose courts his eyes,
Then the Cowslip he espies;
Next the Pansy seems to woo him,
Then Carnations bow unto him;
Which whilst that enamour’d swain
From the stalk intends to strain,
(As half-fearing to be seen)
Prettily her leaves between
Peeps the Violet, pale to see
That her virtues slighted be;
Which so much his liking wins
That to seize her he begins.
Yet before he stoop’d so low
He his wanton eye did throw
On a stem that grew more high,
And the Rose did there espy.
Who, beside her previous scent,
To procure his eyes content
Did display her goodly breast,
Where he found at full exprest
All the good that Nature showers
On a thousand other flowers;
Wherewith he affected takes it,
His belovèd flower he makes it,
And without desire of more
Walks through all he saw before.
So I wand’ring but erewhile
Through the garden of this Isle,
Saw rich beauties, I confess,
And in number numberless.
Yea, so differing lovely too,
That I had a world to do
Ere I could set up my rest,
Where to choose and choose the best.
Thus I fondly fear’d, till Fate
(Which I must confess in that
Did a greater favour to me
Than the world can malice do me)
Show’d to me that matchless flower.
Subject for this song of our;
Whose perfection having eyed,
Reason instantly espied
That Desire, which ranged abroad,
There would find a period:
And no marvel if it might,
For it there hath all delight,
And in her hath nature placed
What each several fair one graced.
Let who list, for me, advance
The admirèd flowers of France,
Let who will praise and behold
The reservèd Marigold;
Let the sweet-breath’d Violet now
Unto whom she pleaseth bow;
And the fairest Lily spread
Where she will her golden head;
I have such a flower to wear
That for those I do not care.
Let the young and happy swains
Playing on the Britain plains
Court unblamed their shepherdesses,
And with their gold curlèd tresses
Toy uncensured, until I
Grudge at their prosperity.
Let all times, both present, past,
And the age that shall be last,
Vaunt the beauties they bring forth.
I have found in one such worth,
That content I neither care
What the best before me were;
Nor desire to live and see
Who shall fair hereafter be;
For I know the hand of Nature
Will not make a fairer creature.
_239._ _A Widow’s Hymn_
How near me came the hand of Death,
When at my side he struck my dear,
And took away the precious breath
Which quicken’d my belovèd peer!
How helpless am I thereby made!
By day how grieved, by night how sad!
And now my life’s delight is gone,
--Alas! how am I left alone!
The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key,
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day;
Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard or seen;
But what I once enjoy’d in them
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.
_239._ peer] companion.
Lord! keep me faithful to the trust
Which my dear spouse reposed in me:
To him now dead preserve me just
In all that should performèd be!
For though our being man and wife
Extendeth only to this life,
Yet neither life nor death should end
The being of a faithful friend.
WILLIAM BROWNE, OF TAVISTOCK
1588-1643
_240._ _A Welcome_
_Welcome, welcome! do I sing,_
_Far more welcome than the spring;_
_He that parteth from you never_
_Shall enjoy a spring for ever._
He that to the voice is near
Breaking from your iv’ry pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.
_Welcome, welcome, then...._
He that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer’s sun.
_Welcome, welcome, then...._
He that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool if e’er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
_Welcome, welcome, then...._
He to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields
Never, never shall be missing.
_Welcome, welcome, then...._
He that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
_Welcome, welcome, then...._
_241._ _The Sirens’ Song_
Steer, hither steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners!
Here lie Love’s undiscover’d mines,
A prey to passengers--
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phœnix’ urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips;
But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests:
For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass Love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
--Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.
_242._ _The Rose_
A rose, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;
A sweeter flower did Nature ne’er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon.
And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Water’d the root and kiss’d her pretty shade.
But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
_243._ _Song_
For her gait, if she be walking;
Be she sitting, I desire her
For her state’s sake; and admire her
For her wit if she be talking;
Gait and state and wit approve her;
For which all and each I love her.
Be she sullen, I commend her
For a modest. Be she merry,
For a kind one her prefer I.
Briefly, everything doth lend her
So much grace, and so approve her,
That for everything I love her.
_244._ _Memory_
So shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
So from the honeysuckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day:
Which once enjoy’d, cold winter’s wrath
As night they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, that know not yet
The pain to be deprived or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there be
Some that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory:
But could they teach Forgetfulness,
I’d learn; and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.
_Epitaphs_
_245._ _In Obitum M.S. Xº Maij, 1614_
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,
Nor Flora’s pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
Mine only died.
_246._ _On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke_
Underneath this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair and learn’d and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
ROBERT HERRICK
1591-1674
_247._ _Corinna’s going a-Maying_
Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree!
Each flower has wept and bow’d toward the east
Above an hour since, yet you not drest;
Nay! not so much as out of bed?
When all the birds have matins said
And sung their thankful hymns, ’tis sin.
Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
And Titan on the eastern hill
Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park,
Made green and trimm’d with trees! see how
Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see’t?
Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obey
The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.
There’s not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth ere this is come
Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have despatch’d their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept and woo’d, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
beads] prayers.
Many a green-gown has been given,
Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance, too, has been sent
From out the eye, love’s firmament:
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick’d: yet we’re not a-Maying!
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time!
We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun.
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne’er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight
Lies drown’d with us in endless night.
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.
_247._ green-gown] tumble on the grass.
_248._ _To the Virgins, to make much of Time_
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
_249._ _To the Western Wind_
Sweet western wind, whose luck it is,
Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna’s lip a kiss,
And fan her wanton hair:
Bring me but one, I’ll promise thee,
Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalm’d by me,
And all beset with flowers.
_250._ _To Electra_
I dare not ask a kiss,
I dare not beg a smile,
Lest having that, or this,
I might grow proud the while.
No, no, the utmost share
Of my desire shall be
Only to kiss that air
That lately kissèd thee.
_251._ _To Violets_
Welcome, maids of honour!
You do bring
In the spring,
And wait upon her.
She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair;
Yet you are
More sweet than any.
You’re the maiden posies,
And so graced
To be placed
’Fore damask roses.
Yet, though thus respected,
By-and-by
Ye do lie,
Poor girls, neglected.
_252._ _To Daffodils_
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain’d his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the evensong;
And, having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
_253._ _To Blossoms_
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.
What! were ye born to be
An hour or half’s delight,
And so to bid good night?
’Twas pity Nature brought you forth
Merely to show your worth
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne’er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.
_254._ _The Primrose_
Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearl’d with dew?
I will whisper to your ears:--
The sweets of love are mix’d with tears.
Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending (yet it doth not break)?
I will answer:--These discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.
_255._ _The Funeral Rites of the Rose_
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,
As Heaven had spent all perfumes there.
At last, when prayers for the dead
And rites were all accomplishèd,
They, weeping, spread a lawny loom,
And closed her up as in a tomb.
_255._ trental] services for the dead, of thirty masses.
_256._ _Cherry-Ripe_
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy.
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer: There
Where my Julia’s lips do smile;
There’s the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
_257._ _A Meditation for his Mistress_
You are a tulip seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay
That where you grew scarce man can say.
You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.
You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud,
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.
You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried ere you distil your wine.
You are like balm enclosèd well
In amber or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.
You are a dainty violet,
Yet withered ere you can be set
Within the virgin’s coronet.
You are the queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.
_258._ _Delight in Disorder_
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly:
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
_259._ _Upon Julia’s Clothes_
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes!
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free,
--O how that glittering taketh me!
_260._ _The Bracelet: To Julia_
Why I tie about thy wrist,
Julia, this silken twist;
For what other reason is’t
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
But thy bond-slave is my heart:
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Knap the thread and thou art free;
But ’tis otherwise with me:
--I am bound and fast bound, so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could, I would not so.
_261._ _To Daisies, not to shut so soon_
Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
Or to seal up the sun.
No marigolds yet closèd are,
No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early shepherd’s star
Shine like a spangle here.
Stay but till my Julia close
Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
Itself to live or die.
_262._ _The Night-piece: To Julia_
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o’-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there’s none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber:
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light
Like tapers clear without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silv’ry feet,
My soul I’ll pour into thee.
_263._ _To Music, to becalm his Fever_
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish’d, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
’Mongst roses.
Fall on me like the silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o’er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven.
_264._ _To Dianeme_
Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free;
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the love-sick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty’s gone.
_265._ _To Œnone_
What conscience, say, is it in thee,
When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
And to retain thy own?
For shame or pity now incline
To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
Or give me back my heart.
Covet not both; but if thou dost
Resolve to part with neither,
Why, yet to show that thou art just,
Take me and mine together!
_266._ _To Anthea, who may command him Anything_
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
And’t shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see:
And, having none, yet will I keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I’ll despair
Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E’en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me:
And hast command of every part
To live and die for thee.
_267._ _To the Willow-tree_
Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left of love, are crown’d.
When once the lover’s rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorn:
Then willow-garlands ’bout the head
Bedew’d with tears are worn.
When with neglect, the lovers’ bane,
Poor maids rewarded be
For their love lost, their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth and love-sick maid
Come to weep out the night.
_268._ _The Mad Maid’s Song_
Good-morrow to the day so fair,
Good-morning, sir, to you;
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this primrose too,
Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.
I’ll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I’ll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they’ve made his grave
I’ th’ bed of strawberries.
I’ll seek him there; I know ere this
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He’s soft and tender (pray take heed);
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home--but ’tis decreed
That I shall never find him!
_269._ _Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love_
What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
Of saints?
In endless mirth
She thinks not on
What’s said or done
In Earth.
She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears:
Nor does she mind
Or think on’t now
That ever thou
Wast kind;
But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.
Forbear therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
No more.
_270._ _To Meadows_
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been fill’d with flowers,
And ye the walks have been
Where maids have spent their hours.
You have beheld how they
With wicker arks did come
To kiss and bear away
The richer cowslips home.
You’ve heard them sweetly sing,
And seen them in a round:
Each virgin like a spring,
With honeysuckles crown’d.
But now we see none here
Whose silv’ry feet did tread
And with dishevell’d hair
Adorn’d this smoother mead.
Like unthrifts, having spent
Your stock and needy grown,
You’re left here to lament
Your poor estates, alone.
_271._ _A Child’s Grace_
Here a little child I stand
Heaving up my either hand;
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to Thee,
For a benison to fall
On our meat and on us all. Amen.
_271._ paddocks] frogs.
_272._ _Epitaph_
_upon a Child that died_
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.
_273._ _Another_
Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies:
Pray be silent and not stir
Th’ easy earth that covers her.
_274._ _His Winding-sheet_
Come thou, who art the wine and wit
Of all I’ve writ:
The grace, the glory, and the best
Piece of the rest.
Thou art of what I did intend
The all and end;
And what was made, was made to meet
Thee, thee, my sheet.
Come then and be to my chaste side
Both bed and bride:
We two, as reliques left, will have
One rest, one grave:
And hugging close, we will not fear
Lust entering here:
Where all desires are dead and cold
As is the mould;
And all affections are forgot,
Or trouble not.
Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be
From shackles free:
And weeping widows long oppress’d
Do here find rest.
The wrongèd client ends his laws
Here, and his cause.
Here those long suits of Chancery lie
Quiet, or die:
And all Star-Chamber bills do cease
Or hold their peace.
Here needs no Court for our Request
Where all are best,
All wise, all equal, and all just
Alike i’ th’ dust.
Nor need we here to fear the frown
Of court or crown:
Where fortune bears no sway o’er things,
There all are kings.
In this securer place we’ll keep
As lull’d asleep;
Or for a little time we’ll lie
As robes laid by;
To be another day re-worn,
Turn’d, but not torn:
Or like old testaments engross’d,
Lock’d up, not lost.
And for a while lie here conceal’d,
To be reveal’d
Next at the great Platonick year,
And then meet here.
_274._ Platonick year] the perfect or cyclic year, when the sun,
moon, and five planets end their revolutions together and start
anew. See _Timæus_, p. 39.
_275._ _Litany to the Holy Spirit_
In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown’d in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing bell doth toll,
And the Furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest his last hath pray’d,
And I nod to what is said,
’Cause my speech is now decay’d,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When, God knows, I’m toss’d about
Either with despair or doubt;
Yet before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tempter me pursu’th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the Judgment is reveal’d,
And that open’d which was seal’d,
When to Thee I have appeal’d,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
FRANCIS QUARLES
1592-1644
_276._ _A Divine Rapture_
E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having ranged and search’d a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
Where in a greater current they conjoin:
So I my Best-belovèd’s am; so He is mine.
E’en so we met; and after long pursuit,
E’en so we joined; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a suit,
For I was flax, and He was flames of fire:
Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
So I my Best-belovèd’s am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs, that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender in exchange their shares of land,
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world’s but theirs; but my Belovèd’s mine.
_277._ _Epigram_
_Respice Finem_
My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;
Judge not the play before the play is done:
Her plot hath many changes; every day
Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.
HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER
1592-1669
_278._ _A Contemplation upon Flowers_
Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you,
And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud: you know your birth:
For your embroider’d garments are from earth.
You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring:
My fate would know no Winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!
O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.
_279._ _A Renunciation_
We, that did nothing study but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us and with them set,
Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.
We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live
Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must,
As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.
Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly heats; witness that breast
Which in thy bosom anchor’d his whole rest--
’Tis no default in us: I dare acquite
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envý
Us to each other, and Heaven did untie
Faster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars,
When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars!
Since then some higher Destinies command,
Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand
What is past help. The longest date of grief
Can never yield a hope of our relief:
Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves,
That must new fortunes try, like turtle-doves
Dislodgèd from their haunts. We must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.
In this last kiss I here surrender thee
Back to thyself.--So, thou again art free:
Thou in another, sad as that, resend
The truest heart that lover e’er did lend.
Now turn from each: so fare our sever’d hearts
As the divorced soul from her body parts.
_280._ _Exequy on his Wife_
Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,
Instead of dirges this complaint;
And for sweet flowers to crown thy herse
Receive a strew of weeping verse
From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see
Quite melted into tears for thee.
Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
My task hath been to meditate
On thee, on thee! Thou art the book,
The library whereon I look,
Tho’ almost blind. For thee, loved clay,
I languish out, not live, the day....
Thou hast benighted me; thy set
This eve of blackness did beget,
Who wast my day (tho’ overcast
Before thou hadst thy noontide past):
And I remember must in tears
Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
As day tells hours. By thy clear sun
My love and fortune first did run;
But thou wilt never more appear
Folded within my hemisphere,
Since both thy light and motion,
Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone,
And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish
The earth now interposèd is....
I could allow thee for a time
To darken me and my sad clime;
Were it a month, a year, or ten,
I would thy exile live till then,
And all that space my mirth adjourn--
So thou wouldst promise to return,
And putting off thy ashy shroud
At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud.
But woe is me! the longest date
Too narrow is to calculate
These empty hopes: never shall I
Be so much blest as to descry
A glimpse of thee, till that day come
Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
And a fierce fever must calcine
The body of this world--like thine,
My little world! That fit of fire
Once off, our bodies shall aspire
To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise
And view ourselves with clearer eyes
In that calm region where no night
Can hide us from each other’s sight.
Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good
May my harm do thee! Since it stood
With Heaven’s will I might not call
Her longer mine, I give thee all
My short-lived right and interest
In her whom living I loved best.
Be kind to her, and prithee look
Thou write into thy Doomsday book
Each parcel of this rarity
Which in thy casket shrined doth lie,
As thou wilt answer Him that lent--
Not gave--thee my dear monument.
So close the ground, and ’bout her shade
Black curtains draw: my bride is laid.
Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!
My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree
And every hour a step towards thee....
’Tis true--with shame and grief I yield--
Thou, like the van, first took’st the field;
And gotten hast the victory
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe’er my marches be
I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear--forgive
The crime--I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet and never part.
GEORGE HERBERT
1593-1632
_281._ _Virtue_
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
The bridal of the earth and sky--
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
_282._ _Easter_
I got me flowers to straw Thy way,
I got me boughs off many a tree;
But Thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.
Yet though my flowers be lost, they say
A heart can never come too late;
Teach it to sing Thy praise this day.
And then this day my life shall date.
_283._ _Discipline_
Throw away Thy rod,
Throw away Thy wrath;
O my God,
Take the gentle path!
For my heart’s desire
Unto Thine is bent:
I aspire
To a full consent.
Not a word or look
I affect to own,
But by book,
And Thy Book alone.
Though I fail, I weep;
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep
To the throne of grace.
Then let wrath remove;
Love will do the deed:
For with love
Stony hearts will bleed.
Love is swift of foot;
Love’s a man of war,
And can shoot,
And can hit from far.
Who can ’scape his bow?
That which wrought on Thee,
Brought Thee low,
Needs must work on me.
Throw away Thy rod;
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God:
Throw away Thy wrath!
_284._ _A Dialogue_
_Man._ Sweetest Saviour, if my soul
Were but worth the having,
Quickly should I then control
Any thought of waving.
But when all my care and pains
Cannot give the name of gains
To Thy wretch so full of stains,
What delight or hope remains?
_Saviour._ What, child, is the balance thine,
Thine the poise and measure?
If I say, ‘Thou shalt be Mine,’
Finger not My treasure.
What the gains in having thee
Do amount to, only He
Who for man was sold can see
That transferr’d th’ accounts to Me.
_Man._ But as I can see no merit
Leading to this favour,
So the way to fit me for it
Is beyond my savour.
As the reason, then, is Thine,
So the way is none of mine;
I disclaim the whole design;
Sin disclaims and I resign.
_Saviour._ That is all: if that I could
Get without repining;
And My clay, My creature, would
Follow My resigning;
savour] savoir, knowing.
That as I did freely part
With My glory and desert,
Left all joys to feel all smart----
_Man._ Ah, no more! Thou break’st my heart!
_285._ _The Pulley_
When God at first made Man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by--
Let us (said He) pour on him all we can;
Let the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie,
Contract into a span.
So strength first made a way,
Then beauty flow’d, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.
For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.
Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.
_286._ _Love_
Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.
‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’
‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.
JAMES SHIRLEY
1596-1666
_287._ _A Hymn_
Fly, my Soul! What hangs upon
Thy drooping wings,
And weighs them down
With love of gaudy mortal things?
The Sun is now i’ the east: each shade
As he doth rise
Is shorter made,
That earth may lessen to our eyes.
O be not careless then and play
Until the Star of Peace
Hide all his beams in dark recess!
Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way,
When all the shadows do increase.
_288._ _Death the Leveller_
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
THOMAS CAREW
1595?-1639?
_289._ _Song_
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty’s orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars ’light
That downwards fall in dead of night
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixèd become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The Phœnix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
_290._ _Persuasions to Joy: a Song_
If the quick spirits in your eye
Now languish and anon must die;
If every sweet and every grace
Must fly from that forsaken face;
Then, Celia, let us reap our joys
Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys.
Or if that golden fleece must grow.
For ever free from agèd snow;
If those bright suns must know no shade,
Nor your fresh beauties ever fade;
Then fear not, Celia, to bestow
What, still being gather’d, still must grow.
Thus either Time his sickle brings
In vain, or else in vain his wings.
_291._ _To His Inconstant Mistress_
When thou, poor Excommunicate
From all the joys of Love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy!
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart which thy false oaths did wound;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crown’d.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then: for thou shalt be
Damn’d for thy false apostasy.
_292._ _The Unfading Beauty_
He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
_293._ _Ingrateful Beauty threatened_
Know, Celia, since thou art so proud,
’Twas I that gave thee thy renown.
Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd
Of common beauties lived unknown,
Had not my verse extoll’d thy name,
And with it imp’d the wings of Fame.
That killing power is none of thine;
I gave it to thy voice and eyes;
Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;
Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;
Then dart not from thy borrow’d sphere
Lightning on him that fix’d thee there.
_293._ imp’d] grafted with new feathers.
Tempt me with such affrights no more,
Lest what I made I uncreate;
Let fools thy mystic form adore,
I know thee in thy mortal state.
Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales,
Knew her themselves through all her veils.
_294._ _Epitaph_
_On the Lady Mary Villiers_
The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone; with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear;
Or if thyself possess a gem
As dear to thee, as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs thine own hard case:
For thou perhaps at thy return
May’st find thy Darling in an urn.
_295._ _Another_
This little vault, this narrow room,
Of Love and Beauty is the tomb;
The dawning beam, that ’gan to clear
Our clouded sky, lies darkened here,
For ever set to us: by Death
Sent to enflame the World Beneath,
’Twas but a bud, yet did contain
More sweetness than shall spring again;
A budding Star, that might have grown
Into a Sun when it had blown.
This hopeful Beauty did create
New life in Love’s declining state;
But now his empire ends, and we
From fire and wounding darts are free;
His brand, his bow, let no man fear:
The flames, the arrows, all lie here.
JASPER MAYNE
1604-1672
_296._ _Time_
Time is the feather’d thing,
And, whilst I praise
The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays,
Takes wing,
Leaving behind him as he flies
An unperceivèd dimness in thine eyes.
His minutes, whilst they’re told,
Do make us old;
And every sand of his fleet glass,
Increasing age as it doth pass,
Insensibly sows wrinkles there
Where flowers and roses do appear.
Whilst we do speak, our fire
Doth into ice expire,
Flames turn to frost;
And ere we can
Know how our crow turns swan,
Or how a silver snow
Springs there where jet did grow,
Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.
Since then the Night hath hurl’d
Darkness, Love’s shade,
Over its enemy the Day, and made
The world
Just such a blind and shapeless thing
As ’twas before light did from darkness spring,
Let us employ its treasure
And make shade pleasure:
Let’s number out the hours by blisses,
And count the minutes by our kisses;
Let the heavens new motions feel
And by our embraces wheel;
And whilst we try the way
By which Love doth convey
Soul unto soul,
And mingling so
Makes them such raptures know
As makes them entrancèd lie
In mutual ecstasy,
Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!
WILLIAM HABINGTON
1605-1654
_297._ _To Roses in the Bosom of Castara_
Ye blushing virgins happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts--
For he’d profane so chaste a fair,
Whoe’er should call them Cupid’s nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
Are sweeter than i’ th’ open field.
In those white cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath!--
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
Whose breast hath marble been to me.
_298._ _Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam_
When I survey the bright
Celestial sphere;
So rich with jewels hung, that Night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear:
My soul her wings doth spread
And heavenward flies,
Th’ Almighty’s mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.
For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame
So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator’s name.
No unregarded star
Contracts its light
Into so small a character,
Removed far from our human sight,
But if we steadfast look
We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,
How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
It tells the conqueror
That far-stretch’d power,
Which his proud dangers traffic for,
Is but the triumph of an hour:
That from the farthest North,
Some nation may,
Yet undiscover’d, issue forth,
And o’er his new-got conquest sway:
Some nation yet shut in
With hills of ice
May be let out to scourge his sin,
Till they shall equal him in vice.
And then they likewise shall
Their ruin have;
For as yourselves your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.
Thus those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,
The fallacy of our desires
And all the pride of life confute:--
For they have watch’d since first
The World had birth:
And found sin in itself accurst,
And nothing permanent on Earth.
THOMAS RANDOLPH
1605-1635
_299._ _A Devout Lover_
I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
And wheresoever my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers:
I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
_300._ _An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford_
_to hasten Him into the Country_
Come, spur away,
I have no patience for a longer stay,
But must go down
And leave the chargeable noise of this great town:
I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,
Though hid in gray,
Doth look more gay
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.
Farewell, you city wits, that are
Almost at civil war--
’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.
More of my days
I will not spend to gain an idiot’s praise;
Or to make sport
For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.
Then, worthy Stafford, say,
How shall we spend the day?
With what delights
Shorten the nights?
When from this tumult we are got secure,
Where mirth with all her freedom goes,
Yet shall no finger lose;
Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?
There from the tree
We’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;
And every day
Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace
Than any painted face
That I do know
Hyde Park can show:
Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet
(Though some of them in greater state
Might court my love with plate)
The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.
But think upon
Some other pleasures: these to me are none.
Why do I prate
Of women, that are things against my fate!
I never mean to wed
That torture to my bed:
My Muse is she
My love shall be.
Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone
And that great bugbear, grisly Death,
Shall take this idle breath,
If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.
Of this no more!
We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store.
No fruit shall ’scape
Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
Then, full, we’ll seek a shade,
And hear what music’s made;
How Philomel
Her tale doth tell,
And how the other birds do fill the quire;
The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
Warbling melodious notes;
We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.
Ours is the sky,
Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:
Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;
But let our hounds run loose
In any ground they’ll choose;
The buck shall fall,
The stag, and all.
Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
For to my Muse, if not to me,
I’m sure all game is free:
Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.
And when we mean
To taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then,
And drink by stealth
A cup or two to noble Barkley’s health,
I’ll take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody;
Which he that hears,
Lets through his ears
A madness to distemper all the brain:
Then I another pipe will take
And Doric music make,
To civilize with graver notes our wits again.
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT
1606-1668
_301._ _Aubade_
The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings.
He takes this window for the East,
And to implore your light he sings--
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are
Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!
_302._ _To a Mistress Dying_
_Lover._ Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh
As eastern summers are,
Must now, forsaking time and flesh,
Add light to some small star.
_Philosopher._ Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay’d,
Their light by hers relief might find;
But Death will lead her to a shade
Where Love is cold and Beauty blind.
_Lover._ Lovers, whose priests all poets are,
Think every mistress, when she dies,
Is changed at least into a star:
And who dares doubt the poets wise?
_Philosopher._ But ask not bodies doom’d to die
To what abode they go;
Since Knowledge is but Sorrow’s spy,
It is not safe to know.
_303._ _Praise and Prayer_
Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds,
The diff’ring world’s agreeing sacrifice;
Where Heaven divided faiths united finds:
But Prayer in various discord upward flies.
For Prayer the ocean is where diversely
Men steer their course, each to a sev’ral coast;
Where all our interests so discordant be
That half beg winds by which the rest are lost.
By Penitence when we ourselves forsake,
’Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven;
In Praise we nobly give what God may take,
And are, without a beggar’s blush, forgiven.
EDMUND WALLER
1606-1687
_304._ _On a Girdle_
That which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind;
No monarch but would give his crown
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.
A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair!
Give me but what this ribband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round!
_305._ _Go, lovely Rose_
Go, lovely Rose--
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that’s young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die--that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
_306._ _Old Age_
The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er;
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d,
Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
JOHN MILTON
1608-1674
_307._ _Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity_
It was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav’n-born-childe,
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in aw to him
Had doff’t her gawdy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.
Only with speeches fair
She woo’s the gentle Air
To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow,
And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinfull blame,
The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw,
Confounded, that her Makers eyes
Should look so neer upon her foul deformities.
But he her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-eyd Peace,
She crown’d with Olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphear
His ready Harbinger,
With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing,
And waving wide her mirtle wand,
She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.
No War, or Battails sound
Was heard the World around,
The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
The hookèd Chariot stood
Unstain’d with hostile blood,
The Trumpet spake not to the armèd throng,
And Kings sate still with awfull eye,
As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
But peacefull was the night
Wherin the Prince of light
His raign of peace upon the earth began:
The Windes with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.
The Stars with deep amaze
Stand fixt in stedfast gaze,
Bending one way their pretious influence,
And will not take their flight,
For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence;
But in their glimmering Orbs did glow,
Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloom
Had given day her room,
The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed,
And hid his head for shame,
As his inferiour flame,
The new enlightn’d world no more should need;
He saw a greater Sun appear
Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.
The Shepherds on the Lawn,
Or ere the point of dawn,
Sate simply chatting in a rustick row;
Full little thought they than,
That the mighty Pan
Was kindly com to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.
When such musick sweet
Their hearts and ears did greet,
As never was by mortall finger strook,
Divinely-warbled voice
Answering the stringèd noise,
As all their souls in blisfull rapture took
The Air such pleasure loth to lose,
With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close.
Nature that heard such sound
Beneath the hollow round
Of Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling,
Now was almost won
To think her part was don,
And that her raign had here its last fulfilling;
She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight
A Globe of circular light,
That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d,
The helmèd Cherubim
And sworded Seraphim,
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid,
Harping in loud and solemn quire,
With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir.
Such musick (as ’tis said)
Before was never made,
But when of old the sons of morning sung,
While the Creator Great
His constellations set,
And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung,
And cast the dark foundations deep,
And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out ye Crystall sphears,
Once bless our human ears,
(If ye have power to touch our senses so)
And let your silver chime
Move in melodious time;
And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blow
And with your ninefold harmony
Make up full consort to th’Angelike symphony.
For if such holy Song
Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold,
And speckl’d vanity
Will sicken soon and die,
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould,
And Hell it self will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea Truth, and Justice then
Will down return to men,
Th’enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing,
And Mercy set between,
Thron’d in Celestiall sheen,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing,
And Heav’n as at som festivall,
Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall.
But wisest Fate sayes no,
This must not yet be so,
The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy,
That on the bitter cross
Must redeem our loss;
So both himself and us to glorifie:
Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep,
The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
With such a horrid clang
As on mount Sinai rang
While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake:
The agèd Earth agast
With terrour of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the center shake;
When at the worlds last session,
The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our bliss
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day
Th’old Dragon under ground
In straiter limits bound,
Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,
And wrath to see his Kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.
The Oracles are dumm,
No voice or hideous humm
Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,
Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o’re,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
From haunted spring, and dale
Edg’d with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent,
With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn
The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated Earth,
And on the holy Hearth,
The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint,
In Urns, and Altars round,
A drear, and dying sound
Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint;
And the chill Marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
Peor, and Baalim,
Forsake their Temples dim,
With that twise-batter’d god of Palestine,
And moonèd Ashtaroth,
Heav’ns Queen and Mother both,
Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine,
The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn,
In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch fled,
Hath left in shadows dred,
His burning Idol all of blackest hue,
In vain with Cymbals ring,
They call the grisly king,
In dismall dance about the furnace blue;
The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.
Nor is Osiris seen
In Memphian Grove, or Green,
Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse with lowings loud:
Nor can he be at rest
Within his sacred chest,
Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud,
In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems dark
The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark.
He feels from Juda’s Land
The dredded Infants hand,
The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
Nor all the gods beside,
Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our Babe to shew his Godhead true,
Can in his swadling bands controul the damnèd crew,
So when the Sun in bed,
Curtain’d with cloudy red,
Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale,
Troop to th’infernall jail,
Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fayes,
Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze.
But see the Virgin blest,
Hath laid her Babe to rest.
Time is our tedious Song should here have ending,
Heav’ns youngest teemèd Star,
Hath fixt her polisht Car,
Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending:
And all about the Courtly Stable,
Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.
_308._ _On Time_
Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t’whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
_309._ _At a Solemn Musick_
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais’d phantasie present,
That undisturbèd Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion’d sin
Jarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’d
In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that Song,
And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.
_310._ _L’Allegro_
Hence loathèd Melancholy
Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
’Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.
Find out som uncouth cell,
Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddes fair and free,
In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the Cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft listening how the Hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of som Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Wher the great Sun begins his state,
Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Boosom’d high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two agèd Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,
Som times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail,
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stones told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht, and pull’d she sed,
And he by Friars Lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,
And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.
Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.
Towred Cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony.
That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
Such streins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain’d Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.
_311._ _Il Penseroso_
Hence vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,
Hail divinest Melancholy,
Whose Saintly visage is too bright
To hit the Sense of human sight;
And therfore to our weaker view,
Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.
Black, but such as in esteem,
Prince Memnons sister might beseem,
Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that strove
To set her beauties praise above
The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended,
Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturns raign,
Such mixture was not held a stain)
Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,
Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestick train,
And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Com, but keep thy wonted state,
With eev’n step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thy self to Marble, till
With a sad Leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,
Ay round about Joves Altar sing.
And adde to these retirèd Leasure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hist along,
’Less Philomel will daign a Song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,
Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;
Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!
Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,
I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green,
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray
Through the Heav’ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head she bow’d,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu sound
Over som wide-water’d shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removèd place will fit.
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belmans drousie charm,
To bless the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in som high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those Dæmons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With Planet, or with Element.
Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by,
Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæeus from his bower
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought els, great Bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;
Of Forests, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant then meets the ear.
Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appeer,
Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont,
With the Attick Boy to hunt,
But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
Or usher’d with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the russling Leaves,
With minute drops from off the Eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddes bring
To archèd walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.
There in close covert by som Brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day’s garish eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth sing,
And the Waters murmuring
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;
And let som strange mysterious dream,
Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,
Of lively portrature display’d,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.
And as I wake, sweet musick breath
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by som spirit to mortals good,
Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious Cloysters pale,
And love the high embowèd Roof,
With antick Pillars massy proof,
And storied Windows richly dight,
Casting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full voic’d Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems cleer,
As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into extasies,
And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every Star that Heav’n doth shew,
And every Herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To somthing like Prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
_312._ _From ‘Arcades’_
O’re the smooth enameld green
Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me as I sing,
And touch the warbled string.
Under the shady roof
Of branching Elm Star-proof,
Follow me,
I will bring you where she sits
Clad in splendor as befits
Her deity.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.
_From ‘Comus’_
_313._ _i_
The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsie dance, and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gon to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in slumber ly.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with sleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love....
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round.
_314._ _ii_
ECHO
Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander’s margent green,
And in the violet imbroider’d vale
Where the love-lorn Nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O if thou have
Hid them in som flowry Cave,
Tell me but where
Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear!
So maist thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heav’ns Harmonies?
_315. iii_
SABRINA
_The Spirit sings:_
Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour’s sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!
Listen and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus,
By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,
And Tethys grave majestick pace,
By hoary Nereus wrincled look,
And the Carpathian wisards hook,
By scaly Tritons winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,
By Leucothea’s lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis tinsel-slipper’d feet,
And the Songs of Sirens sweet,
By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,
And fair Ligea’s golden comb,
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks,
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head
From thy coral-pav’n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save!
_Sabrina replies:_
By the rushy-fringèd bank,
Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,
My sliding Chariot stayes,
Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen
Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green
That in the channell strayes,
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O’re the Cowslips Velvet head,
That bends not as I tread,
Gentle swain at thy request
I am here.
_316._ _iv_
_The Spirit epiloguizes:_
To the Ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that ly
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid ayr
All amidst the Gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crispèd shades and bowres
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,
The Graces, and the rosie-boosom’d Howres,
Thither all their bounties bring,
That there eternal Summer dwels,
And West winds, with musky wing
About the cedar’n alleys fling
Nard, and Cassia’s balmy smels.
Iris there with humid bow,
Waters the odorous banks that blow
Flowers of more mingled hew
Than her purfl’d scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of Hyacinth, and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th’ Assyrian Queen;
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid her fam’d son advanc’t,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc’t
After her wandring labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal Bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly don,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earths end,
Where the bow’d welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the Moon.
Mortals that would follow me,
Love vertue, she alone is free.
She can teach ye how to clime
Higher then the Spheary chime;
Or if Vertue feeble were,
Heav’n it self would stoop to her.
_317._ _Lycidas_
_A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish
Seas, 1637_
Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc’d fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of som melodious tear.
Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may som gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin’d Urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd.
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’d
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, bright
Toward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute;
Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel,
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damætas lov’d to hear our song
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When first the White thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep
Clos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye bin there--for what could that have don?
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
Whom Universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.
Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorrèd shears,
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
Phœbus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav’n expect thy meed.
O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour’d floud,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune’s plea,
He ask’d the Waves, and ask’d the Fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom’d this gentle swain?
And question’d every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beakèd Promontory,
They knew not of his story,
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d,
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d.
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
Built in th’eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.
Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake,
How well could I have spar’d for thee, young swain,
Anow of such as for their bellies sake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck’ning make,
Then how to scramble at the shearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the least
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf suck the honied showres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine.
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny’d,
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk’d the waves
Where other groves, and other streams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock’s he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,
While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,
He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the Western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew:
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.
_317._* _To the Lady Margaret Ley_
Daughter to that good Earl, once President
Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,
Who liv’d in both, unstain’d with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that Parlament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chæronèa, fatal to liberty
Kil’d with report that Old man eloquent,
Though later born, then to have known the dayes
Wherin your Father flourisht, yet by you
Madam, me thinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble vertues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, Honour’d Margaret.
_318._ _On His Blindness_
When I consider how my light is spent,
E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny’d,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.
_319._ _To Mr. Lawrence_
Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son,
Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help wast a sullen day; what may be won
From the hard Season gaining: time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire
The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow’d nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise
To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice
Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
_320._ _To Cyriack Skinner_
Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench
Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes,
Which others at their Barr so often wrench:
To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth, that after no repenting drawes;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.
To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
_321._ _On His Deceased Wife_
Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O as to embrace me she enclin’d
I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
_322._ _Light_
Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born,
Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam’d? since God is light,
And never but in unapproachèd light
Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream,
Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’d
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
With other notes then to th’ Orphean Lyre
I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,
Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend,
Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou
Revisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs,
Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt
Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee _Sion_ and the flowrie Brooks beneath
That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget
Those other two equal’d with me in Fate,
So were I equal’d with them in renown.
Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides,
And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old.
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year
Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men
Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair
Presented with a Universal blanc
Of Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d,
And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out.
So much the rather thou Celestial light
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
_From ‘Samson Agonistes’_
_323._ _i_
Oh how comely it is and how reviving
To the Spirits of just men long opprest!
When God into the hands of thir deliverer
Puts invincible might
To quell the mighty of the Earth, th’ oppressour,
The brute and boist’rous force of violent men
Hardy and industrious to support
Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue
The righteous and all such as honour Truth;
He all thir Ammunition
And feats of War defeats
With plain Heroic magnitude of mind
And celestial vigour arm’d,
Thir Armories and Magazins contemns,
Renders them useless, while
With wingèd expedition
Swift as the lightning glance he executes
His errand on the wicked, who surpris’d
Lose thir defence distracted and amaz’d.
_324._ _ii_
All is best, though we oft doubt,
What th’ unsearchable dispose
Of highest wisdom brings about,
And ever best found in the close.
Oft he seems to hide his face,
But unexpectedly returns
And to his faithful Champion hath in place
Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns
And all that band them to resist
His uncontroulable intent.
His servants he with new acquist
Of true experience from this great event
With peace and consolation hath dismist,
And calm of mind all passion spent.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING
1609-1642
_325._ _A Doubt of Martyrdom_
O for some honest lover’s ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress’ scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe’er they tell us here
To make those sufferings dear,
’Twill there, I fear, be found
That to the being crown’d
T’ have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise
And have our loves enjoy’d.
What posture can we think him in
That, here unloved, again
Departs, and ’s thither gone
Where each sits by his own?
Or how can that Elysium be
Where I my mistress still must see
Circled in other’s arms?
For there the judges all are just,
And Sophonisba must
Be his whom she held dear,
Not his who loved her here.
The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough
For difference crowns the brow
Of those kind souls that were
The noble martyrs here:
And if that be the only odds
(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,
Give me the woman here!
_326._ _The Constant Lover_
Out upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together!
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on ’t is, no praise
Is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,
And that very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.
_327._ _Why so Pale and Wan?_
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can’t win her,
Saying nothing do’t?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;
This cannot take her.
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!
_328._ _When, Dearest, I but think of Thee_
When, dearest, I but think of thee,
Methinks all things that lovely be
Are present, and my soul delighted:
For beauties that from worth arise
Are like the grace of deities,
Still present with us, tho’ unsighted.
Thus while I sit and sigh the day
With all his borrow’d lights away,
Till night’s black wings do overtake me,
Thinking on thee, thy beauties then,
As sudden lights do sleepy men,
So they by their bright rays awake me.
Thus absence dies, and dying proves
No absence can subsist with loves
That do partake of fair perfection:
Since in the darkest night they may
By love’s quick motion find a way
To see each other by reflection.
The waving sea can with each flood
Bathe some high promont that hath stood
Far from the main up in the river:
O think not then but love can do
As much! for that’s an ocean too,
Which flows not every day, but ever!
SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE
1608-1666
_329._ _A Rose_
Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,
Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;
For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves,
The sentence of thy early death contain.
Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,
If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;
And many Herods lie in wait each hour
To murder thee as soon as thou art born--
Nay, force thy bud to blow--their tyrant breath
Anticipating life, to hasten death!
WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT
1611-1643
_330._ _To Chloe_
_Who for his sake wished herself younger_
There are two births; the one when light
First strikes the new awaken’d sense;
The other when two souls unite,
And we must count our life from thence:
When you loved me and I loved you
Then both of us were born anew.
Love then to us new souls did give
And in those souls did plant new powers;
Since when another life we live,
The breath we breathe is his, not ours:
Love makes those young whom age doth chill,
And whom he finds young keeps young still.
_331._ _Falsehood_
Still do the stars impart their light
To those that travel in the night;
Still time runs on, nor doth the hand
Or shadow on the dial stand;
The streams still glide and constant are:
Only thy mind
Untrue I find,
Which carelessly
Neglects to be
Like stream or shadow, hand or star.
Fool that I am! I do recall
My words, and swear thou’rt like them all,
Thou seem’st like stars to nourish fire,
But O how cold is thy desire!
And like the hand upon the brass
Thou point’st at me
In mockery;
If I come nigh
Shade-like thou’lt fly,
And as the stream with murmur pass.
_332._ _On the Queen’s Return from the Low Countries_
Hallow the threshold, crown the posts anew!
The day shall have its due.
Twist all our victories into one bright wreath,
On which let honour breathe;
Then throw it round the temples of our Queen!
’Tis she that must preserve those glories green.
When greater tempests than on sea before
Received her on the shore;
When she was shot at ‘for the King’s own good’
By legions hired to blood;
How bravely did she do, how bravely bear!
And show’d, though they durst rage, she durst not fear.
Courage was cast about her like a dress
Of solemn comeliness:
A gathered mind and an untroubled face
Did give her dangers grace:
Thus, arm’d with innocence, secure they move
Whose highest ‘treason’ is but highest love.
_333._ _On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly_
She who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex,
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,
Accounted nothing death but t’ be reprieved,
And died as free from sickness as she lived.
Others are dragg’d away, or must be driven,
She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;
Where seraphims view all her glories o’er,
As one return’d that had been there before.
For while she did this lower world adorn,
Her body seem’d rather assumed than born;
So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole,
That body might have been another’s soul;
And equally a miracle it were
That she could die, or that she could live here.
JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE
1612-1650
_334._ _I’ll never love Thee more_
My dear and only Love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be govern’d by no other sway
Than purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part
(Which virtuous souls abhor),
And hold a synod in thine heart,
I’ll never love thee more.
Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.
And in the empire of thine heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part
Or dare to vie with me,
Or if _Committees_ thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.
But if thou wilt prove faithful then,
And constant of thy word,
I’ll make thee glorious by my pen
And famous by my sword;
I’ll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;
I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee more and more.
THOMAS JORDAN
1612?-1685
_335._ _Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant_
Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice!
The changeable world to our joy is unjust,
All treasure’s uncertain,
Then down with your dust!
In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence,
For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence.
We’ll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly,
Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy:
Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea,
Dame Venus, love’s lady,
Was born of the sea;
With her and with Bacchus we’ll tickle the sense,
For we shall be past it a hundred years hence.
Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown’d
And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground,
Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour
That none but the stars
Are thought fit to attend her,
Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense,
Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence.
Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears,
Turn all our tranquill’ty to sighs and to tears?
Let’s eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us,
’Tis certain, _Post mortem_
_Nulla voluptas_.
For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense,
Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence.
RICHARD CRASHAW
1613?-1649
_336._ _Wishes to His Supposed Mistress_
Whoe’er she be--
That not impossible She
That shall command my heart and me:
Where’er she lie,
Lock’d up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth:
Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call’d my absent kisses.
I wish her Beauty,
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie:
Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A Face, that’s best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone commend the rest.
A Face, made up
Out of no other shop
Than what Nature’s white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where youth
And blood, with pen of truth,
Write what the reader sweetly ru’th.
A Cheek, where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box his being owes.
Lips, where all day
A lover’s kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppress
Their richest tires, but dress
And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displace
The neighbour diamond, and outface
That sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that wear
Jewels but to declare
How much themselves more precious are:
Whose native ray
Can tame the wanton day
Of gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there,
Or pearl that dare appear,
Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed Heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes, that bestow
Full quivers on love’s bow,
Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles, that can warm
The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes, that bin
The burnish of no sin,
Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys, that confess
Virtue their mistress,
And have no other head to dress.
Fears, fond and slight
As the coy bride’s, when night
First does the longing lover right.
Days, that need borrow
No part of their good-morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they,
Made short by lovers’ play,
Yet long by th’ absence of the day.
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend!’
Sydneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Whate’er delight
Can make Day’s forehead bright,
Or give down to the wings of Night.
I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish--no more.
Now, if Time knows
That Her, whose radiant brows
Weave them a garland of my vows;
Her, whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her, that dares be
What these lines wish to see;
I seek no further, it is She.
’Tis She, and here,
Lo! I unclothe and clear
My Wishes’ cloudy character.
May she enjoy it
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modesty dares still deny it!
Such worth as this is
Shall fix my flying Wishes,
And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye;
Be ye my fictions--but her story.
_337._ _The Weeper_
Hail, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
Still spending, never spent; I mean
Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.
Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;
’Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow’st whose harvest dares
Promise the earth to countershine
Whatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine.
Every morn from hence
A brisk cherub something sips
Whose soft influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
Then to his music: and his song
Tastes of this breakfast all day long.
When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their bottles come,
And draw from these full eyes of thine
Their Master’s water, their own wine.
The dew no more will weep
The primrose’s pale cheek to deck;
The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily’s neck:
Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.
When sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty,
--For she is a Queen--
Then is she drest by none but thee:
Then and only then she wears
Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears.
Not in the evening’s eyes,
When they red with weeping are
For the Sun that dies,
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
Nowhere but here did ever meet
Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.
Does the night arise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
Does night lose her eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
Let day and night do what they will,
Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.
Not _So long she lived_
Will thy tomb report of thee;
But _So long she grieved_:
Thus must we date thy memory.
Others by days, by months, by years,
Measure their ages, thou by tears.
Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
Your fruitful mothers,
What make you here? What hopes can ’tice
You to be born? What cause can borrow
You from those nests of noble sorrow?
Whither away so fast
For sure the sordid earth
Your sweetness cannot taste,
Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,
Why you trip so fast away?
_We go not to seek_
_The darlings of Aurora’s bed,_
_The rose’s modest cheek,_
_Nor the violet’s humble head._
_No such thing: we go to meet_
_A worthier object--our Lord’s feet._
_338._ _A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa_
Love, thou art absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,
We’ll now appeal to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown:
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud, unto the face of death,
Their great Lord’s glorious name; to none
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:
We’ll see Him take a private seat,
And make His mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.
Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know
What death with love should have to do.
Nor has she e’er yet understood
Why, to show love, she should shed blood;
Yet, though she cannot tell you why,
She can love, and she can die.
Scarce has she blood enough to make
A guilty sword blush for her sake;
Yet has a heart dares hope to prove
How much less strong is death than love....
Since ’tis not to be had at home,
She’ll travel for a martyrdom.
No home for her, confesses she,
But where she may a martyr be.
She’ll to the Moors, and trade with them
For this unvalued diadem;
She offers them her dearest breath,
With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death:
She’ll bargain with them, and will give
Them God, and teach them how to live
In Him; or, if they this deny,
For Him she’ll teach them how to die.
So shall she leave amongst them sown
Her Lord’s blood, or at least her own.
Farewell then, all the world, adieu!
Teresa is no more for you.
Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys,
Never till now esteemèd toys!
Farewell whatever dear may be--
Mother’s arms, or father’s knee!
Farewell house, and farewell home!
She’s for the Moors and Martyrdom.
Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse,
Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows,
Calls thee back, and bids thee come
T’ embrace a milder martyrdom....
O how oft shalt thou complain
Of a sweet and subtle pain!
Of intolerable joys!
Of a death, in which who dies
Loves his death, and dies again,
And would for ever so be slain;
And lives and dies, and knows not why
To live, but that he still may die!
How kindly will thy gentle heart
Kiss the sweetly-killing dart!
And close in his embraces keep
Those delicious wounds, that weep
Balsam, to heal themselves with thus,
When these thy deaths, so numerous,
Shall all at once die into one,
And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion;
Like a soft lump of incense, hasted
By too hot a fire, and wasted
Into perfuming clouds, so fast
Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last
In a resolving sigh, and then,--
O what? Ask not the tongues of men.
Angels cannot tell; suffice,
Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys,
And hold them fast for ever there.
So soon as thou shalt first appear,
The moon of maiden stars, thy white
Mistress, attended by such bright
Souls as thy shining self, shall come,
And in her first ranks make thee room;
Where, ’mongst her snowy family,
Immortal welcomes wait for thee.
O what delight, when she shall stand
And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand,
On which thou now may’st to thy wishes
Heap up thy consecrated kisses!
What joy shall seize thy soul, when she,
Bending her blessèd eyes on thee,
Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart
Her mild rays through thy melting heart!
Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee.
Glad at their own home now to meet thee.
All thy good works which went before,
And waited for thee at the door,
Shall own thee there; and all in one
Weave a constellation
Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse,
Shall build up thy triumphant brows.
All thy old woes shall now smile on thee,
And thy pains sit bright upon thee:
All thy sorrows here shall shine,
And thy sufferings be divine.
Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems,
And wrongs repent to diadems.
Even thy deaths shall live, and new
Dress the soul which late they slew.
Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars
As keep account of the Lamb’s wars.
Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ
Love’s noble history, with wit
Taught thee by none but Him, while here
They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there.
Each heavenly word by whose hid flame
Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same
Shall flourish on thy brows, and be
Both fire to us and flame to thee;
Whose light shall live bright in thy face
By glory, in our hearts by grace.
Thou shalt look round about, and see
Thousands of crown’d souls throng to be
Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows,
The virgin-births with which thy spouse
Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now,
And with them all about thee bow
To Him; put on, He’ll say, put on,
My rosy Love, that thy rich zone,
Sparkling with the sacred flames
Of thousand souls, whose happy names
Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright
Life brought them first to kiss the light
That kindled them to stars; and so
Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go.
And, wheresoever He sets His white
Steps, walk with Him those ways of light,
Which who in death would live to see,
Must learn in life to die like thee.
_339._ _Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa_
O thou undaunted daughter of desires!
By all thy dower of lights and fires;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;
By thy large draughts of intellectual day,
And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;
By all thy brim-fill’d bowls of fierce desire,
By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire;
By the full kingdom of that final kiss
That seized thy parting soul, and seal’d thee His;
By all the Heav’n thou hast in Him
(Fair sister of the seraphim!);
By all of Him we have in thee;
Leave nothing of myself in me.
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may die!
_340._ _Verses from the Shepherds’ Hymn_
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Young dawn of our eternal day;
We saw Thine eyes break from the East,
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow--
A cold and not too cleanly manger?
Contend, the powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.
Proud world, said I, cease your contest,
And let the mighty babe alone;
The phœnix builds the phœnix’ nest,
Love’s architecture is His own.
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.
I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow,
To furnish the fair infant’s bed.
Forbear, said I, be not too bold;
Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.
I saw th’ obsequious seraphim
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,
For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below.
Well done, said I; but are you sure
Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?
No, no, your King’s not yet to seek
Where to repose His royal head;
See, see how soon His new-bloom’d cheek
’Twixt mother’s breasts is gone to bed!
Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow
She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,
That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She ’gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.
Welcome--tho’ not to those gay flies,
Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes--
But to poor shepherds, homespun things,
Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit’s to be
Well read in their simplicity.
Yet, when young April’s husband show’rs
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers,
To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves!
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves!
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
_341._ _Christ Crucified_
Thy restless feet now cannot go
For us and our eternal good,
As they were ever wont. What though
They swim, alas! in their own flood?
Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift,
Yet will Thy hand still giving be;
It gives, but O, itself’s the gift!
It gives tho’ bound, tho’ bound ’tis free!
_342._ _An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife_
_Who died and were buried together._
To these whom death again did wed
This grave’s the second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force
’Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep.
They, sweet turtles, folded lie
In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till the stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light
Whose day shall never die in night.
RICHARD LOVELACE
1618-1658
_343._ _To Lucasta, going to the Wars_
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.
_344._ _To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas_
If to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone
You or I were alone;
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.
But I’ll not sigh one blast or gale
To swell my sail,
Or pay a tear to ’suage
The foaming blue god’s rage;
For whether he will let me pass
Or no, I’m still as happy as I was.
Though seas and land betwixt us both,
Our faith and troth,
Like separated souls,
All time and space controls:
Above the highest sphere we meet
Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
So then we do anticipate
Our after-fate,
And are alive i’ the skies,
If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfined
In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
_345._ _Gratiana Dancing_
She beat the happy pavèment--
By such a star made firmament,
Which now no more the roof envìes!
But swells up high, with Atlas even,
Bearing the brighter nobler heaven,
And, in her, all the deities.
Each step trod out a Lover’s thought,
And the ambitious hopes he brought
Chain’d to her brave feet with such arts,
Such sweet command and gentle awe,
As, when she ceased, we sighing saw
The floor lay paved with broken hearts.
_346._ _To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair_
Amarantha sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly!
Let it fly as unconfined
As its calm ravisher the wind,
Who hath left his darling, th’ East,
To wanton o’er that spicy nest.
Every tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravellèd.
Do not then wind up that light
In ribbands, and o’ercloud in night,
Like the Sun in’s early ray;
But shake your head, and scatter day!
_347._ _The Grasshopper_
O thou that swing’st upon the waving hair
Of some well-fillèd oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear’d!
The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.
Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom’st then,
Sport’st in the gilt plaits of his beams,
And all these merry days mak’st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.
_348._ _To Althea, from Prison_
When Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter’d to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free--
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.
ABRAHAM COWLEY
1618-1667
_Anacreontics_
_349._ _1. Drinking_
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill’d that they o’erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By ’s drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in Nature’s sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high.
Fill all the glasses there--for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
_350._ _2. The Epicure_
Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o’erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself on me shall wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower?--
Nobler wines why do we pour?--
Beauteous flowers why do we spread
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses while I live,
Now your wines and ointments give:
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have:
All are Stoics in the grave.
_351._ _3. The Swallow_
Foolish prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do?
Cruel bird, thou’st ta’en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne’er must equall’d be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair
Nothing half so sweet and fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Tho’ men say thou bring’st the Spring.
_352._ _On the Death of Mr. William Hervey_
It was a dismal and a fearful night:
Scarce could the Morn drive on th’ unwilling Light,
When Sleep, Death’s image, left my troubled breast
By something liker Death possest.
My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
And on my soul hung the dull weight
Of some intolerable fate.
What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know!
My sweet companion and my gentle peer,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever and my life to moan?
O, thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death’s agony
Besieged around thy noble heart,
Did not with more reluctance part
Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee.
My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee!
Life and this world henceforth will tedious be:
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do
If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,
As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! my treasure’s gone; why do I stay?
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights,
Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love,
Wonder’d at us from above!
We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
But search of deep Philosophy,
Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry--
Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine.
Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a tree about which did not know
The love betwixt us two?
Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;
Or your sad branches thicker join
And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid!
Large was his soul: as large a soul as e’er
Submitted to inform a body here;
High as the place ’twas shortly in Heaven to have,
But low and humble as his grave.
So high that all the virtues there did come,
As to their chiefest seat
Conspicuous and great;
So low, that for me too it made a room.
Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
In such a short mortality.
Whene’er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
Still did the notions throng
About his eloquent tongue;
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget;
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retired, and gave to them their due.
For the rich help of books he always took,
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o’er,
As if wise Nature had made that her book.
With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always lived, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,
Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
Like the Sun’s laborious light,
Which still in water sets at night,
Unsullied with his journey of the day.
But happy Thou, ta’en from this frantic age,
Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!
A fitter time for Heaven no soul e’er chose--
The place now only free from those.
There ’mong the blest thou dost for ever shine;
And wheresoe’er thou casts thy view
Upon that white and radiant crew,
See’st not a soul clothed with more light than thine.
_353._ _The Wish_
Well then! I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd and buzz and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the city.
Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave
May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since love ne’er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only beloved and loving me.
O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?
Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood:
Here’s wealthy Nature’s treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.
Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
That ’tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I
And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.
ALEXANDER BROME
1620-1666
_354._ _The Resolve_
Tell me not of a face that’s fair,
Nor lip and cheek that’s red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid,
Nor of a rare seraphic voice
That like an angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice
I would have all these things:
But if that thou wilt have me love,
And it must be a she,
The only argument can move
Is that she will love me.
The glories of your ladies be
But metaphors of things,
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lilies their whiteness stain;
What fool is he that shadows seeks
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou’lt have me love a lass,
Let it be one that’s kind:
Else I’m a servant to the glass
That’s with Canary lined.
ANDREW MARVELL
1621-1678
_355._ _An Horatian Ode_
_upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland_
The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
’Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour’s rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star:
And like the three-fork’d lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide:
For ’tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose.
Then burning through the air he went
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar’s head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
’Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry Heaven’s flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould;
Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain--
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak--
Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Caresbrooke’s narrow case;
That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow’d his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forcèd power:
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,
A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust.
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic’s hand--
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!
He to the Commons’ feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year’s rents,
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the public’s skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill’d, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch;
Where, when he first does lure,
The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear,
If thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his particolour’d mind,
But, from this valour, sad
Shrink underneath the plaid;
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.
_356._ _A Garden_
_Written after the Civil Wars_
See how the flowers, as at parade,
Under their colours stand display’d:
Each regiment in order grows,
That of the tulip, pink, and rose.
But when the vigilant patrol
Of stars walks round about the pole,
Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d,
Seem to their staves the ensigns furl’d.
Then in some flower’s belovèd hut
Each bee, as sentinel, is shut,
And sleeps so too; but if once stirr’d,
She runs you through, nor asks the word.
O thou, that dear and happy Isle,
The garden of the world erewhile,
Thou Paradise of the four seas
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the world, did guard
With wat’ry if not flaming sword;
What luckless apple did we taste
To make us mortal and thee waste!
Unhappy! shall we never more
That sweet militia restore,
When gardens only had their towers,
And all the garrisons were flowers;
When roses only arms might bear,
And men did rosy garlands wear?
_357._ _To His Coy Mistress_
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring.
_358._ _The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers_
See with what simplicity
This nymph begins her golden days!
In the green grass she loves to lie,
And there with her fair aspect tames
The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
But only with the roses plays,
And them does tell
What colour best becomes them, and what smell.
Who can foretell for what high cause
This darling of the gods was born?
Yet this is she whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,
See his bow broke and ensigns torn.
Happy who can
Appease this virtuous enemy of man!
O then let me in time compound
And parley with those conquering eyes,
Ere they have tried their force to wound;
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
In triumph over hearts that strive,
And them that yield but more despise:
Let me be laid,
Where I may see the glories from some shade.
Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,
Reform the errors of the Spring;
Make that the tulips may have share
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,
And roses of their thorns disarm;
But most procure
That violets may a longer age endure.
But O, young beauty of the woods,
Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime
To kill her infants in their prime,
Do quickly make th’ example yours;
And ere we see,
Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.
_359._ _Thoughts in a Garden_
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown’d from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose!
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow:
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:
Little, alas! they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passions’ heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-state
While man there walk’d without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ’twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gard’ner drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th’ industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers!
_360._ _Bermudas_
Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean’s bosom unespied,
From a small boat that row’d along
The listening woods received this song:
‘What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms’ and prelates’ rage:
He gave us this eternal Spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air:
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
He makes the figs our mouths to meet
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by His hand
From Lebanon He stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
O, let our voice His praise exalt
Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault,
Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!’
Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note:
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
_361._ _An Epitaph_
Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!
’Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship which, living, she declined,
When dead, to offer were unkind:
Nor can the truest wit, or friend,
Without detracting, her commend.
To say--she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced;
Nor was, when vice is so allowed,
Of virtue or ashamed or proud;
That her soul was on Heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay,
She summ’d her life up every day;
Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,
Gentle as evening, cool as night:
--’Tis true; but all too weakly said.
’Twas more significant, she’s dead.
HENRY VAUGHAN
1621-1695
_362._ _The Retreat_
Happy those early days, when I
Shin’d in my Angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white celestial thought:
When yet I had not walk’d above
A mile or two from my first Love,
And looking back--at that short space--
Could see a glimpse of His bright face:
When on some gilded cloud, or flow’r,
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity:
Before I taught my tongue to wound
My Conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense
A several sin to ev’ry sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence th’ enlightned spirit sees
That shady City of Palm-trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.
_363._ _Peace_
My soul, there is a country
Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry
All skilful in the wars:
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious Friend,
And--O my soul, awake!--
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure
But One who never changes--
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
_364._ _The Timber_
Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,
Pass’d o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,
Which now are dead, lodg’d in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low violet thrives at their root.
But thou beneath the sad and heavy line
Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,
Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.
And yet--as if some deep hate and dissent,
Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,
Were still alive--thou dost great storms resent
Before they come, and know’st how near they be.
Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath
Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;
But this thy strange resentment after death
Means only those who broke--in life--thy peace.
_365._ _Friends Departed_
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling’ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope! and high Humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
If a star were confin’d into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under Thee!
Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass:
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.
JOHN BUNYAN
1628-1688
_366._ _The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation_
He that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low, no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,
Little be it or much:
And, Lord, contentment still I crave,
Because Thou savest such.
Fullness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage:
Here little, and hereafter bliss,
Is best from age to age.
BALLADS AND SONGS BY UNKNOWN AUTHORS
_367._ _Thomas the Rhymer_
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee:
‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.’
‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,
‘That name does not belang to me;
I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said;
‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;
And if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be.’
ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite
(as a minstrel).
‘Betide me weal, betide me woe,
That weird shall never daunten me.’
Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,
All underneath the Eildon Tree.
‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,
‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;
And ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’
She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,
She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind;
And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,
The steed gaed swifter than the wind;
Until they reach’d a desert wide,
And living land was left behind.
‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,
And lean your head upon my knee;
Abide ye there a little space,
And I will show you ferlies three.
‘O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?
That is the Path of Righteousness,
Though after it but few inquires.
‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
That lies across the lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
leven]? lawn.
‘And see ye not yon bonny road
That winds about the fernie brae?
That is the Road to fair Elfland,
Where thou and I this night maun gae.
‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,
Whatever ye may hear or see;
For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,
Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’
O they rade on, and farther on,
And they waded rivers abune the knee;
And they saw neither sun nor moon,
But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,
They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;
For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth
Rins through the springs o’ that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,
And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:
‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;
It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’
‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;
‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought to buy or sell
At fair or tryst where I might be.
‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’--
‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,
‘For as I say, so must it be.’
dought] could.
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;
And till seven years were gane and past,
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
_368._ _Sir Patrick Spens_
I. _The Sailing_
The king sits in Dunfermline town
Drinking the blude-red wine;
‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship o’ mine?’
O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king’s right knee;
‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sail’d the sea.’
Our king has written a braid letter,
And seal’d it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o’er the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,
’Tis thou must bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick read
So loud, loud laugh’d he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blinded his e’e.
_368._ skeely] skilful.
‘O wha is this has done this deed
And tauld the king o’ me,
To send us out, at this time o’ year,
To sail upon the sea?
‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;
The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,
’Tis we must fetch her hame.’
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn
Wi’ a’ the speed they may;
They hae landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.
II. _The Return_
‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a’;
Our gude ship sails the morn.’
‘Now ever alack, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm.
‘I saw the new moon late yestreen
Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we’ll come to harm.’
They hadna sail’d a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,
It was sic a deadly storm:
And the waves cam owre the broken ship
Till a’ her sides were torn.
lift] sky. lap] sprang.
‘Go fetch a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And wap them into our ship’s side,
And let nae the sea come in.’
They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,
Another o’ the twine,
And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,
But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel’d shoon;
But lang or a’ the play was play’d
They wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bed
That flatter’d on the faem;
And mony was the gude lord’s son
That never mair cam hame.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi’ their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi’ their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they’ll see nae mair.
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,
’Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!
flatter’d] tossed afloat. kames] combs.
_369._ _The Lass of Lochroyan_
‘O wha will shoe my bonny foot?
And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will bind my middle jimp
Wi’ a lang, lang linen band?
‘O wha will kame my yellow hair,
With a haw bayberry kame?
And wha will be my babe’s father
Till Gregory come hame?’
‘Thy father, he will shoe thy foot,
Thy brother will glove thy hand,
Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp
Wi’ a lang, lang linen band.
‘Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,
Wi’ a haw bayberry kame;
The Almighty will be thy babe’s father
Till Gregory come hame.’
‘And wha will build a bonny ship,
And set it on the sea?
For I will go to seek my love,
My ain love Gregory.’
Up then spak her father dear,
A wafu’ man was he;
‘And I will build a bonny ship,
And set her on the sea.
jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry]? a corruption for ‘braw
ivory’: or bayberry may = laurel-wood.
‘And I will build a bonny ship,
And set her on the sea,
And ye sal gae and seek your love,
Your ain love Gregory.’
Then he’s gart build a bonny ship,
And set it on the sea,
Wi’ four-and-twenty mariners,
To bear her company.
O he’s gart build a bonny ship,
To sail on the salt sea;
The mast was o’ the beaten gold,
The sails o’ cramoisie.
The sides were o’ the gude stout aik,
The deck o’ mountain pine,
The anchor o’ the silver shene,
The ropes o’ silken twine.
She hadna sail’d but twenty leagues,
But twenty leagues and three,
When she met wi’ a rank reiver,
And a’ his companie.
‘Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie,
Come to pardon a’ our sin?
Or are ye Mary Magdalane,
Was born at Bethlam?’
‘I’m no the Queen of Heaven hie,
Come to pardon ye your sin,
Nor am I Mary Magdalane,
Was born in Bethlam.
cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber.
‘But I’m the lass of Lochroyan,
That’s sailing on the sea
To see if I can find my love,
My ain love Gregory.’
‘O see na ye yon bonny bower?
It’s a’ covered owre wi’ tin;
When thou hast sail’d it round about,
Lord Gregory is within.’
And when she saw the stately tower,
Shining both clear and bright,
Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave,
Built on a rock of height,
Says, ‘Row the boat, my mariners,
And bring me to the land,
For yonder I see my love’s castle,
Close by the salt sea strand.’
She sail’d it round, and sail’d it round,
And loud and loud cried she,
‘Now break, now break your fairy charms,
And set my true-love free.’
She’s ta’en her young son in her arms.
And to the door she’s gane,
And long she knock’d, and sair she ca’d.
But answer got she nane.
‘O open, open, Gregory!
O open! if ye be within;
For here’s the lass of Lochroyan,
Come far fra kith and kin.
‘O open the door, Lord Gregory!
O open and let me in!
The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory,
The rain drops fra my chin.
‘The shoe is frozen to my foot,
The glove unto my hand,
The wet drops fra my yellow hair,
Na langer dow I stand.’
O up then spak his ill mither,
--An ill death may she die!
‘Ye’re no the lass of Lochroyan,
She’s far out-owre the sea.
‘Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman,
Ye’re no come here for gude;
Ye’re but some witch or wil’ warlock,
Or mermaid o’ the flood.’
‘I am neither witch nor wil’ warlock,
Nor mermaid o’ the sea,
But I am Annie of Lochroyan,
O open the door to me!’
‘Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,
As I trow thou binna she,
Now tell me of some love-tokens
That pass’d ’tween thee and me.’
‘O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,
As we sat at the wine,
We changed the rings frae our fingers?
And I can shew thee thine.
dow] can.
‘O yours was gude, and gude enough,
But ay the best was mine,
For yours was o’ the gude red gowd,
But mine o’ the diamond fine.
‘Yours was o’ the gude red gowd,
Mine o’ the diamond fine;
Mine was o’ the purest troth,
But thine was false within.’
‘If ye be the lass of Lochroyan,
As I kenna thou be,
Tell me some mair o’ the love-tokens
Pass’d between thee and me.’
‘And dinna ye mind, love Gregory!
As we sat on the hill,
Thou twin’d me o’ my maidenheid,
Right sair against my will?
‘Now open the door, love Gregory!
Open the door! I pray;
For thy young son is in my arms,
And will be dead ere day.’
‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman,
So loud I hear ye lie;
For Annie of the Lochroyan
Is far out-owre the sea.’
Fair Annie turn’d her round about:
‘Weel, sine that it be sae,
May ne’er woman that has borne a son
Hae a heart sae fu’ o’ wae!
‘Tak down, tak down that mast o’ gowd,
Set up a mast of tree;
It disna become a forsaken lady
To sail sae royallie.’
When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn,
And the sun began to peep,
Up then raise Lord Gregory,
And sair, sair did he weep.
‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,
I wish it may bring good!
That the bonny lass of Lochroyan
At my bower window stood.
‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,
The thought o’t gars me greet!
That fair Annie of Lochroyan
Lay dead at my bed-feet.’
‘Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan
That ye mak a’ this mane,
She stood last night at your bower-door,
But I hae sent her hame.’
‘O wae betide ye, ill woman,
An ill death may ye die!
That wadna open the door yoursell
Nor yet wad waken me.’
O he’s gane down to yon shore-side,
As fast as he could dree,
And there he saw fair Annie’s bark
A rowing owre the sea.
‘O Annie, Annie,’ loud he cried,
‘O Annie, O Annie, bide!’
But ay the mair he cried ‘Annie,’
The braider grew the tide.
‘O Annie, Annie, dear Annie,
Dear Annie, speak to me!’
But ay the louder he gan call,
The louder roar’d the sea.
The wind blew loud, the waves rose hie
And dash’d the boat on shore;
Fair Annie’s corpse was in the faem,
The babe rose never more.
Lord Gregory tore his gowden locks
And made a wafu’ moan;
Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,
His bonny son was gone.
‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek,
And gowden was her hair,
And coral, coral was her lips,
Nane might with her compare,’
Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek,
And syne he kiss’d her chin,
And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips,
There was na breath within.
‘O wae betide my ill mither,
An ill death may she die!
She turn’d my true-love frae my door,
Who cam so far to me.
‘O wae betide my ill mither,
An ill death may she die!
She has no been the deid o’ ane,
But she’s been the deid of three.’
Then he’s ta’en out a little dart,
Hung low down by his gore,
He thrust it through and through his heart,
And words spak never more.
_369._ gore] skirt, waist.
_370._ _The Dowie Houms of Yarrow_
Late at een, drinkin’ the wine,
And ere they paid the lawin’,
They set a combat them between,
To fight it in the dawin’.
‘O stay at hame, my noble lord!
O stay at hame, my marrow!
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’
‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay!
O fare ye weel, my Sarah!
For I maun gae, tho’ I ne’er return
Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’
She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As she had done before, O;
She belted on his noble brand,
An’ he’s awa to Yarrow.
_370._ lawin’] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie]
doleful. houms] water-meads.
O he’s gane up yon high, high hill--
I wat he gaed wi’ sorrow--
An’ in a den spied nine arm’d men,
I’ the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.
‘O are ye come to drink the wine,
As ye hae doon before, O?
Or are ye come to wield the brand,
On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow?’
‘I am no come to drink the wine,
As I hae don before, O,
But I am come to wield the brand,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’
Four he hurt, an’ five he slew,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow,
Till that stubborn knight came him behind,
An’ ran his body thorrow.
‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,
An’ tell your sister Sarah
To come an’ lift her noble lord,
Who’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.’
‘Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream;
I ken’d there wad be sorrow;
I dream’d I pu’d the heather green,
On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’
She gaed up yon high, high hill--
I wat she gaed wi’ sorrow--
An’ in a den spied nine dead men,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.
She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair,
As oft she did before, O;
She drank the red blood frae him ran,
On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.
‘O haud your tongue, my douchter dear,
For what needs a’ this sorrow?
I’ll wed you on a better lord
Than him you lost on Yarrow.’
‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,
An’ dinna grieve your Sarah;
A better lord was never born
Than him I lost on Yarrow.
‘Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye,
For they hae bred our sorrow;
I wiss that they had a’ gane mad
Whan they cam first to Yarrow.’
_371._ _Clerk Saunders_
Clerk Saunders and may Margaret
Walk’d owre yon garden green;
And deep and heavy was the love
That fell thir twa between.
‘A bed, a bed,’ Clerk Saunders said,
‘A bed for you and me!’
‘Fye na, fye na,’ said may Margaret,
’Till anes we married be!’
‘Then I’ll take the sword frae my scabbard
And slowly lift the pin;
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye ne’er let Clerk Saunders in.
‘Take you a napkin in your hand,
And tie up baith your bonnie e’en,
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye saw me na since late yestreen.’
It was about the midnight hour,
When they asleep were laid,
When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi’ torches burning red:
When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi’ torches burning bright:
They said, ‘We hae but one sister,
And behold her lying with a knight!’
Then out and spake the first o’ them,
‘I bear the sword shall gar him die.’
And out and spake the second o’ them,
‘His father has nae mair but he.’
And out and spake the third o’ them,
‘I wot that they are lovers dear.’
And out and spake the fourth o’ them,
‘They hae been in love this mony a year.’
Then out and spake the fifth o’ them,
‘It were great sin true love to twain.’
And out and spake the sixth o’ them,
‘It were shame to slay a sleeping man.’
Then up and gat the seventh o’ them,
And never a word spake he;
But he has striped his bright brown brand
Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye.
striped] thrust.
Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn’d
Into his arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
That was atween thir twae.
And they lay still and sleepit sound
Until the day began to daw’;
And kindly she to him did say,
‘It is time, true love, you were awa’.’
But he lay still, and sleepit sound,
Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She look’d atween her and the wa’,
And dull and drowsie were his e’en.
Then in and came her father dear;
Said, ‘Let a’ your mourning be;
I’ll carry the dead corse to the clay,
And I’ll come back and comfort thee.’
‘Comfort weel your seven sons,
For comforted I will never be:
I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower last night wi’ me.’
The clinking bell gaed through the town,
To carry the dead corse to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window,
I wot, an hour before the day.
‘Are ye sleeping, Marg’ret?’ he says,
‘Or are ye waking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
I wot, true love, I gied to thee.’
‘Your faith and troth ye sail never get,
Nor our true love sail never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheik and chin.’
‘My mouth it is full cold, Marg’ret;
It has the smell, now, of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
Thy days of life will not be lang.
‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
Give me my faith and troth again,
And let me fare me on my way.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou sallna get,
And our true love sail never twin,
Until ye tell what comes o’ women,
I wot, who die in strong traivelling?’
‘Their beds are made in the heavens high,
Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee,
Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers;
I wot, sweet company for to see.
‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight;
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And I, ere now, will be miss’d away.’
Then she has taken a crystal wand,
And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.
twin] part in two.
‘I thank ye, Marg’ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret;
And ay I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Marg’ret, I’ll come for thee.’
It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
She climb’d the wall, and follow’d him,
Until she came to the green forest,
And there she lost the sight o’ him.
‘Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?
Is there ony room at your feet?
Or ony room at your side, Saunders,
Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?’
‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,
There’s nae room at my feet;
My bed it is fu’ lowly now,
Amang the hungry worms I sleep.
‘Cauld mould is my covering now,
But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it falls nae sooner down
Than my resting-place is weet.
‘But plait a wand o’ bonny birk,
And lay it on my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
And wish my saul gude rest.’
Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray:
‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,
That you were going away.
‘And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret,
And Marg’ret o’ veritie,
Gin e’er ye love another man,
Ne’er love him as ye did me.’
_372._ _Fair Annie_
The reivers they stole Fair Annie,
As she walk’d by the sea;
But a noble knight was her ransom soon,
Wi’ gowd and white monie.
She bided in strangers’ land wi’ him,
And none knew whence she cam;
She lived in the castle wi’ her love,
But never told her name.
‘It’s narrow, narrow, mak your bed,
And learn to lie your lane;
For I’m gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie,
A braw Bride to bring hame.
Wi’ her I will get gowd and gear,
Wi’ you I ne’er gat nane.
‘But wha will bake my bridal bread,
Or brew my bridal ale?
And wha will welcome my bright Bride,
That I bring owre the dale?’
‘It’s I will bake your bridal bread,
And brew your bridal ale;
And I will welcome your bright Bride,
That you bring owre the dale.’
‘But she that welcomes my bright Bride
Maun gang like maiden fair;
She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,
And comely braid her hair.
‘Bind up, bind up your yellow hair,
And tie it on your neck;
And see you look as maiden-like
As the day that first we met.’
‘O how can I gang maiden-like,
When maiden I am nane?
Have I not borne six sons to thee,
And am wi’ child again?’
‘I’ll put cooks into my kitchen,
And stewards in my hall,
And I’ll have bakers for my bread,
And brewers for my ale;
But you’re to welcome my bright Bride,
That I bring owre the dale.’
Three months and a day were gane and past,
Fair Annie she gat word
That her love’s ship was come at last,
Wi’ his bright young Bride aboard.
She ’s ta’en her young son in her arms,
Anither in her hand;
And she’s gane up to the highest tower,
Looks over sea and land.
jimp] trim.
‘Come doun, come doun, my mother dear,
Come aff the castle wa’!
I fear if langer ye stand there,
Ye’ll let yoursell doun fa’.’
She’s ta’en a cake o’ the best bread,
A stoup o’ the best wine,
And a’ the keys upon her arm,
And to the yett is gane.
‘O ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord,
To your castles and your towers;
Ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord,
To your ha’s, but and your bowers.
And welcome to your hame, fair lady!
For a’ that’s here is yours.’
‘O whatna lady’s that, my lord,
That welcomes you and me?
Gin I be lang about this place,
Her friend I mean to be.’
Fair Annie served the lang tables
Wi’ the white bread and the wine;
But ay she drank the wan water
To keep her colour fine.
And she gaed by the first table,
And smiled upon them a’;
But ere she reach’d the second table,
The tears began to fa’.
yett] gate.
She took a napkin lang and white,
And hung it on a pin;
It was to wipe away the tears,
As she gaed out and in.
When bells were rung and mass was sung,
And a’ men bound for bed,
The bridegroom and the bonny Bride
In ae chamber were laid.
Fair Annie’s ta’en a harp in her hand,
To harp thir twa asleep;
But ay, as she harpit and she sang,
Fu’ sairly did she weep.
‘O gin my sons were seven rats,
Rinnin’ on the castle wa’,
And I mysell a great grey cat,
I soon wad worry them a’!
‘O gin my sons were seven hares,
Rinnin’ owre yon lily lea,
And I mysell a good greyhound,
Soon worried they a’ should be!’
Then out and spak the bonny young Bride,
In bride-bed where she lay:
‘That’s like my sister Annie,’ she says;
‘Wha is it doth sing and play?
‘I’ll put on my gown,’ said the new-come Bride,
‘And my shoes upon my feet;
I will see wha doth sae sadly sing,
And what is it gars her greet.
‘What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper,
That ye mak sic a mane?
Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds,
Or is a’ your white bread gane?’
‘It isna because my wine is spilt,
Or that my white bread’s gane;
But because I’ve lost my true love’s love,
And he’s wed to anither ane.’
‘Noo tell me wha was your father?’ she says,
‘Noo tell me wha was your mother?
And had ye ony sister?’ she says,
‘And had ye ever a brother?’
‘The Earl of Wemyss was my father,
The Countess of Wemyss my mother,
Young Elinor she was my sister dear,
And Lord John he was my brother.’
‘If the Earl of Wemyss was your father,
I wot sae was he mine;
And it’s O my sister Annie!
Your love ye sallna tyne.
‘Tak your husband, my sister dear;
You ne’er were wrang’d for me,
Beyond a kiss o’ his merry mouth
As we cam owre the sea.
‘Seven ships, loaded weel,
Cam owre the sea wi’ me;
Ane o’ them will tak me hame,
And six I’ll gie to thee.’
tyne] lose.
_373._ _Edward, Edward_
‘Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude,
And why sae sad gang ye, O?’
‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude,
And I had nae mair but he, O.’
‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
Edward, Edward;
Your hawk’s blude was never sae red,
My dear son, I tell thee, O.’
‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed,
That erst was sae fair and free, O.’
‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair,
Edward, Edward;
Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair;
Some other dule ye dree, O.’
‘O I hae kill’d my father dear,
Mither, mither;
O I hae kill’d my father dear,
Alas, and wae is me, O!’
dule ye dree] grief you suffer.
‘And whatten penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
Whatten penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O.’
‘I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mither, mither;
I’ll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I’ll fare over the sea, O.’
‘And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’,
That were sae fair to see, O?’
‘I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
Mither, mither;
I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’,
For here never mair maun I be, O.’
‘And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang owre the sea, O?’
‘The warld’s room: let them beg through life,
Mither, mither;
The warld’s room: let them beg through life;
For them never mair will I see, O.’
‘And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear.
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear,
My dear son, now tell me, O?’
‘The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear,
Mither, mither;
The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear:
Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!’
_374._ _Edom o’ Gordon_
It fell about the Martinmas,
When the wind blew shrill and cauld,
Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men,
‘We maun draw to a hauld.
‘And what a hauld sall we draw to,
My merry men and me?
We will gae to the house o’ the Rodes,
To see that fair ladye.’
The lady stood on her castle wa’,
Beheld baith dale and down;
There she was ware of a host of men
Cam riding towards the town.
‘O see ye not, my merry men a’,
O see ye not what I see?
Methinks I see a host of men;
I marvel wha they be.’
She ween’d it had been her lovely lord,
As he cam riding hame;
It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon,
Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame.
town] stead.
She had nae sooner buskit hersell,
And putten on her gown,
But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men
Were round about the town.
They had nae sooner supper set,
Nae sooner said the grace,
But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men
Were lighted about the place.
The lady ran up to her tower-head,
Sae fast as she could hie,
To see if by her fair speeches
She could wi’ him agree.
‘Come doun to me, ye lady gay,
Come doun, come doun to me;
This night sall ye lig within mine arms,
To-morrow my bride sall be.’
‘I winna come down, ye fals Gordon,
I winna come down to thee;
I winna forsake my ain dear lord,
That is sae far frae me.’
‘Gie owre your house, ye lady fair,
Gie owre your house to me;
Or I sall brenn yoursel therein,
But and your babies three.’
‘I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon,
To nae sic traitor as yee;
And if ye brenn my ain dear babes,
My lord sail mak ye dree.
buskit] attired.
‘Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man,
And charge ye weel my gun;
For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher,
My babes, we been undone!’
She stood upon her castle wa’,
And let twa bullets flee:
She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart,
And only razed his knee.
‘Set fire to the house!’ quo’ fals Gordon,
All wud wi’ dule and ire:
‘Fals lady, ye sail rue this deid
As ye brenn in the fire!’
Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man!
I paid ye weel your fee;
Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane,
Lets in the reek to me?
‘And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man!
I paid ye weel your hire;
Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane,
To me lets in the fire?’
‘Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye,
Ye paid me weel my fee:
But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man--
Maun either do or die.’
O then bespake her little son,
Sat on the nurse’s knee:
Says, ‘Mither dear, gie owre this house,
For the reek it smithers me.’
wud] mad. grund-wa’] ground-wall.
‘I wad gie a’ my gowd, my bairn,
Sae wad I a’ my fee,
For ae blast o’ the western wind,
To blaw the reek frae thee.’
O then bespake her dochter dear--
She was baith jimp and sma’:
‘O row me in a pair o’ sheets,
And tow me owre the wa’!’
They row’d her in a pair o’ sheets,
And tow’d her owre the wa’;
But on the point o’ Gordon’s spear
She gat a deadly fa’.
O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheiks,
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red blood dreips.
Then wi’ his spear he turn’d her owre;
O gin her face was wane!
He said, ‘Ye are the first that e’er
I wish’d alive again.’
He turn’d her owre and owre again;
O gin her skin was white!
‘I might hae spared that bonnie face
To hae been some man’s delight.
‘Busk and boun, my merry men a’,
For ill dooms I do guess;
I canna look in that bonnie face
As it lies on the grass.’
jimp] slender, trim. row] roll, wrap. Busk and boun] trim up and
prepare to go.
‘Wha looks to freits, my master dear,
It’s freits will follow them;
Let it ne’er be said that Edom o’ Gordon
Was daunted by a dame.’
But when the lady saw the fire
Come flaming owre her head,
She wept, and kiss’d her children twain,
Says, ‘Bairns, we been but dead.’
The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said, ‘Awa’, awa’!
This house o’ the Rodes is a’ in a flame;
I hauld it time to ga’.’
And this way lookit her ain dear lord,
As he cam owre the lea;
He saw his castle a’ in a lowe,
As far as he could see.
Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave,
And all his heart was wae:
‘Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sae fast as ye can gae.
‘Put on, put on, my wighty men,
Sae fast as ye can drie!
For he that’s hindmost o’ the thrang
Sall ne’er get good o’ me.’
Then some they rade, and some they ran,
Out-owre the grass and bent;
But ere the foremost could win up,
Baith lady and babes were brent.
freits] ill omens. lowe] flame. wighty] stout, doughty.
And after the Gordon he is gane,
Sae fast as he might drie;
And soon i’ the Gordon’s foul heart’s blude
He’s wroken his dear ladye.
wroken] avenged.
_375._ _The Queen’s Marie_
Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi’ ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton
Than ony that were there.
Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane
Wi’ ribbons on her breast;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton
Than he listen’d to the priest.
Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane,
Wi’ gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton
Than the Queen and a’ her lands.
She hadna been about the King’s court
A month, but barely one,
Till she was beloved by a’ the King’s court
And the King the only man.
She hadna been about the King’s court
A month, but barely three,
Till frae the King’s court Marie Hamilton,
Marie Hamilton durstna be.
The King is to the Abbey gane,
To pu’ the Abbey tree,
To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart;
But the thing it wadna be.
O she has row’d it in her apron,
And set it on the sea--
‘Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe,
Ye’se get nae mair o’ me.’
Word is to the kitchen gane,
And word is to the ha’,
And word is to the noble room
Amang the ladies a’,
That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed,
And the bonny babe’s miss’d and awa’.
Scarcely had she lain down again,
And scarcely fa’en asleep,
When up and started our gude Queen
Just at her bed-feet;
Saying--‘Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe?
For I am sure I heard it greet.’
‘O no, O no, my noble Queen!
Think no sic thing to be;
’Twas but a stitch into my side,
And sair it troubles me!’
‘Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton:
Get up and follow me;
For I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding for to see.’
row’d] rolled, wrapped. greet] cry.
O slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly put she on;
And slowly rade she out the way
Wi’ mony a weary groan.
The Queen was clad in scarlet,
Her merry maids all in green;
And every town that they cam to,
They took Marie for the Queen.
‘Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen,
Ride hooly now wi’ me!
For never, I am sure, a wearier burd
Rade in your companie.’--
But little wist Marie Hamilton,
When she rade on the brown,
That she was gaen to Edinburgh town,
And a’ to be put down.
‘Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives,
Why look ye so on me?
O I am going to Edinburgh town,
A rich wedding to see.’
When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs,
The corks frae her heels did flee;
And lang or e’er she cam down again,
She was condemn’d to die.
When she cam to the Netherbow port,
She laugh’d loud laughters three;
But when she came to the gallows foot
The tears blinded her e’e.
hooly] gently.
‘Yestreen the Queen had four Maries,
The night she’ll hae but three;
There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton,
And Marie Carmichael, and me.
‘O often have I dress’d my Queen
And put gowd upon her hair;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows to be my share.
‘Often have I dress’d my Queen
And often made her bed;
But now I’ve gotten for my reward
The gallows tree to tread.
‘I charge ye all, ye mariners,
When ye sail owre the faem,
Let neither my father nor mother get wit
But that I’m coming hame.
‘I charge ye all, ye mariners,
That sail upon the sea,
That neither my father nor mother get wit
The dog’s death I’m to die.
‘For if my father and mother got wit,
And my bold brethren three,
O mickle wad be the gude red blude
This day wad be spilt for me!
‘O little did my mother ken,
The day she cradled me,
The lands I was to travel in
Or the death I was to die!
_376._ _Binnorie_
There were twa sisters sat in a bour;
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_!
There cam a knight to be their wooer,
_By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie_.
He courted the eldest with glove and ring,
But he lo’ed the youngest abune a thing.
The eldest she was vexèd sair,
And sair envied her sister fair.
Upon a morning fair and clear,
She cried upon her sister dear:
‘O sister, sister, tak my hand,
And let’s go down to the river-strand.’
She’s ta’en her by the lily hand,
And led her down to the river-strand.
The youngest stood upon a stane,
The eldest cam and push’d her in.
‘O sister, sister, reach your hand!
And ye sall be heir o’ half my land:
‘O sister, reach me but your glove!
And sweet William sall be your love.’
Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam,
Until she cam to the miller’s dam.
Out then cam the miller’s son,
And saw the fair maid soummin’ in.
‘O father, father, draw your dam!
There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’
soummin’] swimming.
The miller hasted and drew his dam,
And there he found a drown’d womàn.
You couldna see her middle sma’,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw.
You couldna see her lily feet,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep.
All amang her yellow hair
A string o’ pearls was twisted rare.
You couldna see her fingers sma’,
Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d a’.
And by there cam a harper fine,
That harpit to the king at dine.
And when he look’d that lady on,
He sigh’d and made a heavy moan.
He’s made a harp of her breast-bane,
Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane.
He’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair,
And wi’ them strung his harp sae rare.
He went into her father’s hall,
And there was the court assembled all.
He laid his harp upon a stane,
And straight it began to play by lane.
‘O yonder sits my father, the King,
And yonder sits my mother, the Queen;
‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
And by him my William, sweet and true.’
But the last tune that the harp play’d then--
_Binnorie, O Binnorie_!
Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helèn!’
_By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie._
_377._ _The Bonnie House o’ Airlie_
It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day,
When green grew aits and barley,
That there fell out a great dispute
Between Argyll and Airlie.
Argyll has raised an hunder men,
An hunder harness’d rarely,
And he’s awa’ by the back of Dunkell,
To plunder the castle of Airlie.
Lady Ogilvie looks o’er her bower-window,
And O but she looks warely!
And there she spied the great Argyll,
Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.
‘Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie,
Come down and kiss me fairly:’
‘O I winna kiss the fause Argyll,
If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.’
He hath taken her by the left shoulder,
Says, ‘Dame, where lies thy dowry?’
‘O it’s east and west yon wan water side,
And it’s down by the banks of the Airlie.’
They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down,
They hae sought it maist severely,
Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree
That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie.
He hath taken her by the middle sae small,
And O but she grat sairly!
And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side,
Till they plunder’d the castle of Airlie.
‘Gif my gude lord war here this night,
As he is with King Charlie,
Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord,
Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie.
‘Gif my gude lord war now at hame,
As he is with his king,
There durst nae a Campbell in a’ Argyll
Set fit on Airlie green.
‘Ten bonnie sons I have borne unto him,
The eleventh ne’er saw his daddy;
But though I had an hunder mair,
I’d gie them a’ to King Charlie!’
_378._ _The Wife of Usher’s Well_
There lived a wife at Usher’s well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them o’er the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
When word came to the carline wife
That her sons she’d never see.
‘I wish the wind may never cease.
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!’
It fell about the Martinmas,
When nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife’s three sons came hame,
And their hats were o’ the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o’ Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.
‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well!
For a’ my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well.’
And she has made to them a bed,
She’s made it large and wide;
And she’s ta’en her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bedside.
fashes] troubles. syke] marsh. sheugh] trench.
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said.
‘’Tis time we were away.’
The cock he hadna craw’d but once,
And clapp’d his wings at a’,
When the youngest to the eldest said,
‘Brother, we must awa’.
‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin’ worm doth chide;
Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.’
‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while,
Lie still but if we may;
Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes,
She’ll go mad ere it be day.’
‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother’s fire!’
_378._ channerin’] fretting.
_379._ _The Three Ravens_
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
They were as black as they might be.
The one of them said to his make,
‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’
_379._ make] mate.
‘Down in yonder greene field
There lies a knight slain under his shield;
‘His hounds they lie down at his feet,
So well they can their master keep;
‘His hawks they flie so eagerly,
There ’s no fowl dare come him nigh.’
Down there comes a fallow doe
As great with young as she might goe.
She lift up his bloudy head
And kist his wounds that were so red.
She gat him up upon her back
And carried him to earthen lake.
She buried him before the prime,
She was dead herself ere evensong time.
God send every gentleman
Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman.
_380._ _The Twa Corbies_
(SCOTTISH VERSION)
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’
_380._ corbies] ravens.
‘--In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
_380._ fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch.
_381._ _A Lyke-Wake Dirge_
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
When thou from hence away art past,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
_381._ fleet] house-room.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
Sit thee down and put them on;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane
--_Every nighte and alle_,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
--_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
_382._ _The Seven Virgins._
A CAROL
All under the leaves and the leaves of life
I met with virgins seven,
And one of them was Mary mild,
Our Lord’s mother of Heaven.
‘O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids.
All under the leaves of life?
Come tell, come tell, what seek you
All under the leaves of life?’
‘We’re seeking for no leaves, Thomas,
But for a friend of thine;
We’re seeking for sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our guide and thine.’
‘Go down, go down, to yonder town,
And sit in the gallery,
And there you’ll see sweet Jesus Christ
Nail’d to a big yew-tree.’
So down they went to yonder town
As fast as foot could fall,
And many a grievous bitter tear
From the virgins’ eyes did fall.
‘O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother,
Your weeping doth me grieve:
I must suffer this,’ He said,
‘For Adam and for Eve.
‘O Mother, take you John Evangelist
All for to be your son,
And he will comfort you sometimes,
Mother, as I have done.’
‘O come, thou John Evangelist,
Thou’rt welcome unto me;
But more welcome my own dear Son,
Whom I nursed on my knee.’
Then He laid His head on His right shoulder,
Seeing death it struck Him nigh--
‘The Holy Ghost be with your soul,
I die, Mother dear, I die.’
O the rose, the gentle rose,
And the fennel that grows so green!
God give us grace in every place
To pray for our king and queen.
Furthermore for our enemies all
Our prayers they should be strong:
Amen, good Lord; your charity
Is the ending of my song.
_383._ _Two Rivers_
Says Tweed to Till--
‘What gars ye rin sae still?’
Says Till to Tweed--
‘Though ye rin with speed
And I rin slaw,
For ae man that ye droon
I droon twa.’
_384._ _Cradle Song_
O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit,
Prepare thy creddil in my spreit,
And I sall rock thee in my hert
And never mair from thee depart.
But I sall praise thee evermoir
With sangis sweit unto thy gloir;
The knees of my hert sall I bow,
And sing that richt _Balulalow_!
_385._ _The Call_
My blood so red
For thee was shed,
Come home again, come home again;
My own sweet heart, come home again!
You’ve gone astray
Out of your way,
Come home again, come home again!
_386._ _The Bonny Earl of Murray_
Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands,
O where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl of Murray,
And hae laid him on the green.
Now wae be to thee, Huntley!
And whairfore did ye sae!
I bade you bring him wi’ you.
But forbade you him to slay.
He was a braw gallant,
And he rid at the ring;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he might hae been a king!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the ba’;
And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a’!
He was a braw gallant,
And he play’d at the gluve;
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
O he was the Queen’s luve!
O lang will his Lady
Look owre the Castle Downe,
Ere she see the Earl of Murray
Come sounding through the town!
_387._ _Helen of Kirconnell_
I wish I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!
O think na ye my heart was sair,
When my Love dropp’d and spak nae mair!
There did she swoon wi’ meikle care,
On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
I hackèd him in pieces sma’,
For her sake that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I’ll mak a garland o’ thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I die!
O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, ‘Haste, and come to me!’
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I’d be blest,
Where thou lies low and taks thy rest,
On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn owre my e’en,
And I in Helen’s arms lying,
On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,
For her sake that died for me.
_388._ _Waly, Waly_
O waly, waly, up the bank,
And waly, waly, doun the brae,
And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I lean’d my back unto an aik,
I thocht it was a trustie tree;
But first it bow’d and syne it brak--
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa’ like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he’ll never lo’e me mair.
Now Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed,
The sheets sall ne’er be ’filed by me;
Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink;
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearìe.
’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie,
’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;
But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me.
When we cam in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvèt,
And I mysel in cramasie.
But had I wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win,
I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd.
And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin.
And O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse’s knee;
And I mysel were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!
_388._ cramasie] crimson.
_389._ _Barbara Allen’s Cruelty_
In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin’,
Made every youth cry _Well-a-way_!
Her name was Barbara Allen.
All in the merry month of May,
When green buds they were swellin’,
Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man in to her then,
To the town where she was dwellin’,
‘O haste and come to my master dear,
If your name be Barbara Allen.’
So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtain by--
‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’
‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick,
And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’
‘O the better for me ye’se never be,
Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!
‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she,
‘When the red wine ye were fillin’,
That ye made the healths go round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?’
He turn’d his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin’:
‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!’
As she was walking o’er the fields,
She heard the dead-bell knellin’;
And every jow the dead-bell gave
Cried ‘Woe to Barbara Allen.’
‘O mother, mother, make my bed,
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me to-day,
I’ll die for him to-morrow.
‘Farewell,’ she said, ‘ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen.’
_389._ jow] beat, toll.
_390._ _Pipe and Can_
I
The Indian weed witherèd quite;
Green at morn, cut down at night;
Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
And when the smoke ascends on high,
Think thou behold’st the vanity
Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
But when the pipe grows foul within,
Think of thy soul defiled with sin,
And that the fire doth it require:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
The ashes, that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind
That unto dust return thou must:
Thus think, then drink Tobacco.
II
When as the chill Charokko blows,
And Winter tells a heavy tale;
When pyes and daws and rooks and crows
Sit cursing of the frosts and snows;
Then give me ale.
Ale in a Saxon rumkin then,
Such as will make grimalkin prate;
Bids valour burgeon in tall men,
Quickens the poet’s wit and pen,
Despises fate.
Ale, that the absent battle fights,
And frames the march of Swedish drum,
Disputes with princes, laws, and rights,
What’s done and past tells mortal wights,
And what’s to come.
Charokko] Scirocco.
Ale, that the plowman’s heart up-keeps
And equals it with tyrants’ thrones,
That wipes the eye that over-weeps,
And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps
Th’ o’er-wearied bones.
Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus’ daughter,
Wine’s emulous neighbour, though but stale,
Ennobling all the nymphs of water,
And filling each man’s heart with laughter--
Ha! give me ale!
_391._ _Love will find out the Way_
Over the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way.
When there is no place
For the glow-worm to lie,
When there is no space
For receipt of a fly;
When the midge dares not venture
Lest herself fast she lay,
If Love come, he will enter
And will find out the way.
You may esteem him
A child for his might;
Or you may deem him
A coward for his flight;
But if she whom Love doth honour
Be conceal’d from the day--
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him
By having him confined;
And some do suppose him,
Poor heart! to be blind;
But if ne’er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that ye may,
Blind Love, if so ye call him,
He will find out his way.
You may train the eagle
To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The Phœnix of the east;
The lioness, you may move her
To give over her prey;
But you’ll ne’er stop a lover--
He will find out the way.
If the earth it should part him,
He would gallop it o’er;
If the seas should o’erthwart him,
He would swim to the shore;
Should his Love become a swallow,
Through the air to stray,
Love will lend wings to follow,
And will find out the way.
There is no striving
To cross his intent;
There is no contriving
His plots to prevent;
But if once the message greet him
That his True Love doth stay,
If Death should come and meet him,
Love will find out the way!
_392._ _Phillada flouts Me_
O what a plague is love!
How shall I bear it?
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it.
She so torments my mind
That my strength faileth,
And wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth.
Please her the best I may,
She loves still to gainsay;
Alack and well-a-day!
Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterday
She did pass by me;
She look’d another way
And would not spy me:
I woo’d her for to dine,
But could not get her;
Will had her to the wine--
He might entreat her.
With Daniel she did dance,
On me she look’d askance:
O thrice unhappy chance!
Phillada flouts me.
Fair maid, be not so coy,
Do not disdain me!
I am my mother’s joy:
Sweet, entertain me!
She’ll give me, when she dies,
All that is fitting:
Her poultry and her bees,
And her goose sitting,
A pair of mattrass beds,
And a bag full of shreds;
And yet, for all this guedes,
Phillada flouts me!
She hath a clout of mine
Wrought with blue Coventry,
Which she keeps for a sign
Of my fidelity:
But i’ faith, if she flinch
She shall not wear it;
To Tib, my t’other wench,
I mean to bear it.
And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:
Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.
Thou shalt eat crudded cream
All the year lasting,
guedes] goods, property of any kind.
And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting;
Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And bramble-berries,
Pie-lid and pastry-crust,
Pears, plums, and cherries.
Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weevil’s skin--
Yet all’s not worth a pin!
Phillada flouts me.
In the last month of May
I made her posies;
I heard her often say
That she loved roses.
Cowslips and gillyflowers
And the white lily
I brought to deck the bowers
For my sweet Philly.
But she did all disdain,
And threw them back again;
Therefore ’tis flat and plain
Phillada flouts me.
Fair maiden, have a care,
And in time take me;
I can have those as fair
If you forsake me:
For Doll the dairy-maid
Laugh’d at me lately,
And wanton Winifred
Favours me greatly.
One throws milk on my clothes,
T’other plays with my nose;
What wanting signs are those?
Phillada flouts me.
I cannot work nor sleep
At all in season:
Love wounds my heart so deep
Without all reason.
I ’gin to pine away
In my love’s shadow,
Like as a fat beast may,
Penn’d in a meadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year:
And all for that my dear
Phillada flouts me.
WILLIAM STRODE
1602-1645
_393._ _Chloris in the Snow_
I saw fair Chloris walk alone,
When feather’d rain came softly down,
As Jove descending from his Tower
To court her in a silver shower:
The wanton snow flew to her breast,
Like pretty birds into their nest,
But, overcome with whiteness there,
For grief it thaw’d into a tear:
Thence falling on her garments’ hem,
To deck her, froze into a gem.
THOMAS STANLEY
1625-1678
_394._ _The Relapse_
Turn away those cruel eyes,
The stars of my undoing!
Or death, in such a bright disguise,
May tempt a second wooing.
Punish their blind and impious pride,
Who dare contemn thy glory;
It was my fall that deified
Thy name, and seal’d thy story.
Yet no new sufferings can prepare
A higher praise to crown thee;
Though my first death proclaim thee fair,
My second will unthrone thee.
Lovers will doubt thou canst entice
No other for thy fuel,
And if thou burn one victim twice,
Both think thee poor and cruel.
THOMAS D’URFEY
1653-1723
_395._ _Chloe Divine_
Chloe’s a Nymph in flowery groves,
A Nereid in the streams;
Saint-like she in the temple moves,
A woman in my dreams.
Love steals artillery from her eyes,
The Graces point her charms;
Orpheus is rivalled in her voice,
And Venus in her arms.
Never so happily in one
Did heaven and earth combine:
And yet ’tis flesh and blood alone
That makes her so divine.
CHARLES COTTON
1630-1687
_396._ _To Cœlia_
When, Cœlia, must my old day set,
And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne’er bless’d a lover’s eyes?
My state is more advanced than when
I first attempted thee:
I sued to be a servant then,
But now to be made free.
I’ve served my time faithful and true,
Expecting to be placed
In happy freedom, as my due,
To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to love’s power,
We ought not to misspend so much
As one poor short-lived hour.
Yet think not, sweet, I’m weary grown.
That I pretend such haste;
Since none to surfeit e’er was known
Before he had a taste:
My infant love could humbly wait
When, young, it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to man’s estate,
He is impatient now.
KATHERINE PHILIPS (‘ORINDA’)
1631-1664
_397._ _To One persuading a Lady to Marriage_
Forbear, bold youth; all’s heaven here,
And what you do aver
To others courtship may appear,
’Tis sacrilege to her.
She is a public deity;
And were’t not very odd
She should dispose herself to be
A petty household god?
First make the sun in private shine
And bid the world adieu,
That so he may his beams confine
In compliment to you:
But if of that you do despair,
Think how you did amiss
To strive to fix her beams which are
More bright and large than his.
JOHN DRYDEN
1631-1700
_398._ _Ode_
_To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne
Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting_
Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
Made in the last promotion of the blest;
Whose palms, new pluck’d from Paradise,
In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
Rich with immortal green above the rest:
Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
Thou roll’st above us, in thy wandering race,
Or, in procession fixt and regular,
Mov’d with the heaven’s majestic pace;
Or, called to more superior bliss,
Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,
Cease thy celestial song a little space;
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since Heaven’s eternal year is thine.
Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;
But such as thy own voice did practise here,
When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given,
To make thyself a welcome inmate there;
While yet a young probationer,
And candidate of heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind,
Our wonder is the less, to find
A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfus’d into thy blood:
So wert thou born into the tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.
But if thy pre-existing soul
Was form’d at first with myriads more,
It did through all the mighty poets roll
Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.
If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!
Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find,
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say, that, at thy birth,
New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?
For sure the milder planets did combine
On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,
And even the most malicious were in trine.
Thy brother-angels at thy birth
Strung each his lyre, and tun’d it high,
That all the people of the sky
Might know a poetess was born on earth;
And then, if ever, mortal ears
Had heard the music of the spheres.
And if no clust’ring swarm of bees
On thy sweet mouth distill’d their golden dew,
’Twas that such vulgar miraclès
Heaven had not leisure to renew:
For all the blest fraternity of love
Solemniz’d there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
O gracious God! how far have we
Profan’d thy heavenly gift of Poesy!
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas’d to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordain’d above,
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!
O wretched we! why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age
(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),
To increase the streaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say to excuse our second fall?
Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all!
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil’d,
Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil’d;
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
Art she had none, yet wanted none,
For Nature did that want supply:
So rich in treasures of her own,
She might our boasted stores defy:
Such noble vigour did her verse adorn,
That it seem’d borrowed, where ’twas only born.
Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,
By great examples daily fed,
What in the best of books, her father’s life, she read.
And to be read herself she need not fear;
Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear,
Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.
Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a lambent flame which play’d about her breast,
Light as the vapours of a morning dream;
So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest,
’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream....
Now all those charms, that blooming grace,
The well-proportion’d shape, and beauteous face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes;
In earth the much-lamented virgin lies.
Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel destiny content
To finish all the murder at a blow,
To sweep at once her life and beauty too;
But, like a hardened felon, took a pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plunder’d first, and then destroyed.
O double sacrilege on things divine,
To rob the relic, and deface the shrine!
But thus Orinda died:
Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate;
As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.
Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas
His waving streamers to the winds displays,
And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays.
Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear,
The winds too soon will waft thee here!
Slack all thy sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know’st not, thou art wreck’d at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy sister’s face,
Thou hast already had her last embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou kenn’st from far,
Among the Pleiads a new kindl’d star,
If any sparkles than the rest more bright,
’Tis she that shines in that propitious light.
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,
To raise the nations under ground;
When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat,
The judging God shall close the book of Fate,
And there the last assizes keep
For those who wake and those who sleep;
When rattling bones together fly
From the four corners of the sky;
When sinews o’er the skeletons are spread,
Those cloth’d with flesh, and life inspires the dead;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are cover’d with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing,
Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go,
As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learn’d below.
_399._ _A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, 1687_
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
‘Arise, ye more than dead!’
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,
And Music’s power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,
That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
The trumpet’s loud clangour
Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger,
And mortal alarms.
The double double double beat
Of the thundering drum
Cries Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, ’tis too late to retreat!
The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper’d by the warbling lute.
Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion.
For the fair, disdainful dame.
But O, what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ’s praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.
Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees unrooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;
But bright Cecilia rais’d the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appear’d
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
GRAND CHORUS.
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator’s praise
To all the Blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!
_400._ _Ah, how sweet it is to love!_
Ah, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young Desire!
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love’s fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.
Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
Ev’n the tears they shed alone
Cure, like trickling balm, their smart:
Lovers, when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.
Love and Time with reverence use,
Treat them like a parting friend;
Nor the golden gifts refuse
Which in youth sincere they send:
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.
Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein;
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again:
If a flow in age appear,
’Tis but rain, and runs not clear.
_401._ _Hidden Flame_
I feed a flame within, which so torments me
That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
’Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.
Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like dew on roses.
Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel,
My heart’s the sacrifice, as ’tis the fuel;
And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.
On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
While I conceal my love no frown can fright me.
To be more happy I dare not aspire,
Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.
_402._ _Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring_
Ask not the cause why sullen Spring
So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,
And winter storms invert the year:
Chloris is gone; and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.
Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;
She cast not back a pitying eye:
But left her lover in despair
To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah! how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure?
Great God of Love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,
And change the laws of every land?
Where thou hadst plac’d such power before,
Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.
When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall;
She can restore the dead from tombs
And every life but mine recall.
I only am by Love design’d
To be the victim for mankind.
CHARLES WEBBE
c. 1678
_403._ _Against Indifference_
More love or more disdain I crave,
Sweet, be not still indifferent:
O send me quickly to my grave,
Or else afford me more content!
Or love or hate me more or less,
For love abhors all lukewarmness.
Give me a tempest if ’twill drive
Me to the place where I would be;
Or if you’ll have me still alive,
Confess you will be kind to me.
Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave:
More love or more disdain I crave.
SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE
1635-1691
_404._ _Song_
Ladies, though to your conquering eyes
Love owes his chiefest victories,
And borrows those bright arms from you
With which he does the world subdue,
Yet you yourselves are not above
The empire nor the griefs of love.
Then rack not lovers with disdain,
Lest Love on you revenge their pain:
You are not free because you’re fair:
The Boy did not his Mother spare.
Beauty’s but an offensive dart:
It is no armour for the heart.
_405._ _To a Lady asking him how long he would love her_
It is not, Celia, in our power
To say how long our love will last;
It may be we within this hour
May lose those joys we now do taste;
The Blessèd, that immortal be,
From change in love are only free.
Then since we mortal lovers are,
Ask not how long our love will last;
But while it does, let us take care
Each minute be with pleasure past:
Were it not madness to deny
To live because we’re sure to die?
THOMAS TRAHERNE
1637?-1674
_406._ _News_
News from a foreign country came
As if my treasure and my wealth lay there;
So much it did my heart inflame,
’Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear;
Which thither went to meet
The approaching sweet,
And on the threshold stood
To entertain the unknown Good.
It hover’d there
As if ’twould leave mine ear,
And was so eager to embrace
The joyful tidings as they came,
’Twould almost leave its dwelling-place
To entertain that same.
As if the tidings were the things,
My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure--
Or else did bear them on their wings--
With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure.
My Soul stood at that gate
To recreate
Itself with bliss, and to
Be pleased with speed. A fuller view
It fain would take,
Yet journeys back would make
Unto my heart; as if ’twould fain
Go out to meet, yet stay within
To fit a place to entertain
And bring the tidings in.
What sacred instinct did inspire
My soul in childhood with a hope so strong?
What secret force moved my desire
To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young?
Felicity I knew
Was out of view,
And being here alone,
I saw that happiness was gone
From me! For this
I thirsted absent bliss,
And thought that sure beyond the seas,
Or else in something near at hand--
I knew not yet--since naught did please
I knew--my Bliss did stand.
But little did the infant dream
That all the treasures of the world were by:
And that himself was so the cream
And crown of all which round about did lie.
Yet thus it was: the Gem,
The Diadem,
The ring enclosing all
That stood upon this earthly ball,
The Heavenly eye,
Much wider than the sky,
Wherein they all included were,
The glorious Soul, that was the King
Made to possess them, did appear
A small and little thing!
THOMAS FLATMAN
1637-1688
_407._ _The Sad Day_
O the sad day!
When friends shall shake their heads, and say
Of miserable me--
‘Hark, how he groans!
Look, how he pants for breath!
See how he struggles with the pangs of death!’
When they shall say of these dear eyes--
‘How hollow, O how dim they be!
Mark how his breast doth rise and swell
Against his potent enemy!’
When some old friend shall step to my bedside,
Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide.
But--when his next companions say
‘How does he do? What hopes?’--shall turn away,
Answering only, with a lift-up hand--
‘Who can his fate withstand?’
Then shall a gasp or two do more
Than e’er my rhetoric could before:
Persuade the world to trouble me no more!
CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET
1638-1706
_408._ _Song_
_Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an
Engagement._
To all you ladies now at land
We men at sea indite;
But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind:
Our tears we’ll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
The King with wonder and surprise
Will swear the seas grow bold,
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e’er they did of old:
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree:
For what resistance can they find
From men who’ve left their hearts behind?--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be you to us but kind;
Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:
’Tis then no matter how things go,
Or who’s our friend, or who’s our foe--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
To pass our tedious hours away
We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain
Each other’s ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
But now our fears tempestuous grow
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play:
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note
As if it sigh’d with each man’s care
For being so remote,
Think then how often love we’ve made
To you, when all those tunes were play’d--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
In justice you cannot refuse
To think of our distress,
When we for hopes of honour lose
Our certain happiness:
All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
And now we’ve told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears:
Let’s hear of no inconstancy--
We have too much of that at sea--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.
SIR CHARLES SEDLEY
1639-1701
_409._ _To Chloris_
Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit
As unconcern’d as when
Your infant beauty could beget
No pleasure, nor no pain!
When I the dawn used to admire,
And praised the coming day,
I little thought the growing fire
Must take my rest away.
Your charms in harmless childhood lay
Like metals in the mine;
Age from no face took more away
Than youth conceal’d in thine.
But as your charms insensibly
To their perfection prest,
Fond love as unperceived did fly,
And in my bosom rest.
My passion with your beauty grew,
And Cupid at my heart,
Still as his mother favour’d you,
Threw a new flaming dart:
Each gloried in their wanton part;
To make a lover, he
Employ’d the utmost of his art--
To make a beauty, she.
_410._ _To Celia_
Not, Celia, that I juster am
Or better than the rest!
For I would change each hour, like them,
Were not my heart at rest.
But I am tied to very thee
By every thought I have;
Thy face I only care to see,
Thy heart I only crave.
All that in woman is adored
In thy dear self I find--
For the whole sex can but afford
The handsome and the kind.
Why then should I seek further store,
And still make love anew?
When change itself can give no more,
’Tis easy to be true!
APHRA BEHN
1640-1689
_411._ _Song_
Love in fantastic triumph sate
Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow’d,
For whom fresh pains he did create
And strange tyrannic power he show’d:
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl’d;
But ’twas from mine he took desires
Enough t’ undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee.
Thus thou and I the god have arm’d
And set him up a deity;
But my poor heart alone is harm’d,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free!
_412._ _The Libertine_
A thousand martyrs I have made,
All sacrificed to my desire,
A thousand beauties have betray’d
That languish in resistless fire:
The untamed heart to hand I brought,
And fix’d the wild and wand’ring thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain,
But both, tho’ false, were well received;
The fair are pleased to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believed:
And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart,
Love’s pleasures only touch’d my heart.
Alone the glory and the spoil
I always laughing bore away;
The triumphs without pain or toil,
Without the hell the heaven of joy;
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the fools that whine for love.
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER
1647-1680
_413._ _Return_
Absent from thee, I languish still;
Then ask me not, When I return?
The straying fool ’twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try,
That tears my fix’d heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire,
Where love, and peace, and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire!
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest;
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven--
And lose my everlasting rest.
_414._ _Love and Life_
All my past life is mine no more;
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o’er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment’s all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy.
False hearts, and broken vows;
If I by miracle can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
’Tis all that Heaven allows.
_415._ _Constancy_
I cannot change as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No, Phillis, no; your heart to move
A surer way I’ll try;
And, to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on and die.
When kill’d with grief Amyntas lies,
And you to mind shall call
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall--
That welcome hour, that ends this smart,
Will then begin your pain;
For such a faithful tender heart
Can never break in vain.
_416._ _To His Mistress_
(_After Quarles_)
Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of the Sun’s enlivening eye?
Without thy light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life; my way, my light’s in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life--if thou but turn away
My life’s a thousand deaths. Thou art my way--
Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art--without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darken’d with eternal night.
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.
Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life; if thou withdraw’st, I die.
My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:
To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
But to that light?--and who’s that light but thee?
If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
Love, shall a lamb of Israel’s sheepfold stray?
My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;
I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;
Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
And yet thou turn’st thy face away and fly’st me!
And yet I sue for grace and thou deny’st me!
Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try’st me?
Thou art the pilgrim’s path, the blind man’s eye,
The dead man’s life. On thee my hopes rely:
If I but them remove, I surely die.
Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!
--O thou that art my life, my light, my way!
Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey, my wings shall be
Stretch’d out no farther than from me to thee!
JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
1649-1720
_417._ _The Reconcilement_
Come, let us now resolve at last
To live and love in quiet;
We’ll tie the knot so very fast
That Time shall ne’er untie it.
The truest joys they seldom prove
Who free from quarrels live:
’Tis the most tender part of love
Each other to forgive.
When least I seem’d concern’d, I took
No pleasure nor no rest;
And when I feign’d an angry look,
Alas! I loved you best.
Own but the same to me--you’ll find
How blest will be our fate.
O to be happy--to be kind--
Sure never is too late!
_418._ _On One who died discovering her Kindness_
Some vex their souls with jealous pain,
While others sigh for cold disdain:
Love’s various slaves we daily see--
Yet happy all compared with me!
Of all mankind I loved the best
A nymph so far above the rest
That we outshined the Blest above;
In beauty she, as I in love.
And therefore They, who could not bear
To be outdone by mortals here,
Among themselves have placed her now,
And left me wretched here below.
All other fate I could have borne,
And even endured her very scorn;
But oh! thus all at once to find
That dread account--both dead and kind!
What heart can hold? If yet I live,
’Tis but to show how much I grieve.
THOMAS OTWAY
1652-1685
_419._ _The Enchantment_
I did but look and love awhile,
’Twas but for one half-hour;
Then to resist I had no will,
And now I have no power.
To sigh and wish is all my ease;
Sighs which do heat impart
Enough to melt the coldest ice,
Yet cannot warm your heart.
O would your pity give my heart
One corner of your breast,
’Twould learn of yours the winning art,
And quickly steal the rest.
JOHN OLDHAM
1653-1683
_420._ _A Quiet Soul_
Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep,
As if humanity were lull’d asleep;
So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath,
Time’s unheard feet scarce make less noise,
Or the soft journey which a planet goes:
Life seem’d all calm as its last breath.
A still tranquillity so hush’d thy breast,
As if some Halcyon were its guest,
And there had built her nest;
It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.
JOHN CUTTS, LORD CUTTS
1661-1707
_421._ _Song_
Only tell her that I love:
Leave the rest to her and Fate:
Some kind planet from above
May perhaps her pity move:
Lovers on their stars must wait.--
Only tell her that I love!
Why, O why should I despair!
Mercy’s pictured in her eye:
If she once vouchsafe to hear,
Welcome Hope and farewell Fear!
She’s too good to let me die.--
Why, O why should I despair?
MATTHEW PRIOR
1664-1721
_422._ _The Question to Lisetta_
What nymph should I admire or trust,
But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens when I play?
To whom in song repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.
LISETTA’S REPLY
Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair,
Deserves to be your only care;
But, when you and she to-day
Far into the wood did stray,
And I happened to pass by,
Which way did you cast your eye?
But, when your cares to her you sing,
You dare not tell her whence they spring;
Does it not more afflict your heart,
That in those cares she bears a part?
When you the flowers for Chloe twine,
Why do you to her garland join
The meanest bud that falls from mine?
Simplest of swains! the world may see
Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me.
_423._ _To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then
Forty_
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,
Should dart their kindling fire, and look
The power they have to be obey’d.
Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby’s hair;
She may receive and own my flame;
For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The rhymes some younger rival sends,
She’ll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For, as our different ages move,
’Tis so ordain’d (would Fate but mend it!),
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
_424._ _Song_
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrow’d name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And while I sing Euphelia’s praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes.
Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d:
I sung, and gazed: I play’d, and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled.
_425._ _On My Birthday, July 21_
I, my dear, was born to-day--
So all my jolly comrades say:
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne’er been born:
I wish to die, even whilst I say--
‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’
I, my dear, was born to-day:
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe?
Clotilda, thou alone dost know.
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say--
‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’
_426._ _The Lady who offers her Looking-Glass to Venus_
Venus, take my votive glass:
Since I am not what I was,
What from this day I shall be,
Venus, let me never see.
_427._ _A Letter_
_to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child_
My noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this my First Epistle beg ye,
At dawn of morn, and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.
In double duty say your prayer:
_Our Father_ first, then _Notre Père_.
And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.
_428._ _For my own Monument_
As doctors give physic by way of prevention,
Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;
For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention
May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir.
Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid;
That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;
Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,
For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.
Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtues and vices were as other men’s are;
High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears,
In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.
Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,
He strove to make interest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirl’d in the round as the wheel turn’d about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.
This verse, little polish’d, tho’ mighty sincere,
Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;
It says that his relics collected lie here,
And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.
Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,
So Mat may be kill’d, and his bones never found;
False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,
So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d.
If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,
To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;
And if passing thou giv’st him a smile or a tear,
He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.
WILLIAM WALSH
1663-1708
_429._ _Rivals_
Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find
Companions of our woe.
Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are labouring in my breast,
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!
How great soe’er your rigours are,
With them alone I’ll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another’s hope.
LADY GRISEL BAILLIE
1665-1746
_430._ _Werena my Hearts licht I wad dee_
There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men;
She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen;
But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day!
Come doun the green gait and come here away!
When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,
He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things--
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
He had a wee titty that lo’ed na me,
Because I was twice as bonnie as she;
She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his mother
That werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
The day it was set, and the bridal to be:
The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;
She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain,
Till he vow’d he never wad see me again.
His kin was for ane of a higher degree,
Said--What had he do wi’ the likes of me?
Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie--
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
They said I had neither cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o’ drink rins thro’ the draff,
Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill-e’e--
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] promised. titty]
sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] suppose. pickles] small
quantities.
His titty she was baith wylie and slee:
She spied me as I cam owre the lea;
And then she ran in and made a loud din--
Believe your ain e’en, an ye trow not me.
His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow,
His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new:
But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing,
And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing.
And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes,
And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes:
The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e--
And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.
Were I but young for thee, as I hae been,
We should hae been gallopin’ doun in yon green,
And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea--
And wow, gin I were but young for thee!
_430._ hing] hang. dowie] dejectedly. hund the tykes] direct the
dogs. steeks] closes. linkin’] tripping.
WILLIAM CONGREVE
1670-1729.
_431._ _False though She be_
False though she be to me and love,
I’ll ne’er pursue revenge;
For still the charmer I approve,
Though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met:
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I’m grateful for the past.
_432._ _A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret_
Fair Amoret is gone astray--
Pursue and seek her, ev’ry lover;
I’ll tell the signs by which you may
The wand’ring Shepherdess discover.
Coquette and coy at once her air,
Both studied, tho’ both seem neglected;
Careless she is, with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart ev’ry glance,
Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect them,
For she’d persuade they wound by chance,
Tho’ certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
JOSEPH ADDISON
1672-1719
_433._ _Hymn_
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th’ unwearied Sun from day to day
Does his Creator’s power display;
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly to the listening Earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine,
‘The Hand that made us is divine.’
ISAAC WATTS
1674-1748
_434._ _The Day of Judgement_
When the fierce North-wind with his airy forces
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;
And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes
Rushing amain down;
How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble,
While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet,
Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters
Quick to devour them.
Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder
(If things eternal may be like these earthly),
Such the dire terror when the great Archangel
Shakes the creation;
Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven,
Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes,
Sees the graves open, and the bones arising,
Flames all around them.
Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!
Lively bright horror and amazing anguish
Stare thro’ their eyelids, while the living worm lies
Gnawing within them.
Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings,
And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds the
Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance
Rolling afore him.
Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver,
While devils push them to the pit wide-yawning
Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong
Down to the centre!
Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid
Doleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus,
How He sits God-like! and the saints around Him
Throned, yet adoring!
O may I sit there when He comes triumphant,
Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,
While our Hosannas all along the passage
Shout the Redeemer.
_435._ _A Cradle Hymn_
Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.
Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment:
All thy wants are well supplied.
How much better thou’rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven He descended
And became a child like thee!
Soft and easy is thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When His birthplace was a stable
And His softest bed was hay.
Blessèd babe! what glorious features--
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must He dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?
Was there nothing but a manger
Cursèd sinners could afford
To receive the heavenly stranger?
Did they thus affront their Lord?
Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
’Tis thy mother sits beside thee,
And her arms shall be thy guard.
Yet to read the shameful story
How the Jews abused their King,
How they served the Lord of Glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.
See the kinder shepherds round Him,
Telling wonders from the sky!
Where they sought Him, there they found Him,
With His Virgin mother by.
See the lovely babe a-dressing;
Lovely infant, how He smiled!
When He wept, the mother’s blessing
Soothed and hush’d the holy child.
Lo, He slumbers in His manger,
Where the hornèd oxen fed:
Peace, my darling; here’s no danger,
Here’s no ox anear thy bed.
’Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.
May’st thou live to know and fear Him,
Trust and love Him all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near Him,
See His face, and sing His praise!
THOMAS PARNELL
1679-1718
_436._ _Song_
When thy beauty appears
In its graces and airs
All bright as an angel new dropp’d from the sky,
At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:
So strangely you dazzle my eye!
But when without art
Your kind thoughts you impart,
When your love runs in blushes through every vein;
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,
Then I know you’re a woman again.
There’s a passion and pride
In our sex (she replied),
And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:
Still an angel appear to each lover beside,
But still be a woman to you.
ALLAN RAMSAY
1686-1758
_437._ _Peggy_
My Peggy is a young thing,
Just enter’d in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay;
My Peggy is a young thing,
And I’m not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly
Whene’er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a’ that’s rare;
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a’ the lave I’m cauld,
But she gars a’ my spirits glow
At wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly
Whene’er I whisper love,
That I look down on a’ the town,
That I look down upon a crown;
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
It makes me blyth and bauld,
And naething gi’es me sic delight
As wawking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly
When on my pipe I play,
By a’ the rest it is confest,
By a’ the rest, that she sings best;
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
And in her sangs are tauld
With innocence the wale of sense,
At wawking of the fauld.
wawking] watching. lave] rest. wale] choice, best.
WILLIAM OLDYS
1687-1761
_438._ _On a Fly drinking out of his Cup_
Busy, curious, thirsty fly!
Drink with me and drink as I:
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up:
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one!
JOHN GAY
1688-1732
_439._ _Song_
O ruddier than the cherry!
O sweeter than the berry!
O nymph more bright
Than moonshine night,
Like kidlings blithe and merry!
Ripe as the melting cluster!
No lily has such lustre;
Yet hard to tame
As raging flame,
And fierce as storms that bluster!
ALEXANDER POPE
1688-1744
_440._ _On a certain Lady at Court_
I know a thing that’s most uncommon;
(Envy, be silent and attend!)
I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Not warp’d by passion, awed by rumour;
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly;
An equal mixture of good-humour
And sensible soft melancholy.
‘Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?’
Yes, she has one, I must aver:
When all the world conspires to praise her,
The woman’s deaf, and does not hear.
_441._ _Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady_
What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
’Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
O, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in Heav’n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender or too firm a heart,
To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye else, ye Pow’rs! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods;
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.
Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confined to their own palace, sleep.
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below,
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good!
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death:
Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent herses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say
(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way),
‘Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel’d
And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.’
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all whose breast ne’er learn’d to glow
For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe!
What can atone (O ever-injured shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d,
By strangers honour’d, and by strangers mourn’d!
What tho’ no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What tho’ no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face?
What tho’ no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground now sacred by thy reliques made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How loved, how honour’d once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
_442._ _The Dying Christian to his Soul_
Vital spark of heav’nly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister Spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?
GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON, LORD MELCOMBE
1691?-1762
_443._ _Shorten Sail_
Love thy country, wish it well,
Not with too intense a care;
’Tis enough that, when it fell,
Thou its ruin didst not share.
Envy’s censure, Flattery’s praise,
With unmoved indifference view:
Learn to tread Life’s dangerous maze
With unerring Virtue’s clue.
Void of strong desire and fear,
Life’s wide ocean trust no more;
Strive thy little bark to steer
With the tide, but near the shore.
Thus prepared, thy shorten’d sail
Shall, whene’er the winds increase,
Seizing each propitious gale,
Waft thee to the port of Peace.
Keep thy conscience from offence
And tempestuous passions free,
So, when thou art call’d from hence,
Easy shall thy passage be.
--Easy shall thy passage be,
Cheerful thy allotted stay,
Short the account ’twixt God and thee,
Hope shall meet thee on thy way.
HENRY CAREY
1693?-1743
_444._ _Sally in our Alley_
Of all the girls that are so smart
There’s none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
And through the streets does cry ’em;
Her mother she sells laces long
To such as please to buy ’em:
But sure such folks could ne’er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:
But let him bang his bellyful,
I’ll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
Of all the days that’s in the week
I dearly love but one day--
And that’s the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;
For then I’m drest all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamèd
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is namèd;
I leave the church in sermon-time
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,
O, then I shall have money;
I’ll hoard it up, and box it all,
I’ll give it to my honey:
I would it were ten thousand pound,
I’d give it all to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally,
And, but for her, I’d better be
A slave and row a galley;
But when my seven long years are out,
O, then I’ll marry Sally;
O, then we’ll wed, and then we’ll bed--
But not in our alley!
_445._ _A Drinking-Song_
Bacchus must now his power resign--
I am the only God of Wine!
It is not fit the wretch should be
In competition set with me,
Who can drink ten times more than he.
Make a new world, ye powers divine!
Stock’d with nothing else but Wine:
Let Wine its only product be,
Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea--
And let that Wine be all for me!
WILLIAM BROOME
?-1745
_446._ _The Rosebud_
Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose,
The beauties of thy leaves disclose!
--But thou, fair Nymph, thyself survey
In this sweet offspring of a day.
That miracle of face must fail,
Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail:
Swift as the short-lived flower they fly,
At morn they bloom, at evening die:
Though Sickness yet a while forbears,
Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares:
Now Helen lives alone in fame,
And Cleopatra’s but a name:
Time must indent that heavenly brow,
And thou must be what they are now.
_447._ _Belinda’s Recovery from Sickness_
Thus when the silent grave becomes
Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs;
When the wide seas and spacious earth
Resign us to our second birth;
Our moulder’d frame rebuilt assumes
New beauty, and for ever blooms,
And, crown’d with youth’s immortal pride,
We angels rise, who mortals died.
JAMES THOMSON
1700-1748
_448._ _On the Death of a particular Friend_
As those we love decay, we die in part,
String after string is sever’d from the heart;
Till loosen’d life, at last but breathing clay,
Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow!
Whose eyes have wept o’er every friend laid low,
Dragg’d ling’ring on from partial death to death,
Till, dying, all he can resign is--breath.
GEORGE LYTTELTON, LORD LYTTELTON
1709-1773
_449._ _Tell me, my Heart if this be Love_
When Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene’er she speaks, my ravish’d ear
No other voice than hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before--
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
SAMUEL JOHNSON
1709-1784
_450._ _One-and-Twenty_
Long-expected one-and-twenty,
Ling’ring year, at length is flown:
Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,
Great *** ****, are now your own.
Loosen’d from the minor’s tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather,
Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies,
All the names that banish care;
Lavish of your grandsire’s guineas,
Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly:
There the gamester, light and jolly,
There the lender, grave and sly.
Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,
Let it wander as it will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,
Bid them come and take their fill.
When the bonny blade carouses,
Pockets full, and spirits high--
What are acres? What are houses?
Only dirt, or wet or dry.
Should the guardian friend or mother
Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;--
You can hang or drown at last!
_451._ _On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic_
Condemn’d to Hope’s delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature call’d for aid,
And hov’ring death prepared the blow,
His vig’rous remedy display’d
The power of art without the show.
In Misery’s darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour’d his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.
No summons mock’d by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain’d by pride;
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walk’d their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th’ Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ’d.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm--his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
RICHARD JAGO
1715-1781
_452._ _Absence_
With leaden foot Time creeps along
While Delia is away:
With her, nor plaintive was the song,
Nor tedious was the day.
Ah, envious Pow’r! reverse my doom;
Now double thy career,
Strain ev’ry nerve, stretch ev’ry plume,
And rest them when she’s here!
THOMAS GRAY
1716-1771
_453._ _Elegy written in a Country Churchyard_
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne.
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.
‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill.
Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
‘The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:’
_THE EPITAPH._
_Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth_
_A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown._
_Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,_
_And Melancholy marked him for her own._
_Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,_
_Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:_
_He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,_
_He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend._
_No farther seek his merits to disclose,_
_Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,_
_(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)_
_The bosom of his Father and his God._
_454._ _The Curse upon Edward_
Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edward’s race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkley’s roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs
The scourge of Heav’n. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,
And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.
Mighty Victor, mighty Lord!
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye, afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o’er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;
Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey,
Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare;
Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:
Close by the regal chair
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye Towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame,
And spare the meek usurper’s holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,
Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled boar in infant-gore
Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending o’er th’ accursèd loom
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
Edward, lo! to sudden fate
(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)
Half of thy heart we consecrate.
(The web is wove. The work is done.)
_455._ _The Progress of Poesy_
A PINDARIC ODE
Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings,
From Helicon’s harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich stream of music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth and strong,
Thro’ verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War
Has curb’d the fury of his car,
And dropp’d his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather’d king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quench’d in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper’d to thy warbled lay.
O’er Idalia’s velvet-green
The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen
On Cytherea’s day
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating,
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:
Where’er she turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man’s feeble race what ills await,
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow’s weeping train,
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!
The fond complaint, my song, disprove
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv’n in vain the heav’nly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary sky:
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion’s march they spy, and glitt’ring shafts of war.
In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom
To cheer the shiv’ring native’s dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od’rous shade
Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat
In loose numbers wildly sweet
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue and generous Shame,
Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame.
Woods, that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,
Isles, that crown th’ Ægean deep,
Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander’s amber waves
In lingering lab’rinths creep,
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around:
Ev’ry shade and hallow’d fountain
Murmur’d deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer gale,
In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray’d,
To Him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless child
Stretch’d forth his little arms, and smiled.
This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of th’ abyss to spy.
He pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car,
Wide o’er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o’er
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
But ah! ’tis heard no more----
O Lyre divine! what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now? Tho’ he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban eagle bear
Sailing with supreme dominion
Thro’ the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray,
With orient hues, unborrow’d of the Sun:
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.
_456._ _On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes_
Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
Where China’s gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purr’d applause.
Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
Thro’ richest purple to the view
Betray’d a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretch’d in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat’s averse to fish?
Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch’d, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.)
The slipp’ry verge her feet beguiled,
She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew’d to ev’ry wat’ry god,
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr’d:
Nor cruel _Tom_, nor _Susan_ heard.
A Fav’rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived,
Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
And be with caution bold.
Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters, gold.
WILLIAM COLLINS
1721-1759
_457._ _Ode to Simplicity_
O thou, by Nature taught
To breathe her genuine thought
In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong:
Who first on mountains wild,
In Fancy, loveliest child,
Thy babe and Pleasure’s, nursed the pow’rs of song!
Thou, who with hermit heart
Disdain’st the wealth of art,
And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall:
But com’st a decent maid,
In Attic robe array’d,
O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call!
By all the honey’d store
On Hybla’s thymy shore,
By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear,
By her whose love-lorn woe,
In evening musings slow,
Soothed sweetly sad Electra’s poet’s ear:
By old Cephisus deep,
Who spread his wavy sweep
In warbled wand’rings round thy green retreat;
On whose enamell’d side,
When holy Freedom died,
No equal haunt allured thy future feet!
O sister meek of Truth,
To my admiring youth
Thy sober aid and native charms infuse!
The flow’rs that sweetest breathe,
Though beauty cull’d the wreath,
Still ask thy hand to range their order’d hues.
While Rome could none esteem,
But virtue’s patriot theme,
You loved her hills, and led her laureate band;
But stay’d to sing alone
To one distinguish’d throne,
And turn’d thy face, and fled her alter’d land.
No more, in hall or bow’r,
The passions own thy pow’r.
Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean;
For thou hast left her shrine,
Nor olive more, nor vine,
Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Though taste, though genius bless
To some divine excess,
Faint’s the cold work till thou inspire the whole;
What each, what all supply,
May court, may charm our eye,
Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others ask,
To aid some mighty task,
I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,
And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.
_458._ _How sleep the Brave_
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!
_459._ _Ode to Evening_
If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,
Thy springs and dying gales;
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises, ’midst the twilight path
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some soften’d strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,
As, musing slow, I hail
Thy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant hours, and elves
Who slept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car:
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile,
Or upland fallows grey
Reflect its last cool gleam.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
That from the mountain’s side
Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his show’rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health
Thy gentlest influence own,
And hymn thy favourite name!
_460._ _Fidele_
To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither’d witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or ’midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourn’d, till Pity’s self be dead.
MARK AKENSIDE
1721-1770
_461._ _Amoret_
If rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell--
What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet--she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen--
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life’s prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty’s happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
_462._ _The Complaint_
Away! away!
Tempt me no more, insidious Love:
Thy soothing sway
Long did my youthful bosom prove:
At length thy treason is discerned,
At length some dear-bought caution earn’d:
Away! nor hope my riper age to move.
I know, I see
Her merit. Needs it now be shown,
Alas! to me?
How often, to myself unknown,
The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid
Have I admired! How often said--
What joy to call a heart like hers one’s own!
But, flattering god,
O squanderer of content and ease
In thy abode
Will care’s rude lesson learn to please?
O say, deceiver, hast thou won
Proud Fortune to attend thy throne,
Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?
_463._ _The Nightingale_
To-night retired, the queen of heaven
With young Endymion stays;
And now to Hesper it is given
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.
Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above!
Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;
But lead where music’s healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vow’d,
These lawns, Olympia’s haunts, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walk’d,
Or fix’d, while Philomela talk’d,
Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,
We came, while her enchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compell’d,
She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
Now Hesper guide my feet!
Down the red marl with moss o’ergrown,
Through yon wild thicket next the plain,
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane
Which leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either hand
Enlarged it spreads around:
See, in the midst she takes her stand,
Where one old oak his awful shade
Extends o’er half the level mead,
Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting note
She now prolongs her lays:
How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends;
The stars shine out; the forest bends;
The wakeful heifers graze.
Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring
To this sequester’d spot,
If then the plaintive Siren sing,
O softly tread beneath her bower
And think of Heaven’s disposing power,
Of man’s uncertain lot.
O think, o’er all this mortal stage
What mournful scenes arise:
What ruin waits on kingly rage;
How often virtue dwells with woe;
How many griefs from knowledge flow;
How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve,
Thus wandering all alone,
Thy tender counsel oft receive,
Bear witness to thy pensive airs,
And pity Nature’s common cares,
Till I forget my own.
TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT
1721-1771
_464._ _To Leven Water_
Pure stream, in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course
Devolving from thy parent lake
A charming maze thy waters make
By bowers of birch and groves of pine
And edges flower’d with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily green
May numerous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chanting o’er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale,
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrown’d with toil,
And hearts resolved and hands prepared
The blessings they enjoy to guard.
CHRISTOPHER SMART
1722-1770
_465._ _Song to David_
Sublime--invention ever young,
Of vast conception, tow’ring tongue
To God th’ eternal theme;
Notes from yon exaltations caught,
Unrivall’d royalty of thought
O’er meaner strains supreme.
His muse, bright angel of his verse,
Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce,
For all the pangs that rage;
Blest light still gaining on the gloom,
The more than Michal of his bloom,
Th’ Abishag of his age.
He sang of God--the mighty source
Of all things--the stupendous force
On which all strength depends;
From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes,
All period, power, and enterprise
Commences, reigns, and ends.
Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said
To Moses; while earth heard in dread,
And, smitten to the heart,
At once above, beneath, around,
All Nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, O LORD, THOU ART.
The world, the clustering spheres, He made;
The glorious light, the soothing shade,
Dale, champaign, grove, and hill;
The multitudinous abyss,
Where Secrecy remains in bliss,
And Wisdom hides her skill.
The pillars of the Lord are seven,
Which stand from earth to topmost heaven;
His Wisdom drew the plan;
His Word accomplished the design,
From brightest gem to deepest mine;
From Christ enthroned, to Man.
For Adoration all the ranks
Of Angels yield eternal thanks,
And David in the midst;
With God’s good poor, which, last and least
In man’s esteem, Thou to Thy feast,
O blessèd Bridegroom, bidd’st!
For Adoration, David’s Psalms
Lift up the heart to deeds of alms;
And he, who kneels and chants,
Prevails his passions to control,
Finds meat and medicine to the soul,
Which for translation pants.
For Adoration, in the dome
Of Christ, the sparrows find a home,
And on His olives perch:
The swallow also dwells with thee,
O man of God’s humility,
Within his Saviour’s church.
Sweet is the dew that falls betimes,
And drops upon the leafy limes;
Sweet, Hermon’s fragrant air:
Sweet is the lily’s silver bell,
And sweet the wakeful tapers’ smell
That watch for early prayer.
Sweet the young nurse, with love intense,
Which smiles o’er sleeping innocence;
Sweet, when the lost arrive:
Sweet the musician’s ardour beats,
While his vague mind’s in quest of sweets,
The choicest flowers to hive.
Strong is the horse upon his speed;
Strong in pursuit the rapid glede,
Which makes at once his game:
Strong the tall ostrich on the ground;
Strong through the turbulent profound
Shoots Xiphias to his aim.
Strong is the lion--like a coal
His eyeball,--like a bastion’s mole
His chest against the foes:
Strong the gier-eagle on his sail;
Strong against tide th’ enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.
But stronger still, in earth and air,
And in the sea, the man of prayer,
And far beneath the tide:
And in the seat to faith assigned,
Where ask is have, where seek is find,
Where knock is open wide.
Precious the penitential tear;
And precious is the sigh sincere,
Acceptable to God:
And precious are the winning flowers,
In gladsome Israel’s feast of bowers
Bound on the hallow’d sod.
Glorious the sun in mid career;
Glorious th’ assembled fires appear;
Glorious the comet’s train:
Glorious the trumpet and alarm;
Glorious the Almighty’s stretch’d-out arm;
Glorious th’ enraptured main:
glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish.
Glorious the northern lights astream;
Glorious the song, when God’s the theme;
Glorious the thunder’s roar:
Glorious Hosanna from the den;
Glorious the catholic Amen;
Glorious the martyr’s gore:
Glorious--more glorious--is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down,
By meekness call’d thy Son:
Thou that stupendous truth believed;--
And now the matchless deed’s achieved,
Determined, dared, and done!
JANE ELLIOT
1727-1805
_466._ _A Lament for Flodden_
I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning.
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
_466._ loaning] lane, field-track. wede] weeded. bughts]
sheep-folds. daffing] joking. leglin] milk-pail. hairst] harvest.
bandsters] binders. lyart] gray-haired. runkled] wrinkled.
fleeching] coaxing.
At e’en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie--
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
_466._ swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool]
mourning.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
1728-1774
_467._ _Woman_
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her tears away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev’ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom is--to die.
_468._ _Memory_
O memory, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th’ oppress’d oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch’s woe:
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.
ROBERT CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM OF GARTMORE
1735-1797
_469._ _If Doughty Deeds_
If doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I’ll mount my steed;
And strong his arm and fast his seat,
That bears frae me the meed.
I’ll wear thy colours in my cap,
Thy picture in my heart;
And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart!
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
O tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I’ll take,
Tho’ ne’er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eye
I’ll dight me in array;
I’ll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I’ll strive to catch;
Thy voice I’ll steal to woo thysel’,
That voice that nane can match.
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ...
But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
I never loved but you.
For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing,
O tell me how to woo!
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
O tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I’ll take
Tho’ ne’er another trow me.
WILLIAM COWPER
1731-1800
_470._ _To Mary Unwin_
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from Heaven as some have feign’d they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things;
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings:
But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright--
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.
_471._ _My Mary_
The twentieth year is wellnigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow;
’Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more;
My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter’d in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently press’d, press gently mine,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though press’d with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
My Mary!
JAMES BEATTIE
1735-1803
_472._ _An Epitaph_
Like thee I once have stemm’d the sea of life,
Like thee have languish’d after empty joys,
Like thee have labour’d in the stormy strife,
Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.
Forget my frailties; thou art also frail:
Forgive my lapses; for thyself may’st fall:
Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale--
I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.
ISOBEL PAGAN
1740-1821
_473._ _Ca’ the Yowes to the Knowes_
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,
Ca’ them where the heather grows,
Ca’ them where the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed down the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad;
He row’d me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca’d me his dearie.
‘Will ye gang down the water side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu’ clearly.’
_473._ yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls.
row’d] rolled, wrapped.
‘I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool,
And a’ the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.’
‘Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep,
And ye sall be my dearie.’
‘If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said,
I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.’
‘While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death sail blin’ my e’e,
Ye aye sall be my dearie!’
_473._ dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky.
ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD
1743-1825
_474._ _Life_
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me’s a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where’er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that then remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce,
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?
To the vast ocean of empyreal flame
From whence thy essence came
Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed
From matter’s base encumbering weed?
Or dost thou, hid from sight,
Wait, like some spell-bound knight,
Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour
To break thy trance and reassume thy power?
Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?
O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee?
Life! we have been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;--
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime
Bid me Good-morning!
FANNY GREVILLE
18th Cent.
_475._ _Prayer for Indifference_
I ask no kind return of love,
No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart those gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease.
Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,
That, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.
Far as distress the soul can wound,
’Tis pain in each degree:
’Tis bliss but to a certain bound,
Beyond is agony.
JOHN LOGAN
1748-1788
_476._ _To the Cuckoo_
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome ring.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wand’ring through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fli’st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!
We’d make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o’er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.
LADY ANNE LINDSAY
1750-1825
_477._ _Auld Robin Gray_
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a’ the warld to rest are gane,
The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa’;
My mother she fell sick,--and my Jamie at the sea--
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toil’d day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintain’d them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e
Said, ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!’
My heart it said nay; I look’d for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me!
My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak;
But she look’d in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi’ed him my hand, tho’ my heart was in the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie’s wraith,--for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, ‘I’m come hame to marry thee.’
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae’s me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
SIR WILLIAM JONES
1746-1794
_478._ _Epigram_
On parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled:
So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep,
Calm thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.
THOMAS CHATTERTON
1752-1770
_479._ _Song from Ælla_
O sing unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
_479._ cryne] hair. rode] complexion.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier’d dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love’s shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love’s grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I’ll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
GEORGE CRABBE
1754-1832
_480._ _Meeting_
My Damon was the first to wake
The gentle flame that cannot die;
My Damon is the last to take
The faithful bosom’s softest sigh:
The life between is nothing worth,
O cast it from thy thought away!
Think of the day that gave it birth,
And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done,
Or say that naught is done amiss;
For who the dangerous path can shun
In such bewildering world as this?
But love can every fault forgive,
Or with a tender look reprove;
And now let naught in memory live
But that we meet, and that we love.
_481._ _Late Wisdom_
We’ve trod the maze of error round,
Long wandering in the winding glade;
And now the torch of truth is found,
It only shows us where we strayed:
By long experience taught, we know--
Can rightly judge of friends and foes;
Can all the worth of these allow,
And all the faults discern in those.
Now, ’tis our boast that we can quell
The wildest passions in their rage,
Can their destructive force repel,
And their impetuous wrath assuage.--
Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now
This bold rebellious race are fled?
When all these tyrants rest, and thou
Art warring with the mighty dead?
_482._ _A Marriage Ring_
The ring, so worn as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:
The passion such it was to prove--
Worn with life’s care, love yet was love.
WILLIAM BLAKE
1757-1827
_483._ _To the Muses_
Whether on Ida’s shady brow
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air
Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove;
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy’d in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.
_484._ _To Spring_
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
_485._ _Song_
My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish’d air,
By Love are driven away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heaven
When springing buds unfold:
O why to him was’t given,
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is Love’s all-worshipp’d tomb,
Where all Love’s pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,
Bring me a winding-sheet;
When I my grave have made,
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay:
True love doth pass away!
_486._ _Reeds of Innocence_
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’
So I piped with merry cheer.
‘Piper, pipe that song again;’
So I piped: he wept to hear.
‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
‘Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.’
So he vanish’d from my sight;
And I pluck’d a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
_487._ _The Little Black Boy_
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O, my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:
‘Look at the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
‘And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
_488._ _Hear the Voice_
Hear the voice of the Bard,
Who present, past, and future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk’d among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsèd soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might control
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!
‘O Earth, O Earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass!
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumbrous mass.
‘Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The watery shore,
Is given thee till the break of day.’
_489._ _The Tiger_
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
_490._ _Cradle Song_
Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feel
Smiles as of the morning steal
O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.
O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.
_491._ _Night_
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Where flocks have took delight:
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing
And joy without ceasing
On each bud and blossom,
On each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest
Where birds are cover’d warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm:
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep,
Seeking to drive their thirst away
And keep them from the sheep.
But, if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold:
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold:
Saying, ‘Wrath by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness,
Are driven away
From our immortal day.
‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep,
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee, and weep.
For, wash’d in life’s river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.’
_492._ _Love’s Secret_
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!
Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.
ROBERT BURNS
1759-1796
_493._ _Mary Morison_
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stour
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
_493._ stour] dust, turmoil.
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a’,
‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wiltna gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
_494._ _Jean_
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.
_494._ airts] points of the compass. row] roll.
_495._ _Auld Lang Syne_
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min’?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?
We twa hae rin about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wandered monie a weary fit
Sin’ auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,
Frae mornin’ sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin’ auld lang syne.
And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine;
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine;
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner.
guid-willie waught] friendly draught.
_496._ _My Bonnie Mary_
Go fetch to me a pint ’o wine,
An’ fill it in a silver tassie,
That I may drink, before I go,
A service to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith,
Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankèd ready;
The shouts o’ war are heard afar,
The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore
Wad mak me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar--
It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!
_496._ tassie] cup.
_497._ _John Anderson, my Jo_
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo!
_497._ jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow]
pate.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
_497._ canty] cheerful.
_498._ _The Banks o’ Doon_
Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days
When my fause luve was true.
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wistna o’ my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,
And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Upon a morn in June;
And sae I flourish’d on the morn,
And sae was pu’d or’ noon.
_498._ or’] ere.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Upon its thorny tree;
But my fause luver staw my rose,
And left the thorn wi’ me.
_498._ staw] stole.
_499._ _Ae Fond Kiss_
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.
I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy;
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met--or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
_499._ wage] stake, plight.
_500._ _Bonnie Lesley_
O saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o’er the Border?
She’s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne’er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.
The Deil he couldna scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He’d look into thy bonnie face
And say, ‘I canna wrang thee!’
The Powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune sha’na steer thee:
Thou’rt like themsel’ sae lovely,
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There’s nane again sae bonnie!
scaith] harm. tent] watch. steer] molest.
_501._ _Highland Mary_
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The castle o’ Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp’d her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o’er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi’ monie a vow and lock’d embrace
Our parting was fu’ tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death’s untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
drumlie] miry.
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo’ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
_502._ _O were my Love yon Lilac fair_
O were my Love yon lilac fair,
Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring,
And I a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing;
How I wad mourn when it was torn
By autumn wild and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing
When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.
O gin my Love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa’,
And I mysel a drap o’ dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa’;
O there, beyond expression blest,
I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;
Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley’d awa’ by Phœbus’ light.
_503._ _A Red, Red Rose_
O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
_504._ _Lament for Culloden_
The lovely lass o’ Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e’en and morn she cries, ‘Alas!’
And aye the saut tear blin’s her e’e:
‘Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu’ day it was to me!
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear and brethren three.
‘Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman’s e’e!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For monie a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.’
_505._ _The Farewell_
It was a’ for our rightfu’ King
We left fair Scotland’s strand;
It was a’ for our rightfu’ King
We e’er saw Irish land,
My dear--
We e’er saw Irish land.
Now a’ is done that men can do,
And a’ is done in vain;
My love and native land, farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear--
For I maun cross the main.
He turn’d him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With, Adieu for evermore,
My dear--
With, Adieu for evermore!
The sodger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear--
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,
And a’ folk bound to sleep,
I think on him that’s far awa’,
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear--
The lee-lang night, and weep.
lee-lang] livelong.
_506._ _Hark! The Mavis_
_Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,_
_Ca’ them where the heather grows,_
_Ca’ them where the burnie rows,_
_My bonnie dearie._
Hark! the mavis’ evening sang
Sounding Clouden’s woods amang.
Then a-faulding let us gang,
My bonnie dearie.
We’ll gae down by Clouden side,
Through the hazels spreading wide,
O’er the waves that sweetly glide
To the moon sae clearly.
Yonder Clouden’s silent towers,
Where at moonshine midnight hours
O’er the dewy bending flowers
Fairies dance sae cheery.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;
Thou’rt to Love and Heaven sae dear,
Nocht of ill may come thee near,
My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,
Thou hast stown my very heart;
I can die--but canna part,
My bonnie dearie.
While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death shall blin’ my e’e,
Ye shall be my dearie.
_Ca’ the yowes to the knowes_ ...
lift] sky.
HENRY ROWE
1750-1819
_507._ _Sun_
Angel, king of streaming morn;
Cherub, call’d by Heav’n to shine;
T’ orient tread the waste forlorn;
Guide ætherial, pow’r divine;
Thou, Lord of all within!
Golden spirit, lamp of day,
Host, that dips in blood the plain,
Bids the crimson’d mead be gay,
Bids the green blood burst the vein;
Thou, Lord of all within!
Soul, that wraps the globe in light;
Spirit, beckoning to arise;
Drives the frowning brow of night,
Glory bursting o’er the skies;
Thou, Lord of all within!
_508._ _Moon_
Thee too, modest tressèd maid,
When thy fallen stars appear;
When in lawn of fire array’d
Sov’reign of yon powder’d sphere;
To thee I chant at close of day,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Throned in sapphired ring supreme,
Pregnant with celestial juice,
On silver wing thy diamond stream
Gives what summer hours produce;
While view’d impearl’d earth’s rich inlay,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip,
Breathed the flow’ry leaves among;
Draughts delicious wet my lip;
Drown’d in nectar drunk my song;
While tuned to Philomel the lay,
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Dew, that od’rous ointment yields,
Sweets, that western winds disclose,
Bathing spring’s more purpled fields,
Soft’s the band that winds the rose;
While o’er thy myrtled lawns I stray
Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES
1762-1850
_509._ _Time and Grief_
O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile:
As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:--
Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
JOANNA BAILLIE
1762-1851
_510._ _The Outlaw’s Song_
The chough and crow to roost are gone,
The owl sits on the tree,
The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan,
Like infant charity.
The wild-fire dances on the fen,
The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
It is our op’ning day.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep,
And closed is every flower,
And winking tapers faintly peep
High from my lady’s bower;
Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken
Shrink on their murky way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
It is our op’ning day.
Nor board nor garner own we now,
Nor roof nor latchèd door,
Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow
To bless a good man’s store;
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,
And night is grown our day;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men!
And use it as ye may.
MARY LAMB
1765-1847
_511._ _A Child_
A child’s a plaything for an hour;
Its pretty tricks we try
For that or for a longer space--
Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself
All seasons could control;
That would have mock’d the sense of pain
Out of a grievèd soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,
Young climber-up of knees,
When I forget thy thousand ways
Then life and all shall cease.
CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE
1766-1845
_512._ _The Land o’ the Leal_
I’m wearin’ awa’, John
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,
I’m wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, John,
There’s neither cauld nor care, John,
The day is aye fair
In the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,
She was baith gude and fair, John;
And O! we grudged her sair
To the land o’ the leal.
But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John,
And joy’s a-coming fast, John,
The joy that’s aye to last
In the land o’ the leal.
Sae dear’s the joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu’ man e’er brought
To the land o’ the leal.
O, dry your glistening e’e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
To the land o’ the leal.
O, haud ye leal and true, John!
Your day it’s wearin’ through, John,
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
This warld’s cares are vain, John,
We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,
In the land o’ the leal.
JAMES HOGG
1770-1835
_513._ _A Boy’s Song_
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That’s the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
_514._ _Kilmeny_
Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira’s men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the yorlin sing,
And pu’ the cress-flower round the spring;
The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,
And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minny look o’er the wa’,
And lang may she seek i’ the green-wood shaw;
Lang the laird o’ Duneira blame,
And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
_514._ yorlin] the yellow-hammer. hindberrye] bramble. minny]
mother. greet] mourn.
When many a day had come and fled,
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mess for Kilmeny’s soul had been sung,
When the bedesman had pray’d and the dead bell rung,
Late, late in gloamin’ when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane,
The reek o’ the cot hung over the plain,
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;
When the ingle low’d wi’ an eiry leme,
Late, late in the gloamin’ Kilmeny came hame!
‘Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt and den;
By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat you that joup o’ the lily scheen?
That bonnie snood of the birk sae green?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?’
Kilmeny look’d up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face;
As still was her look, and as still was her e’e,
As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been, she knew not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew.
But it seem’d as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven play’d round her tongue,
westlin] western. its lane] alone, by itself. low’d] flamed. eiry
leme] eery gleam. linn] waterfall. joup] mantle.
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been;
A land of love and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
Where the river swa’d a living stream,
And the light a pure celestial beam;
The land of vision, it would seem,
A still, an everlasting dream.
In yon green-wood there is a waik,
And in that waik there is a wene,
And in that wene there is a maike,
That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane;
And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.
In that green wene Kilmeny lay,
Her bosom happ’d wi’ flowerets gay;
But the air was soft and the silence deep,
And bonnie Kilmeny fell sound asleep.
She kenn’d nae mair, nor open’d her e’e,
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.
She ‘waken’d on a couch of the silk sae slim,
All striped wi’ the bars of the rainbow’s rim;
And lovely beings round were rife,
Who erst had travell’d mortal life;
And aye they smiled and ’gan to speer,
‘What spirit has brought this mortal here?’--
‘Lang have I journey’d, the world wide,’
A meek and reverend fere replied;
‘Baith night and day I have watch’d the fair,
Eident a thousand years and mair.
swa’d] swelled. waik] a row of deep damp grass. wene]? whin, a
furze-bush. maike] a mate, match, equal. his lane] alone, by
himself. happ’d] covered. speer] inquire. fere] fellow. eident]
unintermittently.
Yes, I have watch’d o’er ilk degree,
Wherever blooms femenitye;
But sinless virgin, free of stain
In mind and body, fand I nane.
Never, since the banquet of time,
Found I a virgin in her prime.
Till late this bonnie maiden I saw
As spotless as the morning snaw:
Full twenty years she has lived as free
As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye:
I have brought her away frae the snares of men,
That sin or death she never may ken.’--
They clasp’d her waist and her hands sae fair,
They kiss’d her cheek and they kemed her hair,
And round came many a blooming fere,
Saying, ‘Bonnie Kilmeny, ye’re welcome here!
Women are freed of the littand scorn:
O blest be the day Kilmeny was born!
Now shall the land of the spirits see,
Now shall it ken what a woman may be!
Many a lang year, in sorrow and pain,
Many a lang year through the world we’ve gane,
Commission’d to watch fair womankind,
For it’s they who nurice the immortal mind.
We have watch’d their steps as the dawning shone,
And deep in the green-wood walks alone;
By lily bower and silken bed,
The viewless tears have o’er them shed;
Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep,
Or left the couch of love to weep.
kemed] combed.
We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come,
And the angels will weep at the day of doom!
‘O would the fairest of mortal kind
Aye keep the holy truths in mind,
That kindred spirits their motions see,
Who watch their ways with anxious e’e,
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!
O, sweet to Heaven the maiden’s prayer,
And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair!
And dear to Heaven the words of truth,
And the praise of virtue frae beauty’s mouth!
And dear to the viewless forms of air,
The minds that kyth as the body fair!
‘O bonnie Kilmeny! free frae stain,
If ever you seek the world again,
That world of sin, of sorrow and fear,
O tell of the joys that are waiting here;
And tell of the signs you shall shortly see;
Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.’--
They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,
And she walk’d in the light of a sunless day;
The sky was a dome of crystal bright,
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,
And the flowers of everlasting blow.
Then deep in the stream her body they laid,
That her youth and beauty never might fade;
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie
In the stream of life that wander’d bye.
And she heard a song, she heard it sung,
She kenn’d not where; but sae sweetly it rung,
kyth] show, appear.
It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn:
‘O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born!
Now shall the land of the spirits see,
Now shall it ken what a woman may be!
The sun that shines on the world sae bright,
A borrow’d gleid frae the fountain of light;
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,
Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun,
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair,
And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.
But lang, lang after baith night and day,
When the sun and the world have elyed away;
When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom,
Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!’--
They bore her away, she wist not how,
For she felt not arm nor rest below;
But so swift they wain’d her through the light,
’Twas like the motion of sound or sight;
They seem’d to split the gales of air,
And yet nor gale nor breeze was there.
Unnumber’d groves below them grew,
They came, they pass’d, and backward flew,
Like floods of blossoms gliding on,
In moment seen, in moment gone.
O, never vales to mortal view
Appear’d like those o’er which they flew!
That land to human spirits given,
The lowermost vales of the storied heaven;
From thence they can view the world below,
And heaven’s blue gates with sapphires glow,
More glory yet unmeet to know.
gleid] spark, glow. elyed] vanished.
They bore her far to a mountain green,
To see what mortal never had seen;
And they seated her high on a purple sward,
And bade her heed what she saw and heard,
And note the changes the spirits wrought,
For now she lived in the land of thought.
She look’d, and she saw nor sun nor skies,
But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes:
She look’d, and she saw nae land aright,
But an endless whirl of glory and light:
And radiant beings went and came,
Far swifter than wind, or the linkèd flame.
She hid her e’en frae the dazzling view;
She look’d again, and the scene was new.
She saw a sun on a summer sky,
And clouds of amber sailing bye;
A lovely land beneath her lay,
And that land had glens and mountains gray;
And that land had valleys and hoary piles,
And marlèd seas, and a thousand isles.
Its fields were speckled, its forests green
And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen,
Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay
The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray;
Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung,
On every shore they seem’d to be hung;
For there they were seen on their downward plain
A thousand times and a thousand again;
In winding lake and placid firth,
Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.
marlèd] variegated, parti-coloured.
Kilmeny sigh’d and seem’d to grieve,
For she found her heart to that land did cleave;
She saw the corn wave on the vale,
She saw the deer run down the dale;
She saw the plaid and the broad claymore,
And the brows that the badge of freedom bore;
And she thought she had seen the land before.
She saw a lady sit on a throne,
The fairest that ever the sun shone on!
A lion lick’d her hand of milk,
And she held him in a leish of silk;
And a leifu’ maiden stood at her knee,
With a silver wand and melting e’e;
Her sovereign shield till love stole in,
And poison’d all the fount within.
Then a gruff untoward bedesman came,
And hundit the lion on his dame;
And the guardian maid wi’ the dauntless e’e,
She dropp’d a tear, and left her knee;
And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled,
Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead;
A coffin was set on a distant plain,
And she saw the red blood fall like rain;
Then bonnie Kilmeny’s heart grew sair,
And she turn’d away, and could look nae mair.
Then the gruff grim carle girn’d amain,
And they trampled him down, but he rose again;
And he baited the lion to deeds of weir,
Till he lapp’d the blood to the kingdom dear;
leifu’] lone, wistful. girn’d] snarled. weir] war.
And weening his head was danger-preef,
When crown’d with the rose and clover leaf,
He gowl’d at the carle, and chased him away
To feed wi’ the deer on the mountain gray.
He gowl’d at the carle, and geck’d at Heaven,
But his mark was set, and his arles given.
Kilmeny a while her e’en withdrew;
She look’d again, and the scene was new.
She saw before her fair unfurl’d
One half of all the glowing world,
Where oceans roll’d, and rivers ran,
To bound the aims of sinful man.
She saw a people, fierce and fell,
Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell;
Their lilies grew, and the eagle flew;
And she herkèd on her ravening crew,
Till the cities and towers were wrapp’d in a blaze,
And the thunder it roar’d o’er the lands and the seas.
The widows they wail’d, and the red blood ran,
And she threatened an end to the race of man;
She never lened, nor stood in awe,
Till caught by the lion’s deadly paw.
O, then the eagle swink’d for life,
And brainyell’d up a mortal strife;
But flew she north, or flew she south,
She met wi’ the gowl o’ the lion’s mouth.
With a mooted wing and waefu’ maen,
The eagle sought her eiry again;
But lang may she cower in her bloody nest,
And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast,
gowl’d] howled. geck’d] mocked. arles] money paid on striking a
bargain; fig. a beating. lened] crouched. swink’d] laboured.
brainyell’d] stirred, beat. mooted] moulted.
Before she sey another flight,
To play with the norland lion’s might.
But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw,
So far surpassing nature’s law,
The singer’s voice wad sink away,
And the string of his harp wad cease to play.
But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye,
And all was love and harmony;
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away,
Like flakes of snaw on a winter day.
Then Kilmeny begg’d again to see
The friends she had left in her own countrye;
To tell of the place where she had been,
And the glories that lay in the land unseen;
To warn the living maidens fair,
The loved of Heaven, the spirits’ care,
That all whose minds unmeled remain
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.
With distant music, soft and deep,
They lull’d Kilmeny sound asleep;
And when she awaken’d, she lay her lane,
All happ’d with flowers, in the green-wood wene.
When seven lang years had come and fled,
When grief was calm, and hope was dead;
When scarce was remember’d Kilmeny’s name,
Late, late in a gloamin’ Kilmeny came hame!
And O, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her e’e!
Such beauty bard may never declare,
For there was no pride nor passion there;
sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself.
And the soft desire of maiden’s e’en
In that mild face could never be seen.
Her seymar was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melodye,
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to raike the lanely glen,
And keepèd afar frae the haunts of men;
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.
But wherever her peaceful form appear’d,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheer’d;
The wolf play’d blythly round the field,
The lordly byson low’d and kneel’d;
The dun deer woo’d with manner bland,
And cower’d aneath her lily hand.
And when at even the woodlands rung,
When hymns of other worlds she sung
In ecstasy of sweet devotion,
O, then the glen was all in motion!
The wild beasts of the forest came,
Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,
And goved around, charm’d and amazed;
Even the dull cattle croon’d and gazed,
And murmur’d and look’d with anxious pain
For something the mystery to explain.
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock;
The corby left her houf in the rock;
The blackbird alang wi’ the eagle flew;
The hind came tripping o’er the dew;
seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts]
milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt.
The wolf and the kid their raike began,
And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;
The hawk and the hern attour them hung,
And the merle and the mavis forhooy’d their young;
And all in a peaceful ring were hurl’d;
It was like an eve in a sinless world!
When a month and a day had come and gane,
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;
There laid her down on the leaves sae green,
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen.
But O, the words that fell from her mouth
Were words of wonder, and words of truth!
But all the land were in fear and dread,
For they kendna whether she was living or dead.
It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain;
She left this world of sorrow and pain,
And return’d to the land of thought again.
_514._ raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy’d]
neglected.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1770-1850
_Lucy_
_515._ _i_
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover’s ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved look’d every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reach’d the orchard-plot;
And, as we climb’d the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot
Came near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopp’d:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropp’d.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover’s head!
‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried,
‘If Lucy should be dead!’
_516._ _ii_
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
_517._ _iii_
I traveled among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
’Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherish’d turn’d her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings show’d, thy nights conceal’d,
The bowers where Lucy play’d;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy’s eyes survey’d.
_518._ _iv_
Three years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
‘Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
‘She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
‘The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form
By silent sympathy.
‘The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
‘And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.’
Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
How soon my Lucy’s race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
_519._ _v_
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seem’d a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
_520._ _Upon Westminster Bridge_
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
_521._ _Evening on Calais Beach_
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouch’d by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
_522._ _On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802_
Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reach’d its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great is pass’d away.
_England, 1802_
_523._ _i_
O friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.
_524._ _ii_
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
O raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
_525._ _iii_
Great men have been among us; hands that penn’d
And tongues that utter’d wisdom--better none:
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,
Young Vane, and others who call’d Milton friend.
These moralists could act and comprehend:
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, ’tis strange,
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road;
But equally a want of books and men!
_526._ _iv_
It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow’d, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’--
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,--
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.--In everything we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
_527._ _v_
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my Country--am I to be blamed?
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
_528._ _The Solitary Reaper_
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whatever the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
_529._ _Perfect Woman_
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam’d upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
_530._ _Daffodils_
I wander’d lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch’d in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
_531._ _Ode to Duty_
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
O, if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferr’d
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought.
Me this uncharter’d freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires;
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Yet not the less would I throughout
Still act according to the voice
Of my own wish; and feel past doubt
That my submissiveness was choice:
Not seeking in the school of pride
For ‘precepts over dignified,’
Denial and restraint I prize
No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
O, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
_532._ _The Rainbow_
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
_The Sonnet_
_533._ _i_
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room,
And hermits are contented with their cells,
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
_534._ _ii_
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains--alas, too few!
_535._ _The World_
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gather’d now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
_536._ _Ode_
_Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood_
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream,
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath pass’d away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;--
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fullness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:--
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
--But there’s a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul’s immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a master o’er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest--
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never:
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
_537._ _Desideria_
Surprised by joy--impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport--O! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind--
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
_538._ _Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon_
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being pass’d away.--Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish;--be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.
_539._ _Mutability_
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime.
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whiten’d hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
_540._ _The Trosachs_
There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October’s workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
_541._ _Speak!_
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant--
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant
For naught but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird’s-nest fill’d with snow
’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
SIR WALTER SCOTT
1771-1832
_542._ _Proud Maisie_
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?’
--‘When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.’
‘Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?’
--‘The grey-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.
‘The glow-worm o’er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud lady!’
_543._ _Brignall Banks_
O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen:
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
Beneath the turrets high,
A Maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily:--
‘O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I’d rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.’
‘If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down:
And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,
Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
As blithe as Queen of May.’
Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green!
I’d rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English Queen.
‘I read you by your bugle horn
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a Ranger sworn
To keep the King’s green-wood.’
‘A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
And ’tis at peep of light;
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.’
Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay!
I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!
‘With burnish’d brand and musketoon
So gallantly you come,
I read you for a bold Dragoon,
That lists the tuck of drum.’
‘I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.
‘And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay,
Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my Queen of May!
‘Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
A nameless death I’ll die;
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
Were better mate than I!
And when I’m with my comrades met
Beneath the green-wood bough,
What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.’
_Chorus._ Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather flowers there
Would grace a summer queen.
_544._ _Lucy Ashton’s Song_
Look not thou on beauty’s charming;
Sit thou still when kings are arming;
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens;
Speak not when the people listens;
Stop thine ear against the singer;
From the red gold keep thy finger;
Vacant heart and hand and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.
_545._ _Answer_
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
_546._ _The Rover’s Adieu_
A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green--
No more of me ye knew,
My Love!
No more of me ye knew.
‘This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.’
--He turn’d his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said ‘Adieu for evermore,
My Love!
And adieu for evermore.’
_Patriotism_
_547._ _1. Innominatus_
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
‘This is my own, my native land!’
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
_548._ _2. Nelson, Pitt, Fox_
To mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Country’s wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;
The mind that thought for Britain’s weal,
The hand that grasp’d the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory weeps o’er NELSON’S shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow’d tomb!
Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given.
Where’er his country’s foes were found
Was heard the fated thunder’s sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll’d, blazed, destroy’d--and was no more.
Nor mourn ye less his perish’d worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch’d that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;
Who, born to guide such high emprise,
For Britain’s weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain’s sins, an early grave!
--His worth, who in his mightiest hour
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn’d at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain’d at subjection’s bursting rein,
O’er their wild mood full conquest gain’d,
The pride he would not crush, restrain’d,
Show’d their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws.
Hadst thou but lived, though stripp’d of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp’d the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quench’d in smoke,
The trumpet’s silver voice is still,
The warder silent on the hill!
O think, how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claim’d his prey.
With Palinure’s unalter’d mood
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repell’d,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till in his fall with fateful sway
The steerage of the realm gave way.
Then--while on Britain’s thousand plains
One unpolluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around
The bloody tocsin’s maddening sound,
But still upon the hallow’d day
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear:--
He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!
Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy _Requiescat_ dumb
Lest it be said o’er Fox’s tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employ’d, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow--
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And, if thou mourn’st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress’d,
And sacred be the last long rest.
_Here_, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;
_Here_, where the fretted vaults prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,
‘All peace on earth, good-will to men’;
If ever from an English heart,
O, _here_ let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouch’d to France’s yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian’s purpose brave
Was bartered by a timorous slave--
Even then dishonour’s peace he spurn’d,
The sullied olive-branch return’d,
Stood for his country’s glory fast,
And nail’d her colours to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour’d grave;
And ne’er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.
With more than mortal powers endow’d,
How high they soar’d above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Look’d up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names of PITT and FOX alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E’er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tomb’d beneath the stone,
Where--taming thought to human pride!--
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear,
’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier;
O’er PITT’s the mournful requiem sound,
And FOX’s shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry,
‘Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom
Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?’
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
1772-1834
_549._ _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_
PART I
[Sidenote: An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding
feast, and detaineth one.]
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
The Bridegroom’s doors are open’d wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’
He holds him with his skinny hand,
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest is spellbound by the eye of the old
seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.]
He holds him with his glittering eye--
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
‘The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
[Sidenote: The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good
wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.]
The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon----’
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
[Sidenote: The Wedding Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner
continueth his tale.]
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
[Sidenote: The ship drawn by a storm toward the South Pole.]
‘And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
[Sidenote: The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing
was to be seen.]
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d,
Like noises in a swound!
[Sidenote: Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the
snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.]
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hail’d it in God’s name.
It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steer’d us through!
[Sidenote: And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and
followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating
ice.]
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners’ hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perch’d for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmer’d the white moonshine.’
[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of
good omen.]
‘God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
Why look’st thou so?’--‘With my crossbow
I shot the Albatross.