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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +Project Gutenberg Etext/Project Gutenberg Book of English Verse +or +The Project Gutenberg Etext of Bulchevy's Book of English Verse + + +Previously released as: +The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Oxford Book of English Verse + +Chosen and Edited by +Arthur Quiller-Couch + + +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 [Greek] 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-- +[Greek] + + 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 Mssrs. 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. +October 1900 +A.T.Q.C. + + +Anonymous. c. 1250 + +1. Cuckoo Song + +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. c. 1300 + +2. Alison + +BYTUENE Mershe ant Averil + When spray biginneth to spring, +The lutel foul hath hire wyl + On hyre lud 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; +Levedi, al for thine sake + Longinge is y-lent me on. +In world his non so wyter mon +That al hire bounte 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. + +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] 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. + + +Anonymous. c. 1300 + +3. Spring-tide + +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; +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; +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. + +to toune] in its turn. 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. cloude] clod. wunne weole] wealth of joy. y +wole forgon] I will forgo. wyht] wight. fleme] banished. + + +Anonymous. c. 1300 + +4. Blow, Northern Wind + +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. +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 bealte. +Heo is lilie of largesse, +Heo is parvenke of prouesse, +Heo is solsecle of suetnesse, + Ant lady of lealte. + +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, +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! + +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. 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. + + +Anonymous. c. 1300 + +5. This World's Joy + +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. + +this leves] these leaves. sike] sigh. nys] is not. al so 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. + + +Anonymous. c. 1300 + +6. A Hymn to the Virgin + +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, + Rose 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. + + +Anonymous. c. 1350 + +7. Of a rose, a lovely rose, +Of a rose is al myn song. + +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. + +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. + +lestenyt] listen. word] world. xuld] should. schen] +beautiful. hevene qwyn] heaven's queen. bote] salvation. + + +Robert Mannyng of Brunne. 1269-1340 + +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. + +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, +Gyff fredome fail; for fre liking +Is yarnyt our all othir thing. +Na he that ay has levyt fre +May nocht knaw weill the propyrte, +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. + +liking] liberty. na ellys nocht] nor aught else. 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? + +repeyreth] repair ye. starf] died. + + +Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340?-1400 + +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. + +disteyne] bedim. y-fere] together. + + +Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340?-1400 + +12. Merciles Beaute + +A TRIPLE ROUNDEL + +1. CAPTIVITY + +YOUR eyen two wol slee me sodenly, +I may the beaute 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 beaute 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 beaute of hem not sustene, + So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. + +2. REJECTION + +So hath your beaute 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 beaute fro your herte chaced + Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne. + +Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed +So greet beaute, that no man may atteyne +To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. + So hath your beaute 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. + +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. + +halt] holdeth. 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. +Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow-- +Wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf +To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf... + +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 y1e +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! + +hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew. + + +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. + +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 sesoun 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! + +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.' + +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 prey 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.' +'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. + +'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; +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. + +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. 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. 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. hard] heard. gestis] +romances. mot eik] may add to. be] by. janglour] +talebearer. wend] weened. howp] hope. but lett] without +hindrance. anneuche] enough. holttis hair] grey +woodlands. leuche] laughed. wreuch] peevish. huche] heuch, +cliff. + + +Robert Henryson. 1425-1500 + +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. +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; +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. + +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, +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. + +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! + +hinder yeir] last year. 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. quhill] until. dungin doun] beaten down. his +awin persoun] himself. withouten feir] without companion. the +bricht] the fair one. likame] body. lowsit hir of bandoun] loosed +her from thraldom. quert] prison. coft] bought. straitly led] +strictly carried out. 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. + +rois] rose. wenit] weened, esteemed. garth] garden-close. to +seyne] to see. that I of mene] that I complain of, mourn for. + + +William Dunbar. 1465-1520? + +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; + 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. + +gladdith] rejoice. Troynovaunt] Troja nova or +Trinovantum. fourmeth] appeareth. geraflour] gillyflower. are] +oar. small] slender. kellis] hoods, head-dresses. guye] guide. + + +William Dunbar. 1465-1520? + +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: + 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! + +schouris] showers. cumin] come, entered. seir] various. erd] +earth. lest] least. synnaris] sinners. benyng] benign. attour] +over, above. perst] pierced. raiss] rose. best] beast. + + +William Dunbar. 1465-1520? + +21. Lament for the Makers + +I THAT in heill was and gladness +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +heill] health. bruckle] brittle, feeble. slee] sly. dansand] +dancing. sicker] sure. wicker] willow. wannis] wanes. mellie] +mellay. sowkand] sucking. campion] champion. stour] +fight. piscence] puissance. straik] stroke. supplee] +save. makaris] poets. the lave] the leave, the rest. padyanis] +pageants. anteris] adventures. schour] shower. endite] +inditing. fallowis] fellows. 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. + +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 Christiante. + +'Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,' + Litulle Johne can say, +'And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme + In a mornynge of May.' + +sheyne] bright. + + +Anonymous. 15th Cent. + +23. Carol + +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. + +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. + +makeles] matchless. ches] chose. + + +Anonymous. 15th Cent. (?) + +24. Quia Amore Langueo + +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 asked why he had paining; + [He said,] Quia amore langueo. + +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; +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. +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. + +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 adversite + 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. + +yede] went. het] promised. bait] resting-place. weet] wet. in +fere] together. crippe] scrip. mene] care for. + + +Anonymous. 15th Cent. + +25. The Nut-Brown Maid + +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. + +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 witness + 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. +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 outlaw, + 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 depart not so soon. +Why say ye so? whither will ye go? + Alas! what have ye done? +All my welfare to sorrow and care + Should change, if ye were gone: +For, in my mind, of all mankind + I love but you alone. + +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 ready, 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 woman +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 outlaw. +For ye must there in your hand bear + A bow ready 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. + +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 outlaw this is the law, + That men him take and bind: +Without pitie, hanged 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 valleys, + 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 pleasure, + And shortly it is this-- +That where ye be, me seemeth, parde, + 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 shetes 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 diete + 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 archere, + 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: +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 company: +It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold; + And so is a woman: +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, parde: +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 cursed deed! +To be felaw 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 cursed 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, +Be so unkind to leave behind + Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, +Trust me truly 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 changed 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 disparage +You (God defend), sith you descend + Of so great a linage. +Now understand: to Westmoreland, + Which is my heritage, +I will you bring; and with a ring, + By way of marriage +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. + +never a dele] never a bit. than] then. in fere] in company +together. rede I can] counsel I know. part with] share +with. tho] those. hele] health. yede] went. on the splene] that +is, in haste. + + +Anonymous. 16th Cent. + +26. As ye came from the Holy Land + +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 abused, +Under which many childish desires + And conceits are excused. + +But true love is a durable fire, + In the mind ever burning, +Never sick, never dead, never cold, + From itself never turning. + + +Anonymous. 16th Cent. (?) + +27. The Lover in Winter Plaineth for the Spring + +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! + + +Anonymous. 16th Cent. + +28. Balow + +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 thoo'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! + + +Anonymous. 16th Cent. (?) + +29. The Old Cloak + + 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 cricke 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. +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. + +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. + +flyte] scold. cloth in grain] scarlet cloth. sigh clout] a rag +for straining. 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. + +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. + +margerain] marjoram. + + +John Skelton. 1460?-1529 + +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. + +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 mercy among: + And no quarrell a knight ought to take + But for a truth, or for the common's sake. + +defarre] undo. + + +Stephen Hawes. d. 1523 + +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! + + +Sir Thomas Wyatt. 1503-1542 + +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! + +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! + +grame] sorrow. + + +Sir Thomas Wyatt. 1503-1542 + +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! + + +Sir Thomas Wyatt. 1503-1542 + +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 served, +'How like you this?'--what hath she now deserved? + + +Sir Thomas Wyatt. 1503-1542 + +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 repaired scale. +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. + +make] mate. mings] mingles, mixes. + + +Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 1516-47 + +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, +Drowned 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. + +drencheth] i. e. is drenched or drowned. + + +Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. 1516-47 + +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 discharged 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 esteemed 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, +Or I my love let slip out of mine entire heart, +So deep reposed in my breast is she for her desart! +For many blessed 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. + +fray] affright. + + +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 love 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. + 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! + +hald] keep. sen] since. belappit] downtrodden. perigall] made +equal to, privileged. garth] garden-close. laif] rest. with mind +inwart] with inner mind, i. e. in spirit. + + +Alexander Scott. 1520?-158- + +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 dreamed 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 Irae + +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 sighed sore and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, +That would not cease but cried still, in sucking at her breast. +She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child, +She rocked 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 proved plain there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, +Could well be known to live in love without discord and strife: +Then kissed 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 failed 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 crooked 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. +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 stoned steed stampis +Through courage, and crampis, +Syne on the land lampis: + The nicht is neir gone. + +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. + +shroudis] dress themselves. shawis] woods. skaillis] +clears. gowans] daisies. low] flame. rone] rowan. pairty] +partner, mate. tursis] carry. tyndis] antlers. grone] groan, +bell. hurchonis] hedgehogs, 'urchins.' maikis] mates. fone] +foes. stoned steed] stallion. crampis] prances. lampis] +gallops. 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. 16th Cent. (Scottish) + +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. + + +Anonymous. 16th Cent. (Scottish) + +51. Lusty May + +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. + +sheen] bright. til] into. schouris] showers. bewis] +boughs. birth] kind. + + +Anonymous. 16th Cent. (Scottish) + +52. My Heart is High Above + +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. + +wiss] wish. 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. 1557 + +53. A Praise of His Lady +Tottel's Miscellany +? by John Heywood + +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 Phoenix 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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1557 + +54. To Her Sea-faring Lover +Tottel's Miscellany +? by John Heywood + +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: + 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! + +neare] nearer. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1589 + +55. The Faithless Shepherdess +William Byrd's Songs of Sundry Natures + +WHILE that the sun with his beams hot + Scorched 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 enchained; +Full soon your love was leapt from me, + Full soon my place he had obtained. + 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 removed, +Before that I the leisure had + To choose you for my best beloved: + 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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1599 + +56. Crabbed Age and Youth +The Passionate Pilgrim +? by William Shakespeare + +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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1600 + +57. Phyllida's Love-Call +England's Helicon + +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-- +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! + +say] soie, silk. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1600 + +58. A Pedlar +John Dowland's Second Book of Songs or Airs + +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! + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 16th Cent. + +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! + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 16th Cent. + +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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1601 + +61. The Now Jerusalem +Song of Mary the Mother of Christ (London: E. Allde) + +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! + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1601 + +62. Icarus +Robert Jones's Second Book of Songs and Airs + +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 frowned, + And now drowned + They in sorrow dwell, +It was the purest light of heav'n for whose fair love they fell. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1602 + +63. Madrigal +Davison's Poetical Rhapsody + +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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1602 + +64. How can the Heart forget her? +Davison's Poetical Rhapsody +? F. or W. Davison + +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? + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1603 + +65. Tears +John Dowland's Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs + +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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1603 + +66. My Lady's Tears +John Dowland's Third and Last Book of Songs or Airs + + I SAW my Lady weep, +And Sorrow proud to be advanced 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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1604 + +67. Sister, Awake! +Thomas Bateson's First Set of English Madrigals + +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! + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1605 + +68. Devotion +Captain Tobias Hume's The First Part of Airs, &c. + +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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1607 + +69. Since First I saw your Face +Thomas Ford's Music of Sundry Kinds + +SINCE first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye; +If now I be disdained 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! + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1607 + +70. There is a Lady sweet and kind +Thomas Ford's Music of Sundry Kinds + +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 winged 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. + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1609 + +71. Love not me for comely grace +John Wilbye's Second Set of Madrigals + +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! + + +Numbers from Elizabethan Miscellanies & Song-books +by Unnamed or Uncertain Authors. 1622 + +72. The Wakening +John Attye's First Book of Airs + +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 spied 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 (?). 1542-1626 + +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 + +75. The Silent Lover +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. + + +Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 + +76. The Silent Lover +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. + + +Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 + +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. + + +Sir Walter Raleigh. 1552-1618 + +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 passed time. + +make] mate. + + +Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599 + +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 Phoebe 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. + +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 loved Lillies: + The pretie Pawnce, + And the Chevisaunce, +Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice. + +Now ryse up, Elisa, decked 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. + +medled] mixed. yfere] together. soote] sweet. coronations] +carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks. pawnce] +pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris. + + +Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599 + +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 chaunced 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, entrayl`d 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 amazed 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, +Prepar'd 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 blessed 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, enranged 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 aged 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 gayned 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 bathed 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. + + +Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599 + +82. Epithalamion + +YE learned 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 joyed 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 beloved 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 wished 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, +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 Phoebus 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-learned 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 dimmed 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: +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 Phoebus! 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. +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 confused 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 Phoebe, 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 crowned with a girland greene, +Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. +Her modest eyes, abashed to behold +So many gazers as on her do stare, +Upon the lowly ground affixed 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 unrevealed 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 governed 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 ordained 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 tyred 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 cancelled 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 misconceived 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 damned 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 winged 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 called 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 desired 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 blessed 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. + +tead] torch. ruddock] redbreast. croud] violin. + + +Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599 + +83. From 'Daphnaida' +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 caused 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 turned 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 eyed 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! + + +Edmund Spenser. 1552-1599 + +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? + + +John Lyly. 1553-1606 + +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 +Seemed 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, + By 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. + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +89. Song + +WHO hath his fancy pleased + With fruits of happy sight, +Let here his eyes be raised + 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 deprived 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 pleased + With fruits of happy sight, +Let here his eyes be raised + On Nature's sweetest light! + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +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 changeed? +Dear, when you find change in me, + Though from me you be estranged, +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. + +leave] cease. + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +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. + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +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 blessed 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! + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +93. This 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? + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +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. + +prease] press. + + +Sir Philip Sidney. 1554-86 + +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? + +I, that did wear the ring her mother left, + I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, +I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, +I, who did make her blush when I was named: +Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, +Watching with sighs till dead love be awaked? + +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. + +chimneys] cheminees, chimney-screens of tapestry work. 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, the 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! + + +Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625 + +98. Phillis 1 + +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. + + +Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625 + +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. + + +Thomas Lodge. 1556?-1625 + +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 Phoebus' 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 + +Oenone. 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. +Oenone. 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! + +Oenone. Fair and fair, etc. +Paris. Fair and fair, etc. +Thy love is fair, etc. +Oenone. 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. + + +George Peele. 1558?-97 + +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 aged 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 calmed 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. + + +Robert Greene. 1560-92 + +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 compared 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! + + +Robert Greene. 1560-92 + +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 changed 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened. boulden] +swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples] +herbs. cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms. + + +George Chapman. 1560-1634 + +107. Bridal Song + +O COME, soft rest of cares! come, Night! + Come, naked Virtue's only tire, +The reaped 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 crowned 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 lopped 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. + + +Robert Southwell. 1561-95 + +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, scorched 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 defiled 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 called unto mind + That it was Christmas Day. + + +Henry Constable. 1562?-1613? + +110. On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney + +GIVE pardon, blessed 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! + + +Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619 + +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. + + +Samuel Daniel. 1562-1619 + +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 reconciled 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, confined 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, +Received 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 aged 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 served? +Amidst an ocean of delight + For pleasure to be starved? + +Show me no more those snowy breasts + With azure riverets branched, +Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, + Yet is my thirst not stanched; +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! + + +Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 + +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. + + +Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 + +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 turned, +He, as it had been night, + In clouds hath mourned. + 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 unmatched 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 pour 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. + + +Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 + +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 amazed: +Yet have we well begun; +Battles so bravely won +Have ever to the sun + By fame been raised. + +'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, +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 + Bruised 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? + +bilbos] swords, from Bilboa. + + +Michael Drayton. 1563-1631 + +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-lined 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. + + +Sir Walter Raleigh. 1564-93 + +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 admired 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +125. Spring and Winter +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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +126. Spring and Winter +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 doe 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. + +keel] skim. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +127. Fairy Land +i + +OVER hill, over dale, + Thorough bush, thorough brier, + Over park, over pale, + Thorough flood, thorough fire, + I do wander everywhere, + Swifter than the moone'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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +128. Fairy Land +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +129. Fairy Land +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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +130. Fairy Land +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +131. Fairy Land +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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +132. Love + + TELL me where is Fancy bred, +Or in the heart or in the head? +How begot, how nourished? + 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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! + +cypres] crape. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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, +Ducdame, ducdamè, ducdamè: + Here shall he see + Gross fools as he, +An if he will come to me. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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 crown`d 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +139. Aubade + +HARK! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, + And Phoebus '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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +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 finish'd joy and moan: +All lovers young, all lovers must +Consign to thee, and come to dust. + +No exorciser harm thee! +Nor no witchcraft charm thee! +Ghost unlaid forbear thee! +Nothing ill come near thee! +Quiet consummation have; +And renowned be thy grave! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +141. Bridal Song +? or John Fletcher. + +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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +142. Dirge of the Three Queens +? or John Fletcher. + +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 convent naught else but woes. + +dole] lamentation. convent] summon. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +143. Orpheus +? or John Fletcher. + +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +144. The Phoenix 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; + Phoenix 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. + +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 phoenix' 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 phoenix 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 phoenix' 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. + +can] knows. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +145. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +146. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +147. Sonnets +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-bemoaned 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +148. Sonnets +iv + +THY bosom is endeared with all hearts +Which I, by lacking, have supposed dead: +And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts, +And all those friends which I thought buried. +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +149. Sonnets +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 blessed shape we know. + In all external grace you have some part, + But you like none, none you, for constant heart. + +foison] plenty. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +150. Sonnets +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 perfumed tincture of the Roses, +Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly +When summer's breath their masked 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +151. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +152. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +153. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +154. Sonnets +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 conquer'd 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! + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +155. Sonnets +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, +Unmoved, 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +156. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +157. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +158. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +159. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +160. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +161. Sonnets +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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +162. Sonnets +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-fixed 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +163. Sonnets +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 despised 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. + + +William Shakespeare. 1564-1616 + +164. Sonnets +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! + + +Thomas Nashe. 1567-1601 + +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. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +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 framed: +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. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +170. Devotion +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 scorched thee + As thou still black must be, +Till her kind beams thy black so 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 ordained! + The sun must have his shade, + Till both at once do fade,-- +The sun still proud, the shadow still disdained. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +171. Devotion +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. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +172. Vobiscum est Iope + +WHEN thou must home to shades of underground, +And there arrived, a new admired 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! + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +173. A 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. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +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. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +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. + + +Thomas Campion. 1567?-1619 + +176. O come quickly! + +NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, +Never tired 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 Blessed 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; +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? + +teint] tint, hue. + + +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 Dame 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. + + +Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639 + +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. + + +Sir Henry Wotton. 1568-1639 + +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. + + +Sir Robert Ayton. 1570-1638 + +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 wished 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. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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! + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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? + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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? +Or 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! + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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. + +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 wither'd 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! + +allay] alloy. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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 professed 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. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +192. On Elizabeth L. H. +Epitaphs: i + +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. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +193. On Salathiel Pavy +A child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel +Epitaphs: ii + +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. + + +Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 + +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 styled 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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +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 cemented + 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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +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. + + +John Donne. 1573-1631 + +202. Death + +DEATH, be not proud, though some have called 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 crisped 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! + +stare] starling. + + +Thomas Heywood. 157?-1650 + +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! + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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! + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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! + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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! + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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.' + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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.' + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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; + Danae, 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. + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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; +From thy plenteous hand divine +Let a river run with wine: + God of youth, let this day here + Enter neither care nor fear. + +mazer] a bowl of maple-wood. + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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. + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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 fixed 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. + + +John Fletcher. 1579-1625 + +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 winged 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. + +dole] lamentation. + + +John Webster. ?-1630? + +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. + + +John Webster. ?-1630? + +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 + + PHOEBUS, 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 wished 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 Peneus' 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 Phoebus 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. + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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. + +paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound. + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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. + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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 closed in a tomb. + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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 musked 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 passed pleasures double but new woe? + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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?' + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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. + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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! + + +William Drummond, of Hawthornden. 1585-1649 + +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 unleaved 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! + + +George Wither. 1588-1667 + +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 disposed nature +Joined 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? + + +George Wither. 1588-1667 + +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 beloved 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 admired flowers of France, +Let who will praise and behold +The reserved 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 curled 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. + + +George Wither. 1588-1667 + +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 beloved 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. + +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 performed 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. + +peer] companion. + + +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... + + +William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643 + +241. The Sirens' Song + +STEER, hither steer your winged pines, + All beaten mariners! +Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, + A prey to passengers-- +Perfumes far sweeter than the best +Which make the Phoenix' 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. + + +William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643 + +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 learned 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. + + +William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643 + +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. + + +William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643 + +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. + + +William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643 + +245. In Obitum M.S. Xo Maij, 1614 +Epitaphs + +MAY! Be thou never graced with birds that sing, + Nor Flora's pride! +In thee all flowers and roses spring, + Mine only died. + + +William Browne, of Tavistock. 1588-1643 + +246. On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke +Epitaphs + +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: + 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. + +beads] prayers. green-gown] tumble on the grass. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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 kissed thee. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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 sweet smelt everywhere, +As Heaven had spent all perfumes there. +At last, when prayers for the dead +And rites were all accomplished, +They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, +And closed her up as in a tomb. + +trental] services for the dead, of thirty masses. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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 enclosed well +In amber or some crystal shell, +Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. + +You are a dainty violet, +Yet wither'd 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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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! + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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 closed 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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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 baptim 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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +265. To Oenone + +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! + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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! + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + +paddocks] frogs. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +273. Another + +HERE a pretty baby lies +Sung asleep with lullabies: +Pray be silent and not stir +Th' easy earth that covers her. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +274. His Winding-sheet + +COME thou, who are 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 + Once 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 wronged 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. + +Platonick year] the perfect or cyclic year, when the sun, moon, and +five planets end their revolutions together and start anew. See +Timaeus, p. 39. + + +Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 + +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-beloved'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-beloved'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 Beloved's mine. + + +Francis Quarles. 1592-1644 + +277. Respice Finem +Epigram + +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. + + +Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669 + +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 envy +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 +Dislodged 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. + + +Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. 1592-1669 + +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 interposed 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. + + +George Herbert. 1593-1632 + +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. + + +George Herbert. 1593-1632 + +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! + + +George Herbert. 1593-1632 + +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; +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! + +savour] savoir, knowing. + + +George Herbert. 1593-1632 + +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 dispersed 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. + + +George Herbert. 1593-1632 + +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 + +O 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. + + +James Shirley. 1596-1666 + +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 crooked 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 +Fixed become as in their sphere. + +Ask me no more if east or west +The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; +For unto you at last she flies, +And in your fragrant bosom dies. + + +Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639? + +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 aged 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. + + +Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639? + +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. + + +Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639? + +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. + + +Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639? + +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. + +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. + +imp'd] grafted with new feathers. + + +Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639? + +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. + + +Thomas Carew. 1595?-1639? + +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 darken'd 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 unperceived 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 entranced 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. + + +William Habington. 1605-1654 + +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 wheresoe'er 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. + + +Thomas Randolph. 1605-1635 + +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! + + +Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668 + +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. + + +Sir William Davenant. 1606-1668 + +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! + + +Edmund Waller. 1606-1687 + +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! + + +Edmund Waller. 1606-1687 + +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 hooked Chariot stood +Unstain'd with hostile blood, + The Trumpet spake not to the armed 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 charmeed 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 stringed 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 helmed 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 aged 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 usurped 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 arched roof in words deceiving. +Apollo from his shrine +Can no more divine, + With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. +No nightly trance, or breathed 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 mooned 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-stoled 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 damned 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 teemed 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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 undisturbed 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +310. L'Allegro + +HENCE loathed 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-crowned 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 Wreathed 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 unreproved 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 list'ning 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 aged 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 stories told of many a feat, +How Faery Mab the junkets eat, +She was pincht, and pull'd the 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 learned 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 lincked 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +311. Il Penseroso + +HENCE vain deluding joyes, + The brood of folly without father bred, +How little you bested, + Or fill the fixed 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 retired 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-wheeled 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 removed 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 Daemons 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, +Ennobled hath the Buskind stage. + But, O sad Virgin, that thy power +Might raise Musaeus 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 arched walks of twilight groves, +And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, +Of Pine, or monumental Oake, +Where the rude Ax with heaved 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 embowed 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +313. From 'Comus' +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +314. From' Comus' +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! + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +315. From' Comus' +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-fringed 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +316. From 'Comus' +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 crisped 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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 Damaetas 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 Neaera'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'abhorred shears, +And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, +Phoebus 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 beaked 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +321. On His Deceased Wife + +METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused 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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +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 unapproached 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 Maeonides, +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. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +323. From 'Samson Agonistes' +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 winged expedition +Swift as the lightning glance he executes +His errand on the wicked, who surpris'd +Lose thir defence distracted and amaz'd. + + +John Milton. 1608-1674 + +324. From 'Samson Agonistes' +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! + + +Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642 + +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. + + +Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642 + +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! + + +Sir John Suckling. 1609-1642 + +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. + + +William Cartwright. 1611-1643 + +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. + + +William Cartwright. 1611-1643 + +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 gather'd 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. + + +William Cartwright. 1611-1643 + +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 +Taffata 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. + + +Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 + +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. + + +Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 + +338. A Hymn to the Name and Honour +of the Admirable Saint Teresa + +LOVE, thou are 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 charge 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 esteemed 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 blessed 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, wheresoe'er 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. + + +Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 + +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! + + +Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 + +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 phoenix builds the phoenix' 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, you 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! + + +Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 + +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! + + +Richard Crashaw. 1613?-1649 + +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. + + +Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 + +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. + + +Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 + +345. Gratiana Dancing + +SHE beat the happy pavement-- +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. + + +Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 + +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 ravelled. + +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! + + +Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 + +347. The Grasshopper + +O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair + Of some well-filled 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. + + +Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658 + +348. To Althea, from Prison + +WHEN Love with unconfined 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, +Enlarged 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 + +349. Anacreontics +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? + + +Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667 + +350. Anacreontics +2. The Epicure + +UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, +On flowerly 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. + + +Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667 + +351. Anacreontics +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. + + +Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667 + +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 Ledaean 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. + + +Abraham Cowley. 1618-1667 + +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 +Thy 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. + +Hoe 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 + Urged 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 Caesar'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 reserved 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 armed 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 forced 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 Caesar 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. + + +Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678 + +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 beloved 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? + + +Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678 + +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. + + +Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678 + +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. + + +Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678 + +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-verged 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! + + +Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678 + +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. + + +Andrew Marvell. 1621-1678 + +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. + + +Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695 + +363. Peace + +MY soul, there is a country + Far beyond the stars, +Where stands a winged 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. + + +Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695 + +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. + + +Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695 + +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. 17th Cent. + +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.' + +'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. + +'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.' + +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. + +ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite +(as a minstrel). leven] ?lawn. dought] could. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +'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. + +'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! + +skeely] skilful. lift] sky. lap] sprang. flatter'd] tossed +afloat. kames] combs. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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?' + +'They 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. + +'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. + +'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. + +'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 has crawn, and the day did dawn, + And the sun began to peep, +Up than 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. + +jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry] ?a corruption for 'braw +ivory': or bayberry may=laurel-wood. cramoisie] crimson. reiver] +robber. dow] can. gore] skirt, waist. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +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 + When they cam first to Yarrow.' + +lawin'] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie] +doleful. houms] water-meads. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +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 sall never get, + Nor our true love sall 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 sall 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. + +'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.' + +striped] thrust. twin] part in two. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +'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'. + +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.' + +jimp] trim. yett] gate. tyne] lose. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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!' + +'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!' + +dule ye dree] grief you suffer. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +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 sall mak ye dree. + +'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 sall 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.' + +'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.' + +'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. + +The 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. + +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. + +town] stead. buskit] attired. wud] mad. grund-wa'] +ground-wall. jimp] slender, trim. row] roll, wrap. Busk and +boun] trim up and prepare to go. freits] ill omens. lowe] +flame. wighty] stout, doughty. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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.' + +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. + +'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! + +wroken] avenged. row'd] rolled, wrapped. greet] cry. hooly] +gently. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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 vexed sair, +And sair envìed 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.' + +The miller hasted and drew his dam, +And there he found a drown'd women. + +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 Helen!' + By the bonnie milldams o' Binnorie. + +soummin'] swimming. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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, + Til 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. + +'Then 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!' + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +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!' + +fashes] troubles. syke] marsh. sheugh] trench. channerin'] +fretting. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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?' + +'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. + +make] mate. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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?' + +'--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.' + +corbies] ravens. fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + +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. + +fleet] house-room. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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.' + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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! + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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! + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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; +Ana 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! + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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 hacked him in pieces sma', +I hacked 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. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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 velvet, + 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! + +cramasie] crimson. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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.' + +jow] beat, toll. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +390. Pipe and Can + +I + +THE Indian weed withered 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. + +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! + +Charokko] Scirocco. + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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 Phoenix 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! + + +Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. + +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, +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. + +guedes] goods, property of any kind. + + +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 + +O 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 rivall'd 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 Coelia + +WHEN, Coelia, 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, call'd 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 miracles + 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 borrow'd, 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 harden'd felon, took a pride + To work more mischievously slow, + And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. + 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. + + +John Dryden. 1631-1700 + +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! + + +John Dryden. 1631-1700 + +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. + + +John Dryden. 1631-1700 + +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. + + +John Dryden. 1631-1700 + +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. + + +Sir George Etherege. 1635-1691 + +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 Blessed, 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. + + +Sir Charles Sedley. 1639-1701 + +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! + + +Aphra Behn. 1640-1689 + +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. + + +John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 + +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. + + +John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 + +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. + + +John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 + +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! + + +John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. 1649-1720 + +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 happen'd 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. + + +Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 + +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. + + +Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 + +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. + + +Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 + +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.' + + +Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 + +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. + + +Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 + +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 Pere. + +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. + + +Matthew Prior. 1664-1721 + +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 int'rest 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 Heart's 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. + +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! + +may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] +promised. titty] sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] +suppose. pickles] small quantities. 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. + + +William Congreve. 1670-1729 + +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 hat 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. + + +Isaac Watts. 1674-1748 + +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. + +Blessed 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 + Cursed 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 horned 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. 1670-1718 + +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. + + +Alexander Pope. 1688-1744 + +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 this 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! + + +Alexander Pope. 1688-1744 + +442. The Dying Christian to his Soul + +VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! + Quit, O quit this mortal frame: + Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, 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 blamed +Because I leave him in the lurch + As soon as text is named; +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 neighbors all + Make gave 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! + + +Henry Carey. 1693?-1743 + +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. + + +William Broome. ?-1745 + +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! + + +Samuel Johnson. 1709-1784 + +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, letter'd 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 disdained 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 glowing 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; +Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + Ev'n 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 mark'd 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. + + +Thomas Gray. 1716-1771 + +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' accursed 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.) + + +Thomas Gray. 1716-1771 + +455. The Progress of Poesy +A PINDARIC ODE + + AWAKE, Aeolian 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-crowned 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 sceptres 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' Aegean deep, + Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, + Or where Maeander'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. + + +Thomas Gray. 1716-1771 + +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. + + +William Collins. 1721-1759 + +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! + + +William Collins. 1721-1759 + +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! + + +William Collins. 1721-1759 + +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 the 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. + + +Mark Akenside. 1721-1770 + +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 discern'd, + 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? + + +Mark Akenside. 1721-1770 + +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 accomplish'd 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 blessed 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 assign'd, +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 stretched-out arm; + Glorious th' enraptured main: + +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! + +glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish. + + +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. + +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. + +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. 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. + + +Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774 + +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. + + +William Cowper. 1731-1800 + +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.' + +'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 sall blin' my e'e, + Ye aye sall be my dearie!' + +yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. row'd] +rolled, wrapped. dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky. + + +Anna Laetitia 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 Aella + +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. + +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. + +Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, +Drain my heartes 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. + +cryne] hair. rode] complexion. dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] +elf. + + +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. + + +George Crabbe. 1754-1832 + +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? + + +George Crabbe. 1754-1832 + +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. + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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 perfumed 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. + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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! + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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. + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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 kissed 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 kissed 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. + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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 lapsed 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.' + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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 water'd 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? + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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. + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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, + And 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.' + + +William Blake. 1757-1827 + +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: +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 arena 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. + +stour] dust, turmoil. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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. + +airts] points of the compass. row] roll. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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 wander'd 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. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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 ranked 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! + +tassie] cup. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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! + +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. + +jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow] +pate. canty] cheerful. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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. + +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. + +or'] ere. staw] stole. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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! + +wage] stake, plight. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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! + +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. + +drumlie] miry. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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 Phoebus' light. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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.' + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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. + + +Robert Burns. 1759-1796 + +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 aetherial, 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! + + +Henry Rowe. 1750-1819 + +508. Moon + +THEE too, modest tressed 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 latched 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 grieved 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. + + +James Hogg. 1770-1835 + +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', +But lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw; +Lang the laird o' Duneira blame, +And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame! + +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, +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. +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. +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, +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. + +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 linked 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 marled 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. + +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; +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 herked 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 threaten'd 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, +Before she sey another flight, +To play wi' 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; +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 keeped 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; +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. + +yorlin] the yellow-hammer. hindberrye] bramble. minny] +mother. greet] mourn. westlin] western. its lane] alone, by +itself. low'd] flamed. eiry leme] eery gleam. linn] +waterfall. joup] mantle. 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. kemed] +combed. kyth] show, appear. gleid] spark, glow. elyed] +vanished. marled] variegated, parti-coloured. leifu'] lone, +wistful. girn'd] snarled. weir] war. 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. sey] essay. unmeled] +unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself. seymar]=cymar, a slight +covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] milking-pens. goved] +stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt. raike] ramble. tod] +fox. attour] out over. forhooy'd] neglected. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +515. Lucy +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!' + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +516. Lucy +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +517. Lucy +iii + +I TRAVELL'D 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 showed, thy nights conceal'd, + The bowers where Lucy played; +And thine too is the last green field + That Lucy's eyes survey'd. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +518. Lucy +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +519. Lucy +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +523. England, 1802 +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +524. England, 1802 +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +525. England, 1802 +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +526. England, 1802 +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +527. England, 1802 +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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? + +Whate'er 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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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; +I could wish my days to be +Bound each to each by natural piety. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +533. The Sonnet +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +534. The Sonnet +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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 wreathed horn. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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 blessed 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 fulness 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-learned 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 relinquish'd 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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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. + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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! + + +William Wordsworth. 1770-1850 + +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 nought 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 filled 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!' + + +Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 + +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. + + +Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 + +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. + + +Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 + +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. + + +Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 + +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.' + + +Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 + +547. Patriotism +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. + + +Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 + +548. Patriotism +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 polluted 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 barter'd 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 +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 beard and glittering eye, + Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? + + The Bridegroom's doors are opened 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. + +The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound 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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + The 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. + +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! + +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! + +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.' + + 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. + +PART II + + 'The Sun now rose upon the right: + Out of the sea came he, + Still hid in mist, and on the left + Went down into the sea. + + And the good south wind still blew behind, + But no sweet bird did follow, + Nor any day for food or play + Came to the mariners' hollo! + +His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner for killing the bird +of good luck. + + And I had done an hellish thing, + And it would work 'em woe: + For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird + That made the breeze to blow. + Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, + That made the breeze to blow! + +But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make +themselves accomplices in the crime. + + Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, + The glorious Sun uprist: + Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird + That brought the fog and mist. + 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, + That bring the fog and mist. + +The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and +sails northward, even till it reaches the Line. + + The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, + The furrow follow'd free; + We were the first that ever burst + Into that silent sea. + +The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. + + Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, + 'Twas sad as sad could be; + And we did speak only to break + The silence of the sea! + + All in a hot and copper sky, + The bloody Sun, at noon, + Right up above the mast did stand, + No bigger than the Moon. + + Day after day, day after day, + We stuck, nor breath nor motion; + As idle as a painted ship + Upon a painted ocean. + +And the Albatross begins to be avenged. + + Water, water, everywhere, + And all the boards did shrink; + Water, water, everywhere, + Nor any drop to drink. + + The very deep did rot: O Christ! + That ever this should be! + Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs + Upon the slimy sea. + + About, about, in reel and rout + The death-fires danced at night; + The water, like a witch's oils, + Burnt green, and blue, and white. + +A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this +planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned +Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, +may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or +element without one or more. + + And some in dreams assured were + Of the Spirit that plagued us so; + Nine fathom deep he had followed us + From the land of mist and snow. + + And every tongue, through utter drought, + Was wither'd at the root; + We could not speak, no more than if + We had been choked with soot. + +The shipmates in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt +on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird +round his neck. + + Ah! well a-day! what evil looks + Had I from old and young! + Instead of the cross, the Albatross + About my neck was hung. + +PART III + + 'There passed a weary time. Each throat + Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. + A weary time! a weary time! + How glazed each weary eye! + When looking westward, I beheld + A something in the sky. + +The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off. + + At first it seem'd a little speck, + And then it seem'd a mist; + It moved and moved, and took at last + A certain shape, I wist. + + A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! + And still it near'd and near'd: + As if it dodged a water-sprite, + It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd. + + At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear + ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst. + + With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, + We could nor laugh nor wail; + Through utter drought all dumb we stood! + I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, + And cried, A sail! a sail! + +A flash of joy; + + With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, + Agape they heard me call: + Gramercy! they for joy did grin, + And all at once their breath drew in, + As they were drinking all. + +And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without +wind or tide? + + See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! + Hither to work us weal-- + Without a breeze, without a tide, + She steadies with upright keel! + + The western wave was all aflame, + The day was wellnigh done! + Almost upon the western wave + Rested the broad, bright Sun; + When that strange shape drove suddenly + Betwixt us and the Sun. + +It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. + + And straight the Sun was fleck'd with bars + (Heaven's Mother send us grace!), + As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd + With broad and burning face. + + Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) + How fast she nears and nears! + Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, + Like restless gossameres? + +And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The +Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton +ship. Like vessel, like crew! + + Are those her ribs through which the Sun + Did peer, as through a grate? + And is that Woman all her crew? + Is that a Death? and are there two? + Is Death that Woman's mate? + + Her lips were red, her looks were free, + Her locks were yellow as gold: + Her skin was as white as leprosy, + The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, + Who thicks man's blood with cold. + +Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the +latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. + + The naked hulk alongside came, + And the twain were casting dice; + "The game is done! I've won! I've won!" + Quoth she, and whistles thrice. + +No twilight within the courts of the Sun. + + The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: + At one stride comes the dark; + With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, + Off shot the spectre-bark. + + We listen'd and look'd sideways up! + Fear at my heart, as at a cup, + My life-blood seem'd to sip! + The stars were dim, and thick the night, + The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white; + From the sails the dew did drip-- + Till clomb above the eastern bar + The horned Moon, with one bright star + Within the nether tip. + +At the rising of the Moon, +One after another, + + One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon, + Too quick for groan or sigh, + Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, + And cursed me with his eye. + +His shipmates drop down dead. + + Four times fifty living men + (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), + With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, + They dropp'd down one by one. + +But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner. + + The souls did from their bodies fly-- + They fled to bliss or woe! + And every soul, it pass'd me by + Like the whizz of my crossbow!' + +PART IV + +The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him; + + 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! + I fear thy skinny hand! + And thou art long, and lank, and brown, + As is the ribb'd sea-sand. + + I fear thee and thy glittering eye, + And thy skinny hand so brown.'-- + 'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! + This body dropt not down. + +But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and +proceedeth to relate his horrible penance. + + Alone, alone, all, all alone, + Alone on a wide, wide sea! + And never a saint took pity on + My soul in agony. + +He despiseth the creatures of the calm. + + The many men, so beautiful! + And they all dead did lie: + And a thousand thousand slimy things + Lived on; and so did I. + +And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead. + + I look'd upon the rotting sea, + And drew my eyes away; + I look'd upon the rotting deck, + And there the dead men lay. + + I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray; + But or ever a prayer had gusht, + A wicked whisper came, and made + My heart as dry as dust. + + I closed my lids, and kept them close, + And the balls like pulses beat; + For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, + Lay like a load on my weary eye, + And the dead were at my feet. + +But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. + + The cold sweat melted from their limbs, + Nor rot nor reek did they: + The look with which they look'd on me + Had never pass'd away. + + An orphan's curse would drag to hell + A spirit from on high; + But oh! more horrible than that + Is the curse in a dead man's eye! + Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, + And yet I could not die. + +In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying +Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and +everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest +and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter +unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a +silent joy at their arrival. + + The moving Moon went up the sky, + And nowhere did abide; + Softly she was going up, + And a star or two beside-- + + Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, + Like April hoar-frost spread; + But where the ship's huge shadow lay, + The charmed water burnt alway + A still and awful red. + +By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great +calm. + + Beyond the shadow of the ship, + I watch'd the water-snakes: + They moved in tracks of shining white, + And when they rear'd, the elfish light + Fell off in hoary flakes. + + Within the shadow of the ship + I watch'd their rich attire: + Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, + They coil'd and swam; and every track + Was a flash of golden fire. + +Their beauty and their happiness. + + O happy living things! no tongue + Their beauty might declare: + A spring of love gush'd from my heart, + And I bless'd them unaware: + Sure my kind saint took pity on me, + And I bless'd them unaware. + +He blesseth them in his heart. +The spell begins to break. + + The selfsame moment I could pray; + And from my neck so free + The Albatross fell off, and sank + Like lead into the sea. + +PART V + + 'O sleep! it is a gentle thing, + Beloved from pole to pole! + To Mary Queen the praise be given! + She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, + That slid into my soul. + +By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with +rain. + + The silly buckets on the deck, + That had so long remain'd, + I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew; + And when I awoke, it rain'd. + + My lips were wet, my throat was cold, + My garments all were dank; + Sure I had drunken in my dreams, + And still my body drank. + + I moved, and could not feel my limbs: + I was so light--almost + I thought that I had died in sleep, + And was a blessed ghost. + +He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky +and the element. + + And soon I heard a roaring wind: + It did not come anear; + But with its sound it shook the sails, + That were so thin and sere. + + The upper air burst into life; + And a hundred fire-flags sheen; + To and fro they were hurried about! + And to and fro, and in and out, + The wan stars danced between. + + And the coming wind did roar more loud, + And the sails did sigh like sedge; + And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud; + The Moon was at its edge. + + The thick black cloud was cleft, and still + The Moon was at its side; + Like waters shot from some high crag, + The lightning fell with never a jag, + A river steep and wide. + +The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on; + + The loud wind never reach'd the ship, + Yet now the ship moved on! + Beneath the lightning and the Moon + The dead men gave a groan. + + They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, + Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; + It had been strange, even in a dream, + To have seen those dead men rise. + + The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on; + Yet never a breeze up-blew; + The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, + Where they were wont to do; + They raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- + We were a ghastly crew. + + The body of my brother's son + Stood by me, knee to knee: + The body and I pull'd at one rope, + But he said naught to me.' + +But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, +but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation +of the guardian saint. + + 'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' + Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest: + 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, + Which to their corses came again, + But a troop of spirits blest: + + For when it dawn'd--they dropp'd their arms, + And cluster'd round the mast; + Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, + And from their bodies pass'd. + + Around, around, flew each sweet sound, + Then darted to the Sun; + Slowly the sounds came back again, + Now mix'd, now one by one. + + Sometimes a-dropping from the sky + I heard the skylark sing; + Sometimes all little birds that are, + How they seem'd to fill the sea and air + With their sweet jargoning! + + And now 'twas like all instruments, + Now like a lonely flute; + And now it is an angel's song, + That makes the Heavens be mute. + + It ceased; yet still the sails made on + A pleasant noise till noon, + A noise like of a hidden brook + In the leafy month of June, + That to the sleeping woods all night + Singeth a quiet tune. + + Till noon we quietly sail'd on, + Yet never a breeze did breathe: + Slowly and smoothly went the ship, + Moved onward from beneath. + +The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as +the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth +vengeance. + + Under the keel nine fathom deep, + From the land of mist and snow, + The Spirit slid: and it was he + That made the ship to go. + The sails at noon left off their tune, + And the ship stood still also. + + The Sun, right up above the mast, + Had fix'd her to the ocean: + But in a minute she 'gan stir, + With a short uneasy motion-- + Backwards and forwards half her length + With a short uneasy motion. + + Then like a pawing horse let go, + She made a sudden bound: + It flung the blood into my head, + And I fell down in a swound. + +The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the +element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the +other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been +accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. + + How long in that same fit I lay, + I have not to declare; + But ere my living life return'd, + I heard, and in my soul discern'd + Two voices in the air. + + "Is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? + By Him who died on cross, + With his cruel bow he laid full low + The harmless Albatross. + + The Spirit who bideth by himself + In the land of mist and snow, + He loved the bird that loved the man + Who shot him with his bow." + + The other was a softer voice, + As soft as honey-dew: + Quoth he, "The man hath penance done, + And penance more will do." + +PART VI + + First Voice: '"But tell me, tell me! speak again, + Thy soft response renewing-- + What makes that ship drive on so fast? + What is the Ocean doing?" + + Second Voice: "Still as a slave before his lord, + The Ocean hath no blast; + His great bright eye most silently + Up to the Moon is cast-- + + If he may know which way to go; + For she guides him smooth or grim. + See, brother, see! how graciously + She looketh down on him." + +The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power +causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could +endure. + + First Voice: "But why drives on that ship so fast, + Without or wave or wind?" + + Second Voice: "The air is cut away before, + And closes from behind. + + Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! + Or we shall be belated: + For slow and slow that ship will go, + When the Mariner's trance is abated.' + +The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his +penance begins anew. + + I woke, and we were sailing on + As in a gentle weather: + 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; + The dead men stood together. + + All stood together on the deck, + For a charnel-dungeon fitter: + All fix'd on me their stony eyes, + That in the Moon did glitter. + + The pang, the curse, with which they died, + Had never pass'd away: + I could not draw my eyes from theirs, + Nor turn them up to pray. + +The curse is finally expiated. + + And now this spell was snapt: once more + I viewed the ocean green, + And look'd far forth, yet little saw + Of what had else been seen-- + + Like one that on a lonesome road + Doth walk in fear and dread, + And having once turn'd round, walks on, + And turns no more his head; + Because he knows a frightful fiend + Doth close behind him tread. + + But soon there breathed a wind on me, + Nor sound nor motion made: + Its path was not upon the sea, + In ripple or in shade. + + It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek + Like a meadow-gale of spring-- + It mingled strangely with my fears, + Yet it felt like a welcoming. + + Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, + Yet she sail'd softly too: + Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- + On me alone it blew. + +And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country. + + O dream of joy! is this indeed + The lighthouse top I see? + Is this the hill? is this the kirk? + Is this mine own countree? + + We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, + And I with sobs did pray-- + O let me be awake, my God! + Or let me sleep alway. + + The harbour-bay was clear as glass, + So smoothly it was strewn! + And on the bay the moonlight lay, + And the shadow of the Moon. + + The rock shone bright, the kirk no less + That stands above the rock: + The moonlight steep'd in silentness + The steady weathercock. + +The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, + + And the bay was white with silent light + Till rising from the same, + Full many shapes, that shadows were, + In crimson colours came. + +And appear in their own forms of light. + + A little distance from the prow + Those crimson shadows were: + I turn'd my eyes upon the deck-- + O Christ! what saw I there! + + Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, + And, by the holy rood! + A man all light, a seraph-man, + On every corse there stood. + + This seraph-band, each waved his hand: + It was a heavenly sight! + They stood as signals to the land, + Each one a lovely light; + + This seraph-band, each waved his hand, + No voice did they impart-- + No voice; but O, the silence sank + Like music on my heart. + + But soon I heard the dash of oars, + I heard the Pilot's cheer; + My head was turn'd perforce away, + And I saw a boat appear. + + The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, + I heard them coming fast: + Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy + The dead men could not blast. + + I saw a third--I heard his voice: + It is the Hermit good! + He singeth loud his godly hymns + That he makes in the wood. + He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away + The Albatross's blood. + +PART VII + +The Hermit of the Wood. + + 'This Hermit good lives in that wood + Which slopes down to the sea. + How loudly his sweet voice he rears! + He loves to talk with marineres + That come from a far countree. + + He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- + He hath a cushion plump: + It is the moss that wholly hides + The rotted old oak-stump. + + The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk, + "Why, this is strange, I trow! + Where are those lights so many and fair, + That signal made but now?" + +Approacheth the ship with wonder. + + "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said-- + "And they answer'd not our cheer! + The planks looked warp'd! and see those sails, + How thin they are and sere! + I never saw aught like to them, + Unless perchance it were + + Brown skeletons of leaves that lag + My forest-brook along; + When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, + And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, + That eats the she-wolf's young." + + "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-- + (The Pilot made reply) + I am a-fear'd"--"Push on, push on!" + Said the Hermit cheerily. + + The boat came closer to the ship, + But I nor spake nor stirr'd; + The boat came close beneath the ship, + And straight a sound was heard. + +The ship suddenly sinketh. + + Under the water it rumbled on, + Still louder and more dread: + It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; + The ship went down like lead. + +The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. + + Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, + Which sky and ocean smote, + Like one that hath been seven days drown'd + My body lay afloat; + But swift as dreams, myself I found + Within the Pilot's boat. + + Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, + The boat spun round and round; + And all was still, save that the hill + Was telling of the sound. + + I moved my lips--the Pilot shriek'd + And fell down in a fit; + The holy Hermit raised his eyes, + And pray'd where he did sit. + + I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, + Who now doth crazy go, + Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while + His eyes went to and fro. + "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see + The Devil knows how to row." + + And now, all in my own countree, + I stood on the firm land! + The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, + And scarcely he could stand. + +The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; +and the penance of life falls on him. + + "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" + The Hermit cross'd his brow. + "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say-- + What manner of man art thou?" + + Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd + With a woful agony, + Which forced me to begin my tale; + And then it left me free. + +And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him +to travel from land to land; + + Since then, at an uncertain hour, + That agony returns: + And till my ghastly tale is told, + This heart within me burns. + + I pass, like night, from land to land; + I have strange power of speech; + That moment that his face I see, + I know the man that must hear me: + To him my tale I teach. + + What loud uproar bursts from that door! + The wedding-guests are there: + But in the garden-bower the bride + And bride-maids singing are: + And hark the little vesper bell, + Which biddeth me to prayer! + + O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been + Alone on a wide, wide sea: + So lonely 'twas, that God Himself + Scarce seemed there to be. + + O sweeter than the marriage-feast, + 'Tis sweeter far to me, + To walk together to the kirk + With a goodly company!-- + + To walk together to the kirk, + And all together pray, + While each to his great Father bends, + Old men, and babes, and loving friends, + And youths and maidens gay! + +And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things +that God made and loveth. + + Farewell, farewell! but this I tell + To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! + He prayeth well, who loveth well + Both man and bird and beast. + + He prayeth best, who loveth best + All things both great and small; + For the dear God who loveth us, + He made and loveth all.' + + The Mariner, whose eye is bright, + Whose beard with age is hoar, + Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest + Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. + + He went like one that hath been stunn'd, + And is of sense forlorn: + A sadder and a wiser man + He rose the morrow morn. + + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834 + +550. Kubla Khan + + IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan + A stately pleasure-dome decree: + Where Alph, the sacred river, ran + Through caverns measureless to man + Down to a sunless sea. + So twice five miles of fertile ground + With walls and towers were girdled round: +And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills +Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree; +And here were forests ancient as the hills, +Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. + +But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted +Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! +A savage place! as holy and enchanted +As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted +By woman wailing for her demon-lover! +And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, +As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, +A mighty fountain momently was forced; +Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst +Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, +Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: +And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever +It flung up momently the sacred river. +Five miles meandering with a mazy motion +Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, +Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, +And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: +And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far +Ancestral voices prophesying war! + + The shadow of the dome of pleasure + Floated midway on the waves; + Where was heard the mingled measure + From the fountain and the caves. +It was a miracle of rare device, +A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! + + A damsel with a dulcimer + In a vision once I saw: + It was an Abyssinian maid, + And on her dulcimer she play'd, + Singing of Mount Abora. + Could I revive within me, + Her symphony and song, +To such a deep delight 'twould win me, +That with music loud and long, +I would build that dome in air, +That sunny dome! those caves of ice! +And all who heard should see them there, +And all should cry, Beware! Beware! +His flashing eyes, his floating hair! +Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes with holy dread, + For he on honey-dew hath fed, +And drunk the milk of Paradise. + + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834 + +551. Love + +ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, +Whatever stirs this mortal frame, +All are but ministers of Love, + And feed his sacred flame. + +Oft in my waking dreams do I +Live o'er again that happy hour, +When midway on the mount I lay, + Beside the ruin'd tower. + +The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, +Had blended with the lights of eve; +And she was there, my hope, my joy, + My own dear Genevieve! + +She lean'd against the armed man, +The statue of the armed Knight; +She stood and listen'd to my lay, + Amid the lingering light. + +Few sorrows hath she of her own, +My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! +She loves me best whene'er I sing + The songs that make her grieve. + +I play'd a soft and doleful air; +I sang an old and moving story-- +An old rude song, that suited well + That ruin wild and hoary. + +She listen'd with a flitting blush, +With downcast eyes and modest grace; +For well she knew I could not choose + But gaze upon her face. + +I told her of the Knight that wore +Upon his shield a burning brand; +And that for ten long years he woo'd + The Lady of the Land. + +I told her how he pined: and ah! +The deep, the low, the pleading tone +With which I sang another's love, + Interpreted my own. + +She listen'd with a flitting blush, +With downcast eyes, and modest grace; +And she forgave me, that I gazed + Too fondly on her face! + +But when I told the cruel scorn +That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, +And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, + Nor rested day nor night; + +That sometimes from the savage den, +And sometimes from the darksome shade, +And sometimes starting up at once + In green and sunny glade-- + +There came and look'd him in the face +An angel beautiful and bright; +And that he knew it was a Fiend, + This miserable Knight! + +And that, unknowing what he did, +He leap'd amid a murderous band, +And saved from outrage worse than death + The Lady of the Land;-- + +And how she wept and clasp'd his knees; +And how she tended him in vain-- +And ever strove to expiate + The scorn that crazed his brain;-- + +And that she nursed him in a cave; +And how his madness went away, +When on the yellow forest leaves + A dying man he lay;-- + +His dying words--but when I reach'd +That tenderest strain of all the ditty, +My faltering voice and pausing harp + Disturb'd her soul with pity! + +All impulses of soul and sense +Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; +The music and the doleful tale, + The rich and balmy eve; + +And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, +An undistinguishable throng, +And gentle wishes long subdued, + Subdued and cherish'd long! + +She wept with pity and delight, +She blush'd with love and virgin shame; +And like the murmur of a dream, + I heard her breathe my name. + +Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside, +As conscious of my look she stept-- +Then suddenly, with timorous eye + She fled to me and wept. + +She half enclosed me with her arms, +She press'd me with a meek embrace; +And bending back her head, look'd up, + And gazed upon my face. + +'Twas partly love, and partly fear, +And partly 'twas a bashful art, +That I might rather feel, than see. + The swelling of her heart. + +I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, +And told her love with virgin pride; +And so I won my Genevieve, + My bright and beauteous Bride. + + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834 + +552. Youth and Age + +VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, +Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-- +Both were mine! Life went a-maying +With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, + When I was young! +When I was young?--Ah, woful When! +Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! +This breathing house not built with hands, +This body that does me grievous wrong, +O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, +How lightly then it flash'd along-- +Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, +On winding lakes and rivers wide, +That ask no aid of sail or oar, +That fear no spite of wind or tide! +Naught cared this body for wind or weather +When Youth and I lived in 't together. + +Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like; +Friendship is a sheltering tree; +O the joys, that came down shower-like, +Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, + Ere I was old! +Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, +Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here! +O Youth! for years so many and sweet, +'Tis known that thou and I were one; +I'll think it but a fond conceit-- +It cannot be that thou art gone! +Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd-- +And thou wert aye a masker bold! +What strange disguise hast now put on, +To make believe that thou art gone? +I see these locks in silvery slips, +This drooping gait, this alter'd size: +But springtide blossoms on thy lips, +And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! +Life is but thought: so think I will +That Youth and I are housemates still. + +Dewdrops are the gems of morning, +But the tears of mournful eve! +Where no hope is, life 's a warning +That only serves to make us grieve, + When we are old! +That only serves to make us grieve +With oft and tedious taking-leave, +Like some poor nigh-related guest +That may not rudely be dismist. +Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, +And tells the jest without the smile. + + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834 + +553. Time, Real and Imaginary +AN ALLEGORY + +ON the wide level of a mountain's head +(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place), +Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, +Two lovely children run an endless race, + A sister and a brother! + This far outstripp'd the other; + Yet ever runs she with reverted face, + And looks and listens for the boy behind: + For he, alas! is blind! +O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, +And knows not whether he be first or last. + + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834 + +554. Work without Hope + +ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-- +The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing-- +And Winter, slumbering in the open air, +Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! +And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, +Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. + +Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, +Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. +Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, +For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! +With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll: +And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? +Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, +And Hope without an object cannot live. + + +Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834 + +555. Glycine's Song + +A SUNNY shaft did I behold, + From sky to earth it slanted: +And poised therein a bird so bold-- + Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted! + +He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll'd + Within that shaft of sunny mist; +His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, + All else of amethyst! + +And thus he sang: 'Adieu! adieu! +Love's dreams prove seldom true. +The blossoms, they make no delay: +The sparking dew-drops will not stay. + Sweet month of May, + We must away; + Far, far away! + To-day! to-day!' + + +Robert Southey. 1774-1843 + +556. His Books + +MY days among the Dead are past; + Around me I behold, +Where'er these casual eyes are cast, + The mighty minds of old: +My never-failing friends are they, +With whom I converse day by day. + +With them I take delight in weal + And seek relief in woe; +And while I understand and feel + How much to them I owe, +My cheeks have often been bedew'd +With tears of thoughtful gratitude. + +My thoughts are with the Dead; with them + I live in long-past years, +Their virtues love, their faults condemn, + Partake their hopes and fears; +And from their lessons seek and find +Instruction with an humble mind. + +My hopes are with the Dead; anon + My place with them will be, +And I with them shall travel on + Through all Futurity; +Yet leaving here a name, I trust, +That will not perish in the dust. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +557. The Maid's Lament + +I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone, + I feel I am alone. +I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, + Alas! I would not check. +For reasons not to love him once I sought, + And wearied all my thought +To vex myself and him; I now would give + My love, could he but live +Who lately lived for me, and when he found + 'Twas vain, in holy ground +He hid his face amid the shades of death. + I waste for him my breath +Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, + And this lorn bosom burns +With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, + And waking me to weep +Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years + Wept he as bitter tears. +'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer, + 'These may she never share!' +Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold + Than daisies in the mould, +Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, + His name and life's brief date. +Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, + And, O, pray too for me! + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +558. Rose Aylmer + +AH, what avails the sceptred race! + Ah, what the form divine! +What every virtue, every grace! + Rose Aylmer, all were thine. + +Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes + May weep, but never see, +A night of memories and sighs + I consecrate to thee. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +559. Ianthe + +FROM you, Ianthe, little troubles pass + Like little ripples down a sunny river; +Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, + Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +560. Twenty Years hence + +TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow, +If not quite dim, yet rather so; +Yet yours from others they shall know, + Twenty years hence. + +Twenty years hence, though it may hap +That I be call'd to take a nap +In a cool cell where thunder-clap + Was never heard, + +There breathe but o'er my arch of grass +A not too sadly sigh'd 'Alas!' +And I shall catch, ere you can pass, + That winged word. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +561. Verse + +PAST ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, + Alcestis rises from the shades; +Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives + Immortal youth to mortal maids. + +Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil + Hide all the peopled hills you see, +The gay, the proud, while lovers hail + These many summers you and me. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +562. Proud Word you never spoke + +PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak +Four not exempt from pride some future day. +Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, + Over my open volume you will say, + 'This man loved me'--then rise and trip away. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +563. Resignation + +WHY, why repine, my pensive friend, + At pleasures slipp'd away? +Some the stern Fates will never lend, + And all refuse to stay. + +I see the rainbow in the sky, + The dew upon the grass; +I see them, and I ask not why + They glimmer or they pass. + +With folded arms I linger not + To call them back; 'twere vain: +In this, or in some other spot, + I know they'll shine again. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +564. Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel + +MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel; + My fingers ache, my lips are dry: +O, if you felt the pain I feel! + But O, who ever felt as I? + +No longer could I doubt him true-- + All other men may use deceit; +He always said my eyes were blue, + And often swore my lips were sweet. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +565. Autumn + +MILD is the parting year, and sweet + The odour of the falling spray; +Life passes on more rudely fleet, + And balmless is its closing day. + +I wait its close, I court its gloom, + But mourn that never must there fall +Or on my breast or on my tomb + The tear that would have soothed it all. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +566. Remain! + +REMAIN, ah not in youth alone! + --Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay-- +But when my summer days are gone, + And my autumnal haste away. +'Can I be always by your side?' + No; but the hours you can, you must, +Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, + Nor go when dust is gone to dust. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +567. Absence + +HERE, ever since you went abroad, + If there be change no change I see: +I only walk our wonted road, + The road is only walk'd by me. + +Yes; I forgot; a change there is-- + Was it of that you bade me tell? +I catch at times, at times I miss + The sight, the tone, I know so well. + +Only two months since you stood here? + Two shortest months? Then tell me why +Voices are harsher than they were, + And tears are longer ere they dry. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +568. Of Clementina + +IN Clementina's artless mien + Lucilla asks me what I see, +And are the roses of sixteen + Enough for me? + +Lucilla asks, if that be all, + Have I not cull'd as sweet before: +Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall + I still deplore. + +I now behold another scene, + Where Pleasure beams with Heaven's own light, +More pure, more constant, more serene, + And not less bright. + +Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, + Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, +And Modesty who, when she goes, + Is gone for ever. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +569. Ianthe's Question + +'DO you remember me? or are you proud?' +Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, + Ianthe said, and look'd into my eyes. +'A yes, a yes to both: for Memory +Where you but once have been must ever be, + And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.' + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +570. On Catullus + +TELL me not what too well I know +About the bard of Sirmio. + Yes, in Thalia's son +Such stains there are--as when a Grace +Sprinkles another's laughing face + With nectar, and runs on. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +571. Dirce + +STAND close around, ye Stygian set, + With Dirce in one boat convey'd! +Or Charon, seeing, may forget + That he is old and she a shade. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +572. Alciphron and Leucippe + + AN ancient chestnut's blossoms threw +Their heavy odour over two: +Leucippe, it is said, was one; +The other, then, was Alciphron. +'Come, come! why should we stand beneath +This hollow tree's unwholesome breath?' +Said Alciphron, 'here 's not a blade +Of grass or moss, and scanty shade. +Come; it is just the hour to rove +In the lone dingle shepherds love; +There, straight and tall, the hazel twig +Divides the crooked rock-held fig, +O'er the blue pebbles where the rill +In winter runs and may run still. +Come then, while fresh and calm the air, +And while the shepherds are not there.' + +Leucippe. But I would rather go when they +Sit round about and sing and play. +Then why so hurry me? for you +Like play and song, and shepherds too. + +Alciphron. I like the shepherds very well, +And song and play, as you can tell. +But there is play, I sadly fear, +And song I would not have you hear. + +Leucippe. What can it be? What can it be? + +Alciphron. To you may none of them repeat +The play that you have play'd with me, +The song that made your bosom beat. + +Leucippe. Don't keep your arm about my waist. + +Alciphron. Might you not stumble? + +Leucippe. Well then, do. +But why are we in all this haste? + +Alciphron. To sing. + +Leucippe. Alas! and not play too? + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +573. Years + +YEARS, many parti-colour'd years, + Some have crept on, and some have flown +Since first before me fell those tears + I never could see fall alone. + +Years, not so many, are to come, + Years not so varied, when from you +One more will fall: when, carried home, + I see it not, nor hear Adieu. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +574. Separation + +THERE is a mountain and a wood between us, +Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us + Morning and noon and eventide repass. +Between us now the mountain and the wood +Seem standing darker than last year they stood, + And say we must not cross--alas! alas! + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +575. Late Leaves + +THE leaves are falling; so am I; +The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; + So have I too. +Scarcely on any bough is heard +Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird + The whole wood through. + +Winter may come: he brings but nigher +His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire + Where old friends meet. +Let him; now heaven is overcast, +And spring and summer both are past, + And all things sweet. + + +Walter Savage Landor. 1775-1864 + +576. Finis + +I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife. +Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: +I warm'd both hands before the fire of life; +It sinks, and I am ready to depart. + + +Charles Lamb. 1775-1834 + +577. The Old Familiar Faces + +I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, +In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-- +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I have been laughing, I have been carousing, +Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies-- +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I loved a Love once, fairest among women: +Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: +Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; +Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. + +Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, +Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, +Seeking to find the old familiar faces. + +Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, +Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? +So might we talk of the old familiar faces-- + +How some they have died, and some they have left me, +And some are taken from me; all are departed-- +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + + +Charles Lamb. 1775-1834 + +578. Hester + +WHEN maidens such as Hester die +Their place ye may not well supply, +Though ye among a thousand try + With vain endeavour. + +A month or more hath she been dead, +Yet cannot I by force be led +To think upon the wormy bed + And her together. + +A springy motion in her gait, +A rising step, did indicate +Of pride and joy no common rate, + That flush'd her spirit: + +I know not by what name beside +I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, +It was a joy to that allied, + She did inherit. + +Her parents held the Quaker rule, +Which doth the human feeling cool; +But she was train'd in Nature's school; + Nature had blest her. + +A waking eye, a prying mind; +A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; +A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind; + Ye could not Hester. + +My sprightly neighbour! gone before +To that unknown and silent shore, +Shall we not meet, as heretofore, + Some summer morning-- + +When from thy cheerful eyes a ray +Hath struck a bliss upon the day, +A bliss that would not go away, + A sweet forewarning? + + +Charles Lamb. 1775-1834 + +579. On an Infant dying as soon as born + +I SAW where in the shroud did lurk +A curious frame of Nature's work; +A floweret crush'd in the bud, +A nameless piece of Babyhood, +Was in her cradle-coffin lying; +Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: +So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb +For darker closets of the tomb! +She did but ope an eye, and put +A clear beam forth, then straight up shut +For the long dark: ne'er more to see +Through glasses of mortality. + Riddle of destiny, who can show +What thy short visit meant, or know +What thy errand here below? +Shall we say that Nature blind +Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, +Just when she had exactly wrought +A finish'd pattern without fault? +Could she flag, or could she tire, +Or lack'd she the Promethean fire +(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) +That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? +Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure +Life of health, and days mature: +Woman's self in miniature! +Limbs so fair, they might supply +(Themselves now but cold imagery) +The sculptor to make Beauty by. +Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry +That babe or mother, one must die; +So in mercy left the stock +And cut the branch; to save the shock +Of young years widow'd, and the pain +When single state comes back again +To the lone man who, reft of wife, +Thenceforward drags a maimed life? +The economy of Heaven is dark, +And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, +Why human buds, like this, should fall, +More brief than fly ephemeral +That has his day; while shrivell'd crones +Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; +And crabbed use the conscience sears +In sinners of an hundred years. + Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, +Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss: +Rites, which custom does impose, +Silver bells, and baby clothes; +Coral redder than those lips +Which pale death did late eclipse; +Music framed for infants' glee, +Whistle never tuned for thee; +Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, +Loving hearts were they which gave them. +Let not one be missing; nurse, +See them laid upon the hearse +Of infant slain by doom perverse. +Why should kings and nobles have +Pictured trophies to their grave, +And we, churls, to thee deny +Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- +A more harmless vanity? + + +Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844 + +580. Ye Mariners of England + +YE Mariners of England + That guard our native seas! +Whose flag has braved a thousand years + The battle and the breeze! +Your glorious standard launch again + To match another foe; +And sweep through the deep, + While the stormy winds do blow! +While the battle rages loud and long + And the stormy winds do blow. + +The spirits of your fathers + Shall start from every wave-- +For the deck it was their field of fame, + And Ocean was their grave: +Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell + Your manly hearts shall glow, +As ye sweep through the deep, + While the stormy winds do blow! +While the battle rages loud and long + And the stormy winds do blow. + +Britannia needs no bulwarks, + No towers along the steep; +Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, + Her home is on the deep. +The thunders from her native oak + She quells the floods below, +As they roar on the shore, + When the stormy winds do blow! +When the battle rages loud and long, + And the stormy winds do blow. + +The meteor flag of England + Shall yet terrific burn; +Till danger's troubled night depart + And the star of peace return. +Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! + Our song and feast shall flow +To the fame of your name, + When the storm has ceased to blow! +When the fiery fight is heard no more, + And the storm has ceased to blow. + + +Thomas Campbell. 1774-1844 + +581. The Battle of the Baltic + +OF Nelson and the North +Sing the glorious day's renown, +When to battle fierce came forth +All the might of Denmark's crown, +And her arms along the deep proudly shone; +By each gun the lighted brand +In a bold determined hand, +And the Prince of all the land +Led them on. + +Like leviathans afloat +Lay their bulwarks on the brine, +While the sign of battle flew +On the lofty British line: +It was ten of April morn by the chime: +As they drifted on their path +There was silence deep as death, +And the boldest held his breath +For a time. + +But the might of England flush'd +To anticipate the scene; +And her van the fleeter rush'd +O'er the deadly space between: +'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun +From its adamantine lips +Spread a death-shade round the ships, +Like the hurricane eclipse +Of the sun. + +Again! again! again! +And the havoc did not slack, +Till a feeble cheer the Dane +To our cheering sent us back;-- +Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- +Then ceased--and all is wail, +As they strike the shatter'd sail, +Or in conflagration pale +Light the gloom. + +Out spoke the victor then +As he hail'd them o'er the wave: +'Ye are brothers! ye are men! +And we conquer but to save:-- +So peace instead of death let us bring: +But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, +With the crews, at England's feet, +And make submission meet +To our King.'... + +Now joy, old England, raise! +For the tidings of thy might, +By the festal cities' blaze, +Whilst the wine-cup shines in light! +And yet amidst that joy and uproar, +Let us think of them that sleep +Full many a fathom deep, +By thy wild and stormy steep, +Elsinore! + + +Thomas Moore. 1779-1852 + +582. The Young May Moon + +THE young May moon is beaming, love, +The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love; + How sweet to rove + Through Morna's grove, +When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! +Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, +'Tis never too late for delight, my dear; + And the best of all ways + To lengthen our days +Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! + +Now all the world is sleeping, love, +But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, + And I, whose star + More glorious far +Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. +Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, +The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, + Or in watching the flight + Of bodies of light +He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! + + +Thomas Moore. 1779-1852 + +583. The Irish Peasant to His Mistress + +THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way, +Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay; +The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd, +Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd: +Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, +And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. + +Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd; +Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd; +She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves; +Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; +Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be +Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. + +They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-- +Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale! +They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, +That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains: +O, foul is the slander!--no chain could that soul subdue-- +Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too! + + +Thomas Moore. 1779-1852 + +584. The Light of Other Days + +OFT, in the stilly night, + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, +Fond Memory brings the light + Of other days around me: + The smiles, the tears + Of boyhood's years, + The words of love then spoken; + The eyes that shone, + Now dimm'd and gone, + The cheerful hearts now broken! +Thus, in the stilly night, + Ere slumber's chain has bound me, +Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + +When I remember all + The friends, so link'd together, +I've seen around me fall + Like leaves in wintry weather, + I feel like one + Who treads alone + Some banquet-hall deserted, + Whose lights are fled, + Whose garlands dead, + And all but he departed! +Thus, in the stilly night, + Ere slumber's chain has bound me. +Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + +Thomas Moore. 1779-1852 + +585. At the Mid Hour of Night + +AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly +To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; + And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air + To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, +And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky. + +Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, +When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; + And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, + I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls +Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. + + +Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. 1781-1829 + +586. May + +MAY! queen of blossoms, + And fulfilling flowers, +With what pretty music + Shall we charm the hours? +Wilt thou have pipe and reed, +Blown in the open mead? +Or to the lute give heed + In the green bowers? + +Thou hast no need of us, + Or pipe or wire; +Thou hast the golden bee + Ripen'd with fire; +And many thousand more +Songsters, that thee adore, +Filling earth's grassy floor + With new desire. + +Thou hast thy mighty herds, + Tame and free-livers; +Doubt not, thy music too + In the deep rivers; +And the whole plumy flight +Warbling the day and night-- +Up at the gates of light, + See, the lark quivers! + + +Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849 + +587. Battle Song + +DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark; + What then? 'Tis day! +We sleep no more; the cock crows--hark! + To arms! away! +They come! they come! the knell is rung + Of us or them; +Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung + Of gold and gem. +What collar'd hound of lawless sway, + To famine dear-- +What pension'd slave of Attila, + Leads in the rear? +Come they from Scythian wilds afar, + Our blood to spill? +Wear they the livery of the Czar? + They do his will. +Nor tassell'd silk, nor epaulet, + Nor plume, nor torse-- +No splendour gilds, all sternly met, + Our foot and horse. +But, dark and still, we inly glow, + Condensed in ire! +Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know + Our gloom is fire. +In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, + Insults the land; +Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours, + And God's right hand! +Madmen! they trample into snakes + The wormy clod! +Like fire, beneath their feet awakes + The sword of God! +Behind, before, above, below, + They rouse the brave; +Where'er they go, they make a foe, + Or find a grave. + + +Ebenezer Elliott. 1781-1849 + +588. Plaint + +DARK, deep, and cold the current flows +Unto the sea where no wind blows, +Seeking the land which no one knows. + +O'er its sad gloom still comes and goes +The mingled wail of friends and foes, +Borne to the land which no one knows. + +Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes +With millions, from a world of woes, +Unto the land which no one knows? + +Though myriads go with him who goes, +Alone he goes where no wind blows, +Unto the land which no one knows. + +For all must go where no wind blows, +And none can go for him who goes; +None, none return whence no one knows. + +Yet why should he who shrieking goes +With millions, from a world of woes, +Reunion seek with it or those? + +Alone with God, where no wind blows, +And Death, his shadow--doom'd, he goes. +That God is there the shadow shows. + +O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows! +And thou, O Land which no one knows! +That God is All, His shadow shows. + + +Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842 + +589. The Sun rises bright in France + +THE sun rises bright in France, + And fair sets he; +But he has tint the blythe blink he had + In my ain countree. + +O, it 's nae my ain ruin + That saddens aye my e'e, +But the dear Marie I left behin' + Wi' sweet bairnies three. + +My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, + And smiled my ain Marie; +I've left a' my heart behin' + In my ain countree. + +The bud comes back to summer, + And the blossom to the bee; +But I'll win back, O never, + To my ain countree. + +O, I am leal to high Heaven, + Where soon I hope to be, +An' there I'll meet ye a' soon + Frae my ain countree! + +tint] lost. + + +Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842 + +590. Hame, Hame, Hame + +HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- +O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! + +When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, +The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree; +Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- +O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! + +The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for to fa', +The bonnie White Rose it is withering an' a'; +But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, +An' green it will graw in my ain countree. + +O, there 's nocht now frae ruin my country can save, +But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave; +That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie +May rise again an' fight for their ain countree. + +The great now are gane, a' wha ventured to save, +The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; +But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, +'I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.' + +Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- +O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! + + +Allan Cunningham. 1784-1842 + +591. The Spring of the Year + +GONE were but the winter cold, + And gone were but the snow, +I could sleep in the wild woods + Where primroses blow. + +Cold 's the snow at my head, + And cold at my feet; +And the finger of death 's at my e'en, + Closing them to sleep. + +Let none tell my father + Or my mother so dear,-- +I'll meet them both in heaven + At the spring of the year. + + +Leigh Hunt. 1784-1859 + +592. Jenny kiss'd Me + +JENNY kiss'd me when we met, + Jumping from the chair she sat in; +Time, you thief, who love to get + Sweets into your list, put that in! +Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, + Say that health and wealth have miss'd me, +Say I'm growing old, but add, + Jenny kiss'd me. + + +Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866 + +593. Love and Age + +I PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing, + When I was six and you were four; +When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, + Were pleasures soon to please no more. +Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, + With little playmates, to and fro, +We wander'd hand in hand together; + But that was sixty years ago. + +You grew a lovely roseate maiden, + And still our early love was strong; +Still with no care our days were laden, + They glided joyously along; +And I did love you very dearly, + How dearly words want power to show; +I thought your heart was touch'd as nearly; + But that was fifty years ago. + +Then other lovers came around you, + Your beauty grew from year to year, +And many a splendid circle found you + The centre of its glimmering sphere. +I saw you then, first vows forsaking, + On rank and wealth your hand bestow; +O, then I thought my heart was breaking!-- + But that was forty years ago. + +And I lived on, to wed another: + No cause she gave me to repine; +And when I heard you were a mother, + I did not wish the children mine. +My own young flock, in fair progression, + Made up a pleasant Christmas row: +My joy in them was past expression; + But that was thirty years ago. + +You grew a matron plump and comely, + You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze; +My earthly lot was far more homely; + But I too had my festal days. +No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd + Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, +Than when my youngest child was christen'd; + But that was twenty years ago. + +Time pass'd. My eldest girl was married, + And I am now a grandsire gray; +One pet of four years old I've carried + Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. +In our old fields of childish pleasure, + Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, +She fills her basket's ample measure; + And that is not ten years ago. + +But though first love's impassion'd blindness + Has pass'd away in colder light, +I still have thought of you with kindness, + And shall do, till our last good-night. +The ever-rolling silent hours + Will bring a time we shall not know, +When our young days of gathering flowers + Will be an hundred years ago. + + +Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866 + +594. The Grave of Love + +I DUG, beneath the cypress shade, + What well might seem an elfin's grave; +And every pledge in earth I laid, + That erst thy false affection gave. + +I press'd them down the sod beneath; + I placed one mossy stone above; +And twined the rose's fading wreath + Around the sepulchre of love. + +Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead + Ere yet the evening sun was set: +But years shall see the cypress spread, + Immutable as my regret. + + +Thomas Love Peacock. 1785-1866 + +595. Three Men of Gotham + +SEAMEN three! What men be ye? +Gotham's three wise men we be. +Whither in your bowl so free? +To rake the moon from out the sea. +The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. +And our ballast is old wine.-- +And your ballast is old wine. + +Who art thou, so fast adrift? +I am he they call Old Care. +Here on board we will thee lift. +No: I may not enter there. +Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, +In a bowl Care may not be.-- +In a bowl Care may not be. + +Fear ye not the waves that roll? +No: in charmed bowl we swim. +What the charm that floats the bowl? +Water may not pass the brim. +The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. +And our ballast is old wine.-- +And your ballast is old wine. + + +Caroline Southey. 1787-1854 + +596. To Death + +COME not in terrors clad, to claim + An unresisting prey: +Come like an evening shadow, Death! + So stealthily, so silently! +And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; + Then willingly, O willingly, + With thee I'll go away! + +What need to clutch with iron grasp + What gentlest touch may take? +What need with aspect dark to scare, + So awfully, so terribly, +The weary soul would hardly care, + Call'd quietly, call'd tenderly, + From thy dread power to break? + +'Tis not as when thou markest out + The young, the blest, the gay, +The loved, the loving--they who dream + So happily, so hopefully; +Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, + And shrinkingly, reluctantly, + The summon'd may obey. + +But I have drunk enough of life-- + The cup assign'd to me +Dash'd with a little sweet at best, + So scantily, so scantily-- +To know full well that all the rest + More bitterly, more bitterly, + Drugg'd to the last will be. + +And I may live to pain some heart + That kindly cares for me: +To pain, but not to bless. O Death! + Come quietly--come lovingly-- +And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; + Then willingly, O willingly, + I'll go away with thee! + + +George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 + +597. When we Two parted + +WHEN we two parted + In silence and tears, +Half broken-hearted + To sever for years, +Pale grew thy cheek and cold, + Colder thy kiss; +Truly that hour foretold + Sorrow to this. + +The dew of the morning + Sunk chill on my brow-- +It felt like the warning + Of what I feel now. +Thy vows are all broken, + And light is thy fame: +I hear thy name spoken, + And share in its shame. + +They name thee before me, + A knell to mine ear; +A shudder comes o'er me-- + Why wert thou so dear? +They know not I knew thee, + Who knew thee too well: +Long, long shall I rue thee, + Too deeply to tell. + +In secret we met-- + In silence I grieve, +That thy heart could forget, + Thy spirit deceive. +If I should meet thee + After long years, +How should I greet thee? + With silence and tears. + + +George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 + +598. For Music + +THERE be none of Beauty's daughters + With a magic like thee; +And like music on the waters + Is thy sweet voice to me: +When, as if its sound were causing +The charmed ocean's pausing, +The waves lie still and gleaming, +And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: + +And the midnight moon is weaving + Her bright chain o'er the deep; +Whose breast is gently heaving, + As an infant's asleep: +So the spirit bows before thee, +To listen and adore thee; +With a full but soft emotion, +Like the swell of Summer's ocean. + + +George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 + +599. We'll go no more a-roving + +SO, we'll go no more a-roving + So late into the night, +Though the heart be still as loving, + And the moon be still as bright. + +For the sword outwears its sheath, + And the soul wears out the breast, +And the heart must pause to breathe, + And love itself have rest. + +Though the night was made for loving, + And the day returns too soon, +Yet we'll go no more a-roving + By the light of the moon. + + +George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 + +600. She walks in Beauty + +SHE walks in beauty, like the night + Of cloudless climes and starry skies; +And all that 's best of dark and bright + Meet in her aspect and her eyes: +Thus mellow'd to that tender light + Which heaven to gaudy day denies. +One shade the more, one ray the less, + Had half impair'd the nameless grace +Which waves in every raven tress, + Or softly lightens o'er her face; +Where thoughts serenely sweet express + How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. + +And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, + So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, +The smiles that win, the tints that glow, + But tell of days in goodness spent, +A mind at peace with all below, + A heart whose love is innocent! + + +George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. 1788-1824 + +601. The Isles of Greece + +THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece + Where burning Sappho loved and sung, +Where grew the arts of war and peace, + Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! +Eternal summer gilds them yet, +But all, except their sun, is set. + +The Scian and the Teian muse, + The hero's harp, the lover's lute, +Have found the fame your shores refuse: + Their place of birth alone is mute +To sounds which echo further west +Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest. + +The mountains look on Marathon-- + And Marathon looks on the sea; +And musing there an hour alone, + I dream'd that Greece might still be free; +For standing on the Persians' grave, +I could not deem myself a slave. + +A king sate on the rocky brow + Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; +And ships, by thousands, lay below, + And men in nations;--all were his! +He counted them at break of day-- +And when the sun set, where were they? + +And where are they? and where art thou, + My country? On thy voiceless shore +The heroic lay is tuneless now-- + The heroic bosom beats no more! +And must thy lyre, so long divine, +Degenerate into hands like mine? + +'Tis something in the dearth of fame, + Though link'd among a fetter'd race, +To feel at least a patriot's shame, + Even as I sing, suffuse my face; +For what is left the poet here? +For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear. + +Must we but weep o'er days more blest? + Must we but blush?--Our fathers bled. +Earth! render back from out thy breast + A remnant of our Spartan dead! +Of the three hundred grant but three, +To make a new Thermopylae! + +What, silent still? and silent all? + Ah! no;--the voices of the dead +Sound like a distant torrent's fall, + And answer, 'Let one living head, +But one, arise,--we come, we come!' +'Tis but the living who are dumb. + +In vain--in vain: strike other chords; + Fill high the cup with Samian wine! +Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, + And shed the blood of Scio's vine: +Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- +How answers each bold Bacchanal! + +You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; + Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? +Of two such lessons, why forget + The nobler and the manlier one? +You have the letters Cadmus gave-- +Think ye he meant them for a slave? + +Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! + We will not think of themes like these! +It made Anacreon's song divine: + He served--but served Polycrates-- +A tyrant; but our masters then +Were still, at least, our countrymen. + +The tyrant of the Chersonese + Was freedom's best and bravest friend; +That tyrant was Miltiades! + O that the present hour would lend +Another despot of the kind! +Such chains as his were sure to bind. + +Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! + On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, +Exists the remnant of a line + Such as the Doric mothers bore; +And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, +The Heracleidan blood might own. + +Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- + They have a king who buys and sells; +In native swords and native ranks + The only hope of courage dwells: +But Turkish force and Latin fraud +Would break your shield, however broad. + +Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! + Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- +I see their glorious black eyes shine; + But gazing on each glowing maid, +My own the burning tear-drop laves, +To think such breasts must suckle slaves. + +Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, + Where nothing, save the waves and I, +May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; + There, swan-like, let me sing and die: +A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- +Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! + + +Sir Aubrey De Vere. 1788-1846 + +602. The Children Band + +ALL holy influences dwell within +The breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from God + Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod +Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin. +How mighty was that fervour which could win + Its way to infant souls!--and was the sod + Of Palestine by infant Croises trod? +Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin, +In all their touching beauty to redeem? + And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre? +Alas! the lovely pageant as a dream + Faded! They sank not through ignoble fear; +They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream, + In sands, in fens, they died--no mother near! + + +Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823 + +603. The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna + +NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, + As his corse to the rampart we hurried; +Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot + O'er the grave where our hero we buried. + +We buried him darkly at dead of night, + The sods with our bayonets turning, +By the struggling moonbeam's misty light + And the lanthorn dimly burning. + +No useless coffin enclosed his breast, + Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; +But he lay like a warrior taking his rest + With his martial cloak around him. + +Few and short were the prayers we said, + And we spoke not a word of sorrow; +But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, + And we bitterly thought of the morrow. + +We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed + And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, +That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, + And we far away on the billow! + +Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone, + And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- +But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on + In the grave where a Briton has laid him. + +But half of our heavy task was done + When the clock struck the hour for retiring; +And we heard the distant and random gun + That the foe was sullenly firing. + +Slowly and sadly we laid him down, + From the field of his fame fresh and gory; +We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, + But we left him alone with his glory. + + +Charles Wolfe. 1791-1823 + +604. To Mary + +IF I had thought thou couldst have died, + I might not weep for thee; +But I forgot, when by thy side, + That thou couldst mortal be: +It never through my mind had past + The time would e'er be o'er, +And I on thee should look my last, + And thou shouldst smile no more! + +And still upon that face I look, + And think 'twill smile again; +And still the thought I will not brook, + That I must look in vain. +But when I speak--thou dost not say + What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; +And now I feel, as well I may, + Sweet Mary, thou art dead! + +If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, + All cold and all serene-- +I still might press thy silent heart, + And where thy smiles have been. +While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, + Thou seemest still mine own; +But there--I lay thee in thy grave, + And I am now alone! + +I do not think, where'er thou art, + Thou hast forgotten me; +And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart + In thinking too of thee: +Yet there was round thee such a dawn + Of light ne'er seen before, +As fancy never could have drawn, + And never can restore! + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +605. Hymn of Pan + + FROM the forests and highlands + We come, we come; + From the river-girt islands, + Where loud waves are dumb, + Listening to my sweet pipings. + The wind in the reeds and the rushes, + The bees on the bells of thyme, + The birds on the myrtle bushes, + The cicale above in the lime, +And the lizards below in the grass, +Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, + Listening to my sweet pipings. + + Liquid Peneus was flowing, + And all dark Tempe lay + In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing + The light of the dying day, + Speeded by my sweet pipings. + The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, + And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, + To the edge of the moist river-lawns, + And the brink of the dewy caves, +And all that did then attend and follow, +Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, + With envy of my sweet pipings. + + I sang of the dancing stars, + I sang of the daedal earth, + And of heaven, and the giant wars, + And love, and death, and birth. + And then I changed my pipings-- + Singing how down the vale of Maenalus + I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: + Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! + It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. +All wept--as I think both ye now would, +If envy or age had not frozen your blood-- + At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +606. The Invitation + +BEST and brightest, come away! +Fairer far than this fair Day, +Which, like thee to those in sorrow, +Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow +To the rough Year just awake +In its cradle on the brake. +The brightest hour of unborn Spring, +Through the winter wandering, +Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn +To hoar February born. +Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, +It kiss'd the forehead of the Earth; +And smiled upon the silent sea; +And bade the frozen streams be free; +And waked to music all their fountains; +And breathed upon the frozen mountains; +And like a prophetess of May +Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, +Making the wintry world appear +Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. + +Away, away, from men and towns, +To the wild wood and the downs-- +To the silent wilderness +Where the soul need not repress +Its music lest it should not find +An echo in another's mind, +While the touch of Nature's art +Harmonizes heart to heart. +I leave this notice on my door +For each accustom'd visitor:-- +'I am gone into the fields +To take what this sweet hour yields. +Reflection, you may come to-morrow; +Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. +You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-- +You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- +I will pay you in the grave,-- +Death will listen to your stave. +Expectation too, be off! +To-day is for itself enough. +Hope, in pity mock not Woe +With smiles, nor follow where I go; +Long having lived on your sweet food, +At length I find one moment's good +After long pain: with all your love, +This you never told me of.' + +Radiant Sister of the Day, +Awake! arise! and come away! +To the wild woods and the plains; +And the pools where winter rains +Image all their roof of leaves; +Where the pine its garland weaves +Of sapless green and ivy dun +Round stems that never kiss the sun; +Where the lawns and pastures be, +And the sandhills of the sea; +Where the melting hoar-frost wets +The daisy-star that never sets, +And wind-flowers, and violets +Which yet join not scent to hue, +Crown the pale year weak and new; +When the night is left behind +In the deep east, dun and blind, +And the blue noon is over us, +And the multitudinous +Billows murmur at our feet +Where the earth and ocean meet, +And all things seem only one +In the universal sun. + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +607. Hellas + +THE world's great age begins anew, + The golden years return, +The earth doth like a snake renew + Her winter weeds outworn; +Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam +Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. + +A brighter Hellas rears its mountains + From waves serener far; +A new Peneus rolls his fountains + Against the morning star; +Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep +Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. + +A loftier Argo cleaves the main, + Fraught with a later prize; +Another Orpheus sings again, + And loves, and weeps, and dies; +A new Ulysses leaves once more +Calypso for his native shore. + +O write no more the tale of Troy, + If earth Death's scroll must be-- +Nor mix with Laian rage the joy + Which dawns upon the free, +Although a subtler Sphinx renew +Riddles of death Thebes never knew. + +Another Athens shall arise, + And to remoter time +Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, + The splendour of its prime; +And leave, if naught so bright may live, +All earth can take or Heaven can give. + +Saturn and Love their long repose + Shall burst, more bright and good +Than all who fell, than One who rose, + Than many unsubdued: +Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, +But votive tears and symbol flowers. + +O cease! must hate and death return? + Cease! must men kill and die? +Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn + Of bitter prophecy! +The world is weary of the past-- +O might it die or rest at last! + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +608. To a Skylark + + HAIL to thee, blithe spirit! + Bird thou never wert-- + That from heaven or near it + Pourest thy full heart +In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest, + Like a cloud of fire; + The blue deep thou wingest, +And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden light'ning + Of the sunken sun, + O'er which clouds are bright'ning, + Thou dost float and run, +Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. + + The pale purple even + Melts around thy flight; + Like a star of heaven, + In the broad daylight +Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-- + + Keen as are the arrows + Of that silver sphere + Whose intense lamp narrows + In the white dawn clear, +Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud +The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee? + From rainbow clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see, +As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- + + Like a poet hidden + In the light of thought, + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought +To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: + + Like a high-born maiden + In a palace tower, + Soothing her love-laden + Soul in secret hour +With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: + + Like a glow-worm golden + In a dell of dew, + Scattering unbeholden + Its aerial hue +Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: + + Like a rose embower'd + In its own green leaves, + By warm winds deflower'd, + Till the scent it gives +Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves. + + Sound of vernal showers + On the twinkling grass, + Rain-awaken'd flowers-- + All that ever was +Joyous and clear and fresh--thy music doth surpass. + + Teach us, sprite or bird, + What sweet thoughts are thine: + I have never heard + Praise of love or wine +That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + + Chorus hymeneal, + Or triumphal chant, + Match'd with thine would be all + But an empty vaunt-- +A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + + What objects are the fountains + Of thy happy strain? + What fields, or waves, or mountains? + What shapes of sky or plain? +What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? + + With thy clear keen joyance + Languor cannot be: + Shadow of annoyance + Never came near thee: +Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. + + Waking or asleep, + Thou of death must deem + Things more true and deep + Than we mortals dream, +Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? + + We look before and after, + And pine for what is not: + Our sincerest laughter + With some pain is fraught; +Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. + + Yet, if we could scorn + Hate and pride and fear, + If we were things born + Not to shed a tear, +I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. + + Better than all measures + Of delightful sound, + Better than all treasures + That in books are found, +Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know; + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, +The world should listen then, as I am listening now. + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +609. The Moon + +I + +AND, like a dying lady lean and pale, +Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil, +Out of her chamber, led by the insane +And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, +The mood arose up in the murky east, +A white and shapeless mass. + +II + + Art thou pale for weariness +Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, + Wandering companionless +Among the stars that have a different birth, +And ever changing, like a joyless eye +That finds no object worth its constancy? + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +610. Ode to the West Wind + +I + +O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being + Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead +Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, + + Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, +Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou + Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed + +The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, + Each like a corpse within its grave, until +Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow + + Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill +(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) + With living hues and odours plain and hill; + +Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; +Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! + +II + +Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, + Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, +Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, + + Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread +On the blue surface of thine airy surge, + Like the bright hair uplifted from the head + +Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge + Of the horizon to the zenith's height, +The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge + + Of the dying year, to which this closing night +Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, + Vaulted with all thy congregated might + +Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere +Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear! + +III + +Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams + The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, +Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, + + Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, +And saw in sleep old palaces and towers + Quivering within the wave's intenser day, + +All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers + So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou +For whose path the Atlantic's level powers + + Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below +The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear + The sapless foliage of the ocean, know + +Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, +And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! + +IV + +If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; + If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; +A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share + + The impulse of thy strength, only less free +Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even + I were as in my boyhood, and could be + +The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, + As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed +Scarce seem'd a vision--I would ne'er have striven + + As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. +O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! + I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! + +A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd +One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud. + +V + +Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: + What if my leaves are falling like its own? +The tumult of thy mighty harmonies + + Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, +Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, + My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! + +Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, + Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; +And, by the incantation of this verse, + + Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth +Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! + Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth + +The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, +If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +611. The Indian Serenade + +I ARISE from dreams of thee + In the first sweet sleep of night, +When the winds are breathing low, + And the stars are shining bright. +I arise from dreams of thee, + And a spirit in my feet +Hath led me--who knows how? + To thy chamber window, Sweet! + +The wandering airs they faint + On the dark, the silent stream-- +And the champak's odours [pine] + Like sweet thoughts in a dream; +The nightingale's complaint, + It dies upon her heart, +As I must on thine, + O beloved as thou art! + +O lift me from the grass! + I die! I faint! I fail! +Let thy love in kisses rain + On my lips and eyelids pale. +My cheek is cold and white, alas! + My heart beats loud and fast: +O press it to thine own again, + Where it will break at last! + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +612. Night + +SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave, + Spirit of Night! +Out of the misty eastern cave,-- +Where, all the long and lone daylight, +Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear +Which make thee terrible and dear,-- + Swift be thy flight! + +Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, + Star-inwrought! +Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; +Kiss her until she be wearied out. +Then wander o'er city and sea and land, +Touching all with thine opiate wand-- + Come, long-sought! + +When I arose and saw the dawn, + I sigh'd for thee; +When light rode high, and the dew was gone, +And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, +And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, +Lingering like an unloved guest, + I sigh'd for thee. + +Thy brother Death came, and cried, + 'Wouldst thou me?' +Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, +Murmur'd like a noontide bee, +'Shall I nestle near thy side? +Wouldst thou me?'--And I replied, + 'No, not thee!' + +Death will come when thou art dead, + Soon, too soon-- +Sleep will come when thou art fled. +Of neither would I ask the boon +I ask of thee, beloved Night-- +Swift be thine approaching flight, + Come soon, soon! + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +613. From the Arabic +AN IMITATION + +MY faint spirit was sitting in the light + Of thy looks, my love; + It panted for thee like the hind at noon + For the brooks, my love. +Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, + Bore thee far from me; + My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, + Did companion thee. + +Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, + Or the death they bear, + The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove + With the wings of care; +In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, + Shall mine cling to thee, + Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, + It may bring to thee. + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +614. Lines + +WHEN the lamp is shatter'd, +The light in the dust lies dead; + When the cloud is scatter'd, +The rainbow's glory is shed; + When the lute is broken, +Sweet tones are remember'd not + When the lips have spoken, +Loved accents are soon forgot. + + As music and splendour +Survive not the lamp and the lute, + The heart's echoes render +No song when the spirit is mute-- + No song but sad dirges, +Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, + Or the mournful surges +That ring the dead seaman's knell. + + When hearts have once mingled, +Love first leaves the well-built nest; + The weak one is singled +To endure what it once possest. + O Love, who bewailest +The frailty of all things here, + Why choose you the frailest +For your cradle, your home, and your bier? + + Its passions will rock thee, +As the storms rock the ravens on high: + Bright reason will mock thee, +Like the sun from a wintry sky. + From thy nest every rafter +Will rot, and thine eagle home + Leave thee naked to laughter, +When leaves fall and cold winds come. + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +615. To ---- + +ONE word is too often profaned + For me to profane it; +One feeling too falsely disdain'd + For thee to disdain it; +One hope is too like despair + For prudence to smother; +And pity from thee more dear + Than that from another. + +I can give not what men call love: + But wilt thou accept not +The worship the heart lifts above + And the heavens reject not, +The desire of the moth for the star, + Of the night for the morrow, +The devotion to something afar + From the sphere of our sorrow? + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +616. The Question + +I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way, + Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; +And gentle odours led my steps astray, + Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring +Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay + Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling +Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, +But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. + +There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; + Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, +The constellated flower that never sets; + Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth +The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets-- + Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth-- +Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears +When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. + +And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, + Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd May, +And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine + Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; +And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, + With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; +And flowers, azure, black, and streak'd with gold, +Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. + +And nearer to the river's trembling edge + There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white, +And starry river-buds among the sedge, + And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, +Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge + With moonlight beams of their own watery light; +And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green +As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. + +Methought that of these visionary flowers + I made a nosegay, bound in such a way +That the same hues which in their natural bowers + Were mingled or opposed, the like array +Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours + Within my hand;--and then, elate and gay, +I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come, +That I might there present it--O! to whom? + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +617. Remorse + +AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon, + Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: +Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, + And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. +Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, 'Away!' + Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: +Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: + Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. + +Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; + Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; +Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, + And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth. +The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, + The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: +But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, + Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may + meet. + +The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, + For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep; +Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; + Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep. +Thou in the grave shalt rest:--yet, till the phantoms flee, + Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, +Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free + From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile. + + +Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822 + +618. Music, when Soft Voices die + +MUSIC, when soft voices die, +Vibrates in the memory; +Odours, when sweet violets sicken, +Live within the sense they quicken. + +Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, +Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; +And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, +Love itself shall slumber on. + + +Hew Ainslie. 1792-1878 + +619. Willie and Helen + +'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love, + Unless it be to pain us? +Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love + Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?' + +'It 's no because my love is light, + Nor for your angry deddy; +It 's a' to buy ye pearlins bright, + An' to busk ye like a leddy.' + +'O Willy, I can caird an' spin, + Se ne'er can want for cleedin'; +An' gin I hae my Willy's heart, + I hae a' the pearls I'm heedin'. + +'Will it be time to praise this cheek + Whan years an' tears has blench'd it? +Will it be time to talk o' love + Whan cauld an' care has quench'd it?' + +He's laid ae han' about her waist-- + The ither 's held to heaven; +An' his luik was like the luik o' man + Wha's heart in twa is riven. + +cleedin'] clothing. + + +John Keble. 1792-1866 + +620. Burial of the Dead + +I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'd +Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure, + Thy place in Paradise + Beyond where I could soar; + +Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts +Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, + Where patiently thou tak'st + Thy sweet and sure repose. + +The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air +Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; + While Memory, by thy grave, + Lives o'er thy funeral day; + +The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause, +Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.-- + Sure with the words of Heaven + Thy spirit met us there, + +And sought with us along th' accustom'd way +The hallow'd porch, and entering in, beheld + The pageant of sad joy + So dear to Faith and Hope. + +O! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise +To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch'd + The sacred springs of grief + More tenderly and true, + +Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, +Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne, + Guiding through light and gloom + Our mourning fancies wild, + +Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve +Around the western twilight, all subside + Into a placid faith, + That even with beaming eye + +Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall; +So many relics of a frail love lost, + So many tokens dear + Of endless love begun. + +Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trump +Gives earnest of th' Archangel's;--calmly now, + Our hearts yet beating high + To that victorious lay + +(Most like a warrior's, to the martial dirge +Of a true comrade), in the grave we trust + Our treasure for awhile: + And if a tear steal down, + +If human anguish o'er the shaded brow +Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth + Touches the coffin-lid; + If at our brother's name, + +Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,' +Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, + Thou turnest not away, + Thou know'st us calm at heart. + +One look, and we have seen our last of thee, +Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er. + O cleanse us, ere we view + That countenance pure again, + +Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead! +As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, + Be ready when we meet, + With Thy dear pardoning words. + + +John Clare. 1793-1864 + +621. Written in Northampton County Asylum + +I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows? + My friends forsake me like a memory lost. +I am the self-consumer of my woes; + They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, +Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. +And yet I am--I live--though I am toss'd + +Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, + Into the living sea of waking dream, +Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, + But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem +And all that 's dear. Even those I loved the best +Are strange--nay, they are stranger than the rest. + +I long for scenes where man has never trod-- + For scenes where woman never smiled or wept-- +There to abide with my Creator, God, + And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, +Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,-- +The grass below; above, the vaulted sky. + + +Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 1793-1835 + +622. Dirge + +CALM on the bosom of thy God, + Fair spirit, rest thee now! +E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, + His seal was on thy brow. + +Dust, to its narrow house beneath! + Soul, to its place on high! +They that have seen thy look in death + No more may fear to die. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +623. Song of the Indian Maid +FROM 'ENDYMION' + + O SORROW! + Why dost borrow + The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?-- + To give maiden blushes + To the white rose bushes? + Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips? + + O Sorrow! + Why dost borrow + The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?-- + To give the glow-worm light? + Or, on a moonless night, + To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry? + + O Sorrow! + Why dost borrow + The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?-- + To give at evening pale + Unto the nightingale, + That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? + + O Sorrow! + Why dost borrow + Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?-- + A lover would not tread + A cowslip on the head, + Though he should dance from eve till peep of day-- + Nor any drooping flower + Held sacred for thy bower, + Wherever he may sport himself and play. + + To Sorrow + I bade good morrow, + And thought to leave her far away behind; + But cheerly, cheerly, + She loves me dearly; + She is so constant to me, and so kind: + I would deceive her + And so leave her, + But ah! she is so constant and so kind. + +Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, +I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide +There was no one to ask me why I wept,-- + And so I kept +Brimming the water-lily cups with tears + Cold as my fears. + +Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, +I sat a-weeping: what enamour'd bride, +Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, + But hides and shrouds +Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side? + +And as I sat, over the light blue hills +There came a noise of revellers: the rills +Into the wide stream came of purple hue-- + 'Twas Bacchus and his crew! +The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills +From kissing cymbals made a merry din-- + 'Twas Bacchus and his kin! +Like to a moving vintage down they came, +Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame; +All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, + To scare thee, Melancholy! +O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! +And I forgot thee, as the berried holly +By shepherds is forgotten, when in June +Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:-- + I rush'd into the folly! + +Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, +Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, + With sidelong laughing; +And little rills of crimson wine imbrued +His plump white arms and shoulders, enough white + For Venus' pearly bite; +And near him rode Silenus on his ass, +Pelted with flowers as he on did pass + Tipsily quaffing. + +'Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye, +So many, and so many, and such glee? +Why have ye left your bowers desolate, + Your lutes, and gentler fate?'-- +'We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing, + A-conquering! +Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, +We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:-- +Come hither, lady fair, and joined be + To our wild minstrelsy!' + +'Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye, +So many, and so many, and such glee? +Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left + Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?'-- +'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; +For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, + And cold mushrooms; +For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; +Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth! +Come hither, lady fair, and joined be + To our mad minstrelsy!' + +Over wide streams and mountains great we went, +And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, +Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, + With Asian elephants: +Onward these myriads--with song and dance, +With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, +Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, +Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, +Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil +Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil: +With toying oars and silken sails they glide, + Nor care for wind and tide. + +Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes, +From rear to van they scour about the plains; +A three days' journey in a moment done; +And always, at the rising of the sun, +About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, + On spleenful unicorn. + +I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown + Before the vine-wreath crown! +I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing + To the silver cymbals' ring! +I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce + Old Tartary the fierce! +The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, +And from their treasures scatter pearled hail; +Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, + And all his priesthood moans, +Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. +Into these regions came I, following him, +Sick-hearted, weary--so I took a whim +To stray away into these forests drear, + Alone, without a peer: +And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. + + Young Stranger! + I've been a ranger +In search of pleasure throughout every clime; + Alas! 'tis not for me! + Bewitch'd I sure must be, +To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. + + Come then, Sorrow, + Sweetest Sorrow! +Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast: + I thought to leave thee, + And deceive thee, +But now of all the world I love thee best. + + There is not one, + No, no, not one +But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; + Thou art her mother, + And her brother, +Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade. + +sea-spry] sea-spray. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +624. Ode to a Nightingale + +MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains + My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, +Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains + One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: +'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, + But being too happy in thine happiness, + That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, + In some melodious plot + Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, + Singest of summer in full-throated ease. + +O for a draught of vintage! that hath been + Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, +Tasting of Flora and the country-green, + Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! +O for a beaker full of the warm South! + Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, + With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, + And purple-stained mouth; + That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, + And with thee fade away into the forest dim: + +Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget + What thou among the leaves hast never known, +The weariness, the fever, and the fret + Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; +Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, + Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; + Where but to think is to be full of sorrow + And leaden-eyed despairs; + Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, + Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. + +Away! away! for I will fly to thee, + Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, +But on the viewless wings of Poesy, + Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: +Already with thee! tender is the night, + And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, + Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays + But here there is no light, + Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown + Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. + +I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, + Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, +But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet + Wherewith the seasonable month endows +The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; + White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; + Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves; + And mid-May's eldest child, + The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, + The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. + +Darkling I listen; and, for many a time + I have been half in love with easeful Death, +Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, + To take into the air my quiet breath; +Now more than ever seems it rich to die, + To cease upon the midnight with no pain, + While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad + In such an ecstasy! + Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- + To thy high requiem become a sod. + +Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! + No hungry generations tread thee down; +The voice I hear this passing night was heard + In ancient days by emperor and clown: +Perhaps the self-same song that found a path + Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, + She stood in tears amid the alien corn; + The same that ofttimes hath + Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam + Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. + +Forlorn! the very word is like a bell + To toll me back from thee to my sole self! +Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well + As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. +Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades + Past the near meadows, over the still stream, + Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep + In the next valley-glades: + Was it a vision, or a waking dream? + Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep? + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +625. Ode on a Grecian Urn + +THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, + Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, +Sylvan historian, who canst thus express + A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: +What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape + Of deities or mortals, or of both, + In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? + What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? +What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? + What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? + +Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard + Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; +Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, + Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: +Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave + Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; + Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, +Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve; + She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, + For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! + +Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed + Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; +And, happy melodist, unwearied, + For ever piping songs for ever new; +More happy love! more happy, happy love! + For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, + For ever panting, and for ever young; +All breathing human passion far above, + That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, + A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. + +Who are these coming to the sacrifice? + To what green altar, O mysterious priest, +Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, + And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? +What little town by river or sea-shore, + Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, + Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? +And, little town, thy streets for evermore + Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell + Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. + +O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede + Of marble men and maidens overwrought, +With forest branches and the trodden weed; + Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought +As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! + When old age shall this generation waste, + Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe + Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, +'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all + Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +626. Ode to Psyche + +O GODDESS! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung + By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, +And pardon that thy secrets should be sung + Even into thine own soft-conched ear: +Surely I dream'd to-day, or did I see + The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes? +I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, + And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, +Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side + In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof + Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran + A brooklet, scarce espied: +'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, + Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian +They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; + Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; + Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, +As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, +And ready still past kisses to outnumber + At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: + The winged boy I knew; + But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? + His Psyche true! + +O latest-born and loveliest vision far + Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy! +Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star, + Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; +Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, + Nor altar heap'd with flowers; +Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan + Upon the midnight hours; +No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet + From chain-swung censer teeming; +No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat + Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. + +O brightest! though too late for antique vows, + Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, +When holy were the haunted forest boughs, + Holy the air, the water, and the fire; +Yet even in these days so far retired + From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, + Fluttering among the faint Olympians, +I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. +So let me be thy choir, and make a moan + Upon the midnight hours; +Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet + From swinged censer teeming: +Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat + Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. + +Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane + In some untrodden region of my mind, +Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, + Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: +Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees + Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; +And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, + The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; +And in the midst of this wide quietness +A rosy sanctuary will I dress +With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, + With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, +With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, + Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same; +And there shall be for thee all soft delight + That shadowy thought can win, +A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, + To let the warm Love in! + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +627. To Autumn + +SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! + Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; +Conspiring with him how to load and bless + With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; +To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, + And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; + To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells + With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, +And still more, later flowers for the bees, +Until they think warm days will never cease, + For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. + +Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? + Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find +Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, + Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; +Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, + Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook + Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; +And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep + Steady thy laden head across a brook; + Or by a cider-press, with patient look, + Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. + +Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? + Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- +While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, + And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; +Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn + Among the river sallows, borne aloft + Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; +And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; + Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft + The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; + And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +628. Ode on Melancholy + +NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist + Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; +Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist + By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; +Make not your rosary of yew-berries, + Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be + Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl +A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; + For shade to shade will come too drowsily, + And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. + +But when the melancholy fit shall fall + Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, +That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, + And hides the green hill in an April shroud; +Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, + Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, + Or on the wealth of globed peonies; +Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, + Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, + And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. + +She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die; + And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips +Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, + Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: +Ay, in the very temple of Delight + Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, + Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue +Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; + His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, + And be among her cloudy trophies hung. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +629. Fragment of an Ode to Maia +(Written on May-Day, 1818) + +MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! + May I sing to thee +As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae? + Or may I woo thee +In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles +Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, +By bards who died content on pleasant sward, + Leaving great verse unto a little clan? +O give me their old vigour! and unheard + Save of the quiet primrose, and the span + Of heaven, and few ears, +Rounded by thee, my song should die away + Content as theirs, +Rich in the simple worship of a day. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +630. Bards of Passion and of Mirth +Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's +Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid of the Inn' + +BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, +Ye have left your souls on earth! +Have ye souls in heaven too, +Doubled-lived in regions new? +Yes, and those of heaven commune +With the spheres of sun and moon; +With the noise of fountains wondrous, +And the parle of voices thund'rous; +With the whisper of heaven's trees +And one another, in soft ease +Seated on Elysian lawns +Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; +Underneath large blue-bells tented, +Where the daisies are rose-scented, +And the rose herself has got +Perfume which on earth is not; +Where the nightingale doth sing +Not a senseless, tranced thing, +But divine melodious truth; +Philosophic numbers smooth; +Tales and golden histories +Of heaven and its mysteries. + + Thus ye live on high, and then +On the earth ye live again; +And the souls ye left behind you +Teach us, here, the way to find you, +Where your other souls are joying, +Never slumber'd, never cloying. +Here, your earth-born souls still speak +To mortals, of their little week; +Of their sorrows and delights; +Of their passions and their spites; +Of their glory and their shame; +What doth strengthen and what maim. +Thus ye teach us, every day, +Wisdom, though fled far away. + + Bards of Passion and of Mirth, +Ye have left your souls on earth! +Ye have souls in heaven too, +Double-lived in regions new! + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +631. Fancy + +EVER let the Fancy roam, +Pleasure never is at home: +At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, +Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; +Then let winged Fancy wander +Through the thought still spread beyond her: +Open wide the mind's cage-door, +She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. +O sweet Fancy! let her loose; +Summer's joys are spoilt by use, +And the enjoying of the Spring +Fades as does its blossoming; +Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, +Blushing through the mist and dew, +Cloys with tasting: What do then? +Sit thee by the ingle, when +The sear faggot blazes bright, +Spirit of a winter's night; +When the soundless earth is muffled, +And the caked snow is shuffled +From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; +When the Night doth meet the Noon +In a dark conspiracy +To banish Even from her sky. +Sit thee there, and send abroad, +With a mind self-overawed, +Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her! +She has vassals to attend her: +She will bring, in spite of frost, +Beauties that the earth hath lost; +She will bring thee, all together, +All delights of summer weather; +All the buds and bells of May, +From dewy sward or thorny spray; +All the heaped Autumn's wealth, +With a still, mysterious stealth: +She will mix these pleasures up +Like three fit wines in a cup, +And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear +Distant harvest-carols clear; +Rustle of the reaped corn; +Sweet birds antheming the morn: +And, in the same moment--hark! +'Tis the early April lark, +Or the rooks, with busy caw, +Foraging for sticks and straw. +Thou shalt, at one glance, behold +The daisy and the marigold; +White-plumed lilies, and the first +Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; +Shaded hyacinth, alway +Sapphire queen of the mid-May; +And every leaf, and every flower +Pearled with the self-same shower. +Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peep +Meagre from its celled sleep; +And the snake all winter-thin +Cast on sunny bank its skin; +Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see +Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, +When the hen-bird's wing doth rest +Quiet on her mossy nest; +Then the hurry and alarm +When the beehive casts its swarm; +Acorns ripe down-pattering +While the autumn breezes sing. + + O sweet Fancy! let her loose; +Every thing is spoilt by use: +Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, +Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid +Whose lip mature is ever new? +Where 's the eye, however blue, +Doth not weary? Where 's the face +One would meet in every place? +Where 's the voice, however soft, +One would hear so very oft? +At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth +Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. +Let, then, winged Fancy find +Thee a mistress to thy mind: +Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, +Ere the God of Torment taught her +How to frown and how to chide; +With a waist and with a side +White as Hebe's, when her zone +Slipt its golden clasp, and down +Fell her kirtle to her feet, +While she held the goblet sweet, +And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh +Of the Fancy's silken leash; +Quickly break her prison-string, +And such joys as these she'll bring.-- +Let the winged Fancy roam, +Pleasure never is at home. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +632. Stanzas + +IN a drear-nighted December, + Too happy, happy tree, +Thy branches ne'er remember + Their green felicity: +The north cannot undo them, +With a sleety whistle through them; +Nor frozen thawings glue them + From budding at the prime. + +In a drear-nighted December, + Too happy, happy brook, +Thy bubblings ne'er remember + Apollo's summer look; +But with a sweet forgetting, +They stay their crystal fretting, +Never, never petting + About the frozen time. + +Ah! would 'twere so with many + A gentle girl and boy! +But were there ever any + Writhed not at passed joy? +To know the change and feel it, +When there is none to heal it, +Nor numbed sense to steal it, + Was never said in rhyme. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +633. Las Belle Dame sans Merci + +'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, + Alone and palely loitering? +The sedge is wither'd from the lake, + And no birds sing. + +'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, + So haggard and so woe-begone? +The squirrel's granary is full, + And the harvest 's done. + +'I see a lily on thy brow + With anguish moist and fever dew; +And on thy cheeks a fading rose + Fast withereth too.' + +'I met a lady in the meads, + Full beautiful--a faery's child, +Her hair was long, her foot was light, + And her eyes were wild. + +'I made a garland for her head, + And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; +She look'd at me as she did love, + And made sweet moan. + +'I set her on my pacing steed + And nothing else saw all day long, +For sideways would she lean, and sing + A faery's song. + +'She found me roots of relish sweet, + And honey wild and manna dew, +And sure in language strange she said, + "I love thee true!" + +'She took me to her elfin grot, + And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; +And there I shut her wild, wild eyes + With kisses four. + +'And there she lulled me asleep, + And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide! +The latest dream I ever dream'd + On the cold hill's side. + +'I saw pale kings and princes too, + Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; +They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci + Hath thee in thrall!" + +'I saw their starved lips in the gloam + With horrid warning gaped wide, +And I awoke and found me here, + On the cold hill's side. + +'And this is why I sojourn here + Alone and palely loitering, +Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, + And no birds sing.' + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +634. On first looking into Chapman's Homer + +MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, + And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; + Round many western islands have I been +Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. +Oft of one wide expanse had I been told + That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: + Yet did I never breathe its pure serene +Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: +Then felt I like some watcher of the skies + When a new planet swims into his ken; +Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes + He stared at the Pacific--and all his men +Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- + Silent, upon a peak in Darien. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +635. When I have Fears that I may cease to be + +WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be +Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, +Before high pil`d books, in charact'ry, +Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; +When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, +Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, +And feel that I may never live to trace +Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; +And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! +That I shall never look upon thee more, +Never have relish in the faery power +Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore + Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, + Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +636. To Sleep + +O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! + Shutting with careful fingers and benign +Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, + Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; +O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, + In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, +Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws + Around my bed its lulling charities; + Then save me, or the passed day will shine +Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; +Save me from curious conscience, that still lords + Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; +Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, + And seal the hushed casket of my soul. + + +John Keats. 1795-1821 + +637. Last Sonnet + +BRIGHT Star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- +Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, +And watching, with eternal lids apart, +Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, +The moving waters at their priest-like task +Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, +Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask +Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-- +No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, +Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, +To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, +Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, + Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, + And so live ever--or else swoon to death. + + +Jeremiah Joseph Callanan. 1795-1839 + +638. The Outlaw of Loch Lene +FROM THE IRISH + +O MANY a day have I made good ale in the glen, +That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men: +My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above; +And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love. + +Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, +That I was not near from terror my angel to shield! +She stretch'd forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind, +And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlaw'd lover to find. + +O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, +And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep; +I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save-- +With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave. + +'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, +The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides: +I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among, +The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song. + + +William Sidney Walker. 1795-1846 + +639. Too solemn for day, too sweet for night + +TOO solemn for day, too sweet for night, + Come not in darkness, come not in light; +But come in some twilight interim, + When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim. + + +George Darley. 1795-1846 + +640. Song + +SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, + Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; +Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers + Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. + +Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming + To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above: +O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, + I too could glide to the bower of my love! + +Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, + Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, +Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, + To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. + +Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, + Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me-- +Come--this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, + Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee! + + +George Darley. 1795-1846 + +641. To Helene +On a Gift-ring carelessly lost + +I SENT a ring--a little band + Of emerald and ruby stone, +And bade it, sparkling on thy hand, + Tell thee sweet tales of one + Whose constant memory + Was full of loveliness, and thee. + +A shell was graven on its gold,-- + 'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings-- +To Helene once it would have told + More than was ever told by rings: + But now all 's past and gone, + Her love is buried with that stone. + +Thou shalt not see the tears that start + From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; +Thou shalt not know the beating heart, + Ever a victim and a child: + Yet Helene, love, believe + The heart that never could deceive. + +I'll hear thy voice of melody + In the sweet whispers of the air; +I'll see the brightness of thine eye + In the blue evening's dewy star; + In crystal streams thy purity; + And look on Heaven to look on thee. + + +George Darley. 1795-1846 + +642. The Fallen Star + +A STAR is gone! a star is gone! + There is a blank in Heaven; +One of the cherub choir has done + His airy course this even. + +He sat upon the orb of fire + That hung for ages there, +And lent his music to the choir + That haunts the nightly air. + +But when his thousand years are pass'd, + With a cherubic sigh +He vanish'd with his car at last, + For even cherubs die! + +Hear how his angel-brothers mourn-- + The minstrels of the spheres-- +Each chiming sadly in his turn + And dropping splendid tears. + +The planetary sisters all + Join in the fatal song, +And weep this hapless brother's fall, + Who sang with them so long. + +But deepest of the choral band + The Lunar Spirit sings, +And with a bass-according hand + Sweeps all her sullen strings. + +From the deep chambers of the dome + Where sleepless Uriel lies, +His rude harmonic thunders come + Mingled with mighty sighs. + +The thousand car-bourne cherubim, + The wandering eleven, +All join to chant the dirge of him + Who fell just now from Heaven. + + +Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849 + +643. The Solitary-Hearted + +SHE was a queen of noble Nature's crowning, +A smile of hers was like an act of grace; +She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, +Like daily beauties of the vulgar race: +But if she smiled, a light was on her face, +A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam +Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream +Of human thought with unabiding glory; +Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, +A visitation, bright and transitory. + +But she is changed,--hath felt the touch of sorrow, +No love hath she, no understanding friend; +O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrow +What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; +But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend. +The tallest flower that skyward rears its head +Grows from the common ground, and there must shed +Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, +That they should find so base a bridal bed, +Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely. + +She had a brother, and a tender father, +And she was loved, but not as others are +From whom we ask return of love,--but rather +As one might love a dream; a phantom fair +Of something exquisitely strange and rare, +Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, +Yet no one claim'd--as oft, in dewy glades, +The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, +Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;-- +The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. + +'Tis vain to say--her worst of grief is only +The common lot, which all the world have known; +To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely, +And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,-- +Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, +And she did love them. They are past away +As Fairies vanish at the break of day; +And like a spectre of an age departed, +Or unsphered Angel wofully astray, +She glides along--the solitary-hearted. + + +Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849 + +644. Song + +SHE is not fair to outward view +As many maidens be, +Her loveliness I never knew + Until she smiled on me; +O, then I saw her eye was bright, +A well of love, a spring of light! + +But now her looks are coy and cold, +To mine they ne'er reply, +And yet I cease not to behold + The love-light in her eye: +Her very frowns are fairer far +Than smiles of other maidens are. + + +Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849 + +645. Early Death + +SHE pass'd away like morning dew + Before the sun was high; +So brief her time, she scarcely knew + The meaning of a sigh. + +As round the rose its soft perfume, + Sweet love around her floated; +Admired she grew--while mortal doom + Crept on, unfear'd, unnoted. + +Love was her guardian Angel here, + But Love to Death resign'd her; +Tho' Love was kind, why should we fear + But holy Death is kinder? + + +Hartley Coleridge. 1796-1849 + +646. Friendship + +WHEN we were idlers with the loitering rills, +The need of human love we little noted: + Our love was nature; and the peace that floated +On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, +To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills: + One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted, + That, wisely doting, ask'd not why it doted, +And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. +But now I find how dear thou wert to me; + That man is more than half of nature's treasure, +Of that fair beauty which no eye can see, + Of that sweet music which no ear can measure; + And now the streams may sing for others' pleasure, +The hills sleep on in their eternity. + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +647. Autumn + +I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn +Stand shadowless like Silence, listening +To silence, for no lonely bird would sing +Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, +Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;-- +Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright +With tangled gossamer that fell by night, + Pearling his coronet of golden corn. + +Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun, +Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, +Till shade and silence waken up as one, +And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. +Where are the merry birds?--Away, away, +On panting wings through the inclement skies, + Lest owls should prey + Undazzled at noonday, +And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. + +Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west, +Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, +When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest +Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs + To a most gloomy breast. +Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- +The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three +On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime +Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree! + Where is the Dryad's immortality?-- +Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, +Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through + In the smooth holly's green eternity. + +The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, +The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, + And honey bees have stored +The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; +The swallows all have wing'd across the main; +But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, + And sighs her tearful spells +Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. + Alone, alone, + Upon a mossy stone, +She sits and reckons up the dead and gone +With the last leaves for a love-rosary, +Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, +Like a dim picture of the drowned past +In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, +Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last +Into that distance, gray upon the gray. + +O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded +Under the languid downfall of her hair: +She wears a coronal of flowers faded +Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- +There is enough of wither'd everywhere +To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; +There is enough of sadness to invite, +If only for the rose that died, whose doom +Is Beauty's,--she that with the living bloom +Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: +There is enough of sorrowing, and quite +Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- +Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; +Enough of fear and shadowy despair, +To frame her cloudy prison for the soul! + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +648. Silence + +THERE is a silence where hath been no sound, +There is a silence where no sound may be, + In the cold grave--under the deep, deep sea, +Or in wide desert where no life is found, +Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; + No voice is hush'd--no life treads silently, + But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, +That never spoke, over the idle ground: +But in green ruins, in the desolate walls + Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, +Though the dun fox or wild hyaena calls, + And owls, that flit continually between, +Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan-- +There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +649. Death + +IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh + This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; +That sometime these bright stars, that now reply + In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; + That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, +And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; + That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite +Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; +It is not death to know this--but to know + That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves +In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go + So duly and so oft--and when grass waves +Over the pass'd-away, there may be then +No resurrection in the minds of men. + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +650. Fair Ines + +O SAW ye not fair Ines? + She 's gone into the West, +To dazzle when the sun is down, + And rob the world of rest: +She took our daylight with her, + The smiles that we love best, +With morning blushes on her cheek, + And pearls upon her breast. + +O turn again, fair Ines, + Before the fall of night, +For fear the Moon should shine alone, + And stars unrivall'd bright; +And blessed will the lover be + That walks beneath their light, +And breathes the love against thy cheek + I dare not even write! + +Would I had been, fair Ines, + That gallant cavalier, +Who rode so gaily by thy side, + And whisper'd thee so near! +Were there no bonny dames at home, + Or no true lovers here, +That he should cross the seas to win + The dearest of the dear? + +I saw thee, lovely Ines, + Descend along the shore, +With bands of noble gentlemen, + And banners waved before; +And gentle youth and maidens gay, + And snowy plumes they wore: +It would have been a beauteous dream,-- + If it had been no more! + +Alas, alas! fair Ines, + She went away with song, +With Music waiting on her steps, + And shoutings of the throng; +But some were sad, and felt no mirth, + But only Music's wrong, +In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, + To her you've loved so long. + +Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! + That vessel never bore +So fair a lady on its deck, + Nor danced so light before,-- +Alas for pleasure on the sea, + And sorrow on the shore! +The smile that bless'd one lover's heart + Has broken many more! + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +651. Time of Roses + +IT was not in the Winter + Our loving lot was cast; +It was the time of roses-- + We pluck'd them as we pass'd! + +That churlish season never frown'd + On early lovers yet: +O no--the world was newly crown'd + With flowers when first we met! + +'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, + But still you held me fast; +It was the time of roses-- + We pluck'd them as we pass'd! + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +652. Ruth + +SHE stood breast-high amid the corn, +Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, +Like the sweetheart of the sun, +Who many a glowing kiss had won. + +On her cheek an autumn flush, +Deeply ripen'd;--such a blush +In the midst of brown was born, +Like red poppies grown with corn. + +Round her eyes her tresses fell, +Which were blackest none could tell, +But long lashes veil'd a light, +That had else been all too bright. + +And her hat, with shady brim, +Made her tressy forehead dim; +Thus she stood amid the stooks, +Praising God with sweetest looks:-- + +Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, +Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, +Lay thy sheaf adown and come, +Share my harvest and my home. + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +653. The Death-bed + +WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night, + Her breathing soft and low, +As in her breast the wave of life + Kept heaving to and fro. + +So silently we seem'd to speak, + So slowly moved about, +As we had lent her half our powers + To eke her living out. + +Our very hopes belied our fears, + Our fears our hopes belied-- +We thought her dying when she slept, + And sleeping when she died. + +For when the morn came dim and sad, + And chill with early showers, +Her quiet eyelids closed--she had + Another morn than ours. + + +Thomas Hood. 1798-1845 + +654. The Bridge of Sighs + +ONE more Unfortunate, + Weary of breath, +Rashly importunate, + Gone to her death! + +Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care; +Fashion'd so slenderly + Young, and so fair! + +Look at her garments +Clinging like cerements; +Whilst the wave constantly + Drips from her clothing; +Take her up instantly, + Loving, not loathing. + +Touch her not scornfully; +Think of her mournfully, + Gently and humanly; +Not of the stains of her, +All that remains of her + Now is pure womanly. + +Make no deep scrutiny +Into her mutiny + Rash and undutiful: +Past all dishonour, +Death has left on her + Only the beautiful. + +Still, for all slips of hers, + One of Eve's family-- +Wipe those poor lips of hers + Oozing so clammily. + +Loop up her tresses + Escaped from the comb, +Her fair auburn tresses; +Whilst wonderment guesses + Where was her home? + +Who was her father? + Who was her mother? +Had she a sister? + Had she a brother? +Or was there a dearer one +Still, and a nearer one + Yet, than all other? + +Alas! for the rarity +Of Christian charity + Under the sun! +O, it was pitiful! +Near a whole city full, + Home she had none. + +Sisterly, brotherly, +Fatherly, motherly + Feelings had changed: +Love, by harsh evidence, +Thrown from its eminence; +Even God's providence + Seeming estranged. + +Where the lamps quiver +So far in the river, + With many a light +From window and casement, +From garret to basement, +She stood, with amazement, + Houseless by night. + +The bleak wind of March + Made her tremble and shiver; +But not the dark arch, +Or the black flowing river: +Mad from life's history, +Glad to death's mystery, + Swift to be hurl'd-- +Anywhere, anywhere + Out of the world! + +In she plunged boldly-- +No matter how coldly + The rough river ran-- +Over the brink of it, +Picture it--think of it, + Dissolute Man! +Lave in it, drink of it, + Then, if you can! + +Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care; +Fashion'd so slenderly, + Young, and so fair! + +Ere her limbs frigidly +Stiffen too rigidly, + Decently, kindly, +Smooth and compose them; +And her eyes, close them, + Staring so blindly! + +Dreadfully staring + Thro' muddy impurity, +As when with the daring +Last look of despairing + Fix'd on futurity. + +Perishing gloomily, +Spurr'd by contumely, +Cold inhumanity, +Burning insanity, + Into her rest.-- +Cross her hands humbly +As if praying dumbly, + Over her breast! + +Owning her weakness, + Her evil behaviour, +And leaving, with meekness, + Her sins to her Saviour! + + +William Thom. 1798-1848 + +655. The Blind Boy's Pranks + +MEN grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, + Love kentna whaur to stay: +Wi' fient an arrow, bow, or string-- +Wi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing, + He faught his lonely way. + +'Is there nae mair in Garioch fair + Ae spotless hame for me? +Hae politics an' corn an' kye +Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie! + I'll swithe me o'er the sea.' + +He launch'd a leaf o' jessamine, + On whilk he daur'd to swim, +An' pillow'd his head on a wee rosebud, +Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan scud + Down Ury's waefu' stream. + +The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, + But dowie when he gaed by; +Till lull'd wi' the sough o' monie a sang, +He sleepit fu' soun' and sail'd alang + 'Neath Heaven's gowden sky. + +'Twas just whaur creeping Ury greets + Its mountain cousin Don, +There wander'd forth a weelfaur'd dame, +Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream, +As it flirted an' play'd with a sunny beam + That flicker'd its bosom upon. + +Love happit his head, I trow, that time + The jessamine bark drew nigh, +The lassie espied the wee rosebud, +An' aye her heart gae thud for thud, + An' quiet it wadna lie. + +'O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower + That floats on the Ury sae fair!'-- +She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf, +But little wist she o' the pawkie thief + That was lurkin' an' laughin' there! + +Love glower'd when he saw her bonnie dark e'e, + An' swore by Heaven's grace +He ne'er had seen nor thought to see, +Since e'er he left the Paphian lea, + Sae lovely a dwallin'-place. + +Syne first of a' in her blythesome breast + He built a bower, I ween; +An' what did the waefu' devilick neist? +But kindled a gleam like the rosy east, + That sparkled frae baith her e'en. + +An' then beneath ilk high e'e-bree + He placed a quiver there; +His bow? What but her shinin' brow? +An' O sic deadly strings he drew + Frae out her silken hair! + +Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deen + Roun' a' our countrie then; +An' monie a hangin' lug was seen +'Mang farmers fat, an' lawyers lean, + An' herds o' common men! + +kentna] knew not. wi' fient an arrow] i. q. with deuce an +arrow. swithe] hie quickly. laithfu'] regretful. dowie] +dejectedly. weelfaur'd] well-favoured, comely. happit] covered +up. lootit] lowered. pawkie] sly. glower'd] stared. e'e-bree] +eyebrow. lug] ear. + + +Sir Henry Taylor. 1800-1866 + +656. Elena's Song + +QUOTH tongue of neither maid nor wife + To heart of neither wife nor maid-- +Lead we not here a jolly life + Betwixt the shine and shade? + +Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife + To tongue of neither wife nor maid-- +Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife, + And feel like flowers that fade. + + +Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay. 1800-1859 + +657. A Jacobite's Epitaph + +TO my true king I offer'd free from stain +Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. +For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, +And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. +For him I languish'd in a foreign clime, +Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's prime; +Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, +And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; +Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep, +Each morning started from the dream to weep; +Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave +The resting-place I ask'd, an early grave. +O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, +From that proud country which was once mine own, +By those white cliffs I never more must see, +By that dear language which I spake like thee, +Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear +O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. + + +William Barnes. 1801-1886 + +658. Mater Dolorosa + +I'D a dream to-night + As I fell asleep, +O! the touching sight + Makes me still to weep: +Of my little lad, +Gone to leave me sad, +Ay, the child I had, + But was not to keep. + +As in heaven high, + I my child did seek, +There in train came by + Children fair and meek, +Each in lily white, +With a lamp alight; +Each was clear to sight, + But they did not speak. + +Then, a little sad, +Came my child in turn, +But the lamp he had, + O it did not burn! +He, to clear my doubt, +Said, half turn'd about, +'Your tears put it out; + Mother, never mourn.' + + +William Barnes. 1801-1886 + +659. The Wife a-lost + +SINCE I noo mwore do zee your feäce, + Up steärs or down below, +I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce, + Where flat-bough'd beech do grow; +Below the beeches' bough, my love, + Where you did never come, +An' I don't look to meet ye now, + As I do look at hwome. + +Since you noo mwore be at my zide, + In walks in zummer het, +I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, + Droo trees a-drippen wet; +Below the raïn-wet bough, my love, + Where you did never come, +An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, + As I do grieve at hwome. + +Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard + Your vaïce do never sound, +I'll eat the bit I can avword + A-vield upon the ground; +Below the darksome bough, my love, + Where you did never dine, +An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, + As I at hwome do pine. + +Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce + In prayer at eventide, +I'll pray wi' woone sad vaïce vor greäce + To goo where you do bide; +Above the tree an' bough, my love, + Where you be gone avore, +An' be a-waïten vor me now, + To come vor evermwore. + + +Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 1802-1839 + +660. Fairy Song + +HE has conn'd the lesson now; + He has read the book of pain: +There are furrows on his brow; + I must make it smooth again. + +Lo! I knock the spurs away; + Lo! I loosen belt and brand; +Hark! I hear the courser neigh + For his stall in Fairy-land. + +Bring the cap, and bring the vest; + Buckle on his sandal shoon; +Fetch his memory from the chest + In the treasury of the moon. + +I have taught him to be wise + For a little maiden's sake;-- +Lo! he opens his glad eyes, + Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake! + + +Sara Coleridge. 1802-1850 + +661. O sleep, my Babe + +O SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, +Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling'ring strays + To drink thy balmy breath, + And sigh one long farewell. + +Soon shall it mourn above thy wat'ry bed, +And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore, + Deep murm'ring in reproach, + Thy sad untimely fate. + +Ere those dear eyes had open'd on the light, +In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold, + O waken'd but to sleep, + Whence it can wake no more! + +A thousand and a thousand silken leaves +The tufted beech unfolds in early spring, + All clad in tenderest green, + All of the self-same shape: + +A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, +Each year sends forth, yet every mother views + Her last not least beloved + Like its dear self alone. + +No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped +The face to-morrow's sun shall first reveal, + No heart hath e'er conceived + What love that face will bring. + +O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale +To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, + As when it deeply sighs + O'er autumn's latest bloom. + + +Sara Coleridge. 1802-1850 + +662. The Child + +SEE yon blithe child that dances in our sight! +Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright? + Fond mother, whence these fears? +While buoyantly he rushes o'er the lawn, +Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood's dawn, + Nor dim that sight with tears. + +No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours, +But feels as if the newly vested bowers + For him could never fade: +Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet, +But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet, + Our loss is overpaid. + +Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can give +Some bitter drops distil, and all that live + A mingled portion share; +But, while he learns these truths which we lament, +Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent, + Such solace to his care. + + +Gerald Griffin. 1803-1840 + +663. Eileen Aroon + +WHEN like the early rose, + Eileen Aroon! +Beauty in childhood blows, + Eileen Aroon! +When, like a diadem, +Buds blush around the stem, +Which is the fairest gem?-- + Eileen Aroon! + +Is it the laughing eye, + Eileen Aroon! +Is it the timid sigh, + Eileen Aroon! +Is it the tender tone, +Soft as the string'd harp's moan? +O, it is truth alone,-- + Eileen Aroon! + +When like the rising day, + Eileen Aroon! +Love sends his early ray, + Eileen Aroon! +What makes his dawning glow, +Changeless through joy or woe? +Only the constant know:-- + Eileen Aroon! + +I know a valley fair, + Eileen Aroon! +I knew a cottage there, + Eileen Aroon! +Far in that valley's shade +I knew a gentle maid, +Flower of a hazel glade,-- + Eileen Aroon! + +Who in the song so sweet? + Eileen Aroon! +Who in the dance so fleet? + Eileen Aroon! +Dear were her charms to me, +Dearer her laughter free, +Dearest her constancy,-- + Eileen Aroon! + +Were she no longer true, + Eileen Aroon! +What should her lover do? + Eileen Aroon! +Fly with his broken chain +Far o'er the sounding main, +Never to love again,-- + Eileen Aroon! + +Youth must with time decay, + Eileen Aroon! +Beauty must fade away, + Eileen Aroon! +Castles are sack'd in war, +Chieftains are scatter'd far, +Truth is a fixed star,-- + Eileen Aroon! + + +James Clarence Mangan. 1803-1849 + +664. Dark Rosaleen + +O MY Dark Rosaleen, + Do not sigh, do not weep! +The priests are on the ocean green, + They march along the deep. +There 's wine from the royal Pope, + Upon the ocean green; +And Spanish ale shall give you hope, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My own Rosaleen! +Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, +Shall give you health, and help, and hope, + My Dark Rosaleen! + +Over hills, and thro' dales, + Have I roam'd for your sake; +All yesterday I sail'd with sails + On river and on lake. +The Erne, at its highest flood, + I dash'd across unseen, +For there was lightning in my blood, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My own Rosaleen! +O, there was lightning in my blood, +Red lightning lighten'd thro' my blood. + My Dark Rosaleen! + +All day long, in unrest, + To and fro, do I move. +The very soul within my breast + Is wasted for you, love! +The heart in my bosom faints + To think of you, my Queen, +My life of life, my saint of saints, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My own Rosaleen! +To hear your sweet and sad complaints, +My life, my love, my saint of saints, + My Dark Rosaleen! + +Woe and pain, pain and woe, + Are my lot, night and noon, +To see your bright face clouded so, + Like to the mournful moon. +But yet will I rear your throne + Again in golden sheen; +'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My own Rosaleen! +'Tis you shall have the golden throne, +'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, + My Dark Rosaleen! + +Over dews, over sands, + Will I fly, for your weal: +Your holy delicate white hands + Shall girdle me with steel. +At home, in your emerald bowers, + From morning's dawn till e'en, +You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My fond Rosaleen! +You'll think of me through daylight hours, +My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, + My Dark Rosaleen! + +I could scale the blue air, + I could plough the high hills, +O, I could kneel all night in prayer, + To heal your many ills! +And one beamy smile from you + Would float like light between +My toils and me, my own, my true, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My fond Rosaleen! +Would give me life and soul anew, +A second life, a soul anew, + My Dark Rosaleen! + +O, the Erne shall run red, + With redundance of blood, +The earth shall rock beneath our tread, + And flames wrap hill and wood, +And gun-peal and slogan-cry + Wake many a glen serene, +Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, + My Dark Rosaleen! + My own Rosaleen! +The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, +Ere you can fade, ere you can die, + My Dark Rosaleen! + + +James Clarence Mangan. 1803-1849 + +665. The Nameless One + +ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river, + That sweeps along to the mighty sea; +God will inspire me while I deliver + My soul of thee! + +Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening + Amid the last homes of youth and eld, +That once there was one whose veins ran lightning + No eye beheld. + +Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, + How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, +No star of all heaven sends to light our + Path to the tomb. + +Roll on, my song, and to after ages + Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, +He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, + The way to live. + +And tell how trampled, derided, hated, + And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, +He fled for shelter to God, who mated + His soul with song. + +--With song which alway, sublime or vapid, + Flow'd like a rill in the morning beam, +Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid-- + A mountain stream. + +Tell how this Nameless, condemn'd for years long + To herd with demons from hell beneath, +Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long + For even death. + +Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, + Betray'd in friendship, befool'd in love, +With spirit shipwreck'd, and young hopes blasted, + He still, still strove; + +Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others + (And some whose hands should have wrought for him, +If children live not for sires and mothers), + His mind grew dim; + +And he fell far through that pit abysmal, + The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, +And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal + Stock of returns. + +But yet redeem'd it in days of darkness, + And shapes and signs of the final wrath, +When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, + Stood on his path. + +And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, + And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, +He bides in calmness the silent morrow, + That no ray lights. + +And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary + At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, +He lives, enduring what future story + Will never know. + +Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, + Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell! +He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, + Here and in hell. + + +Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 1803-1849 + +666. Wolfram's Dirge + +IF thou wilt ease thine heart +Of love and all its smart, + Then sleep, dear, sleep; +And not a sorrow + Hang any tear on your eyelashes; + Lie still and deep, + Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes +The rim o' the sun to-morrow, + In eastern sky. + +But wilt thou cure thine heart +Of love and all its smart, + Then die, dear, die; +'Tis deeper, sweeter, + Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming + With folded eye; + And there alone, amid the beaming +Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her + In eastern sky. + + +Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 1803-1849 + +667. Dream-Pedlary + +IF there were dreams to sell, + What would you buy? +Some cost a passing bell; + Some a light sigh, +That shakes from Life's fresh crown +Only a rose-leaf down. +If there were dreams to sell, +Merry and sad to tell, +And the crier rang the bell, + What would you buy? + +A cottage lone and still, + With bowers nigh, +Shadowy, my woes to still, + Until I die. +Such pearl from Life's fresh crown +Fain would I shake me down. +Were dreams to have at will, +This would best heal my ill, + This would I buy. + + +Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 1803-1849 + +668. Song + +HOW many times do I love thee, dear? + Tell me how many thoughts there be + In the atmosphere + Of a new-fall'n year, +Whose white and sable hours appear + The latest flake of Eternity: +So many times do I love thee, dear. + +How many times do I love again? + Tell me how many beads there are + In a silver chain + Of evening rain, +Unravell'd from the tumbling main, + And threading the eye of a yellow star: +So many times do I love again. + + +Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882 + +669. Give All to Love + +GIVE all to love; +Obey thy heart; +Friends, kindred, days, +Estate, good fame, +Plans, credit, and the Muse-- +Nothing refuse. + +'Tis a brave master; +Let it have scope: +Follow it utterly, +Hope beyond hope: +High and more high +It dives into noon, +With wing unspent, +Untold intent; +But it is a god, +Knows its own path, +And the outlets of the sky. + +It was never for the mean; +It requireth courage stout, +Souls above doubt, +Valour unbending: +Such 'twill reward;-- +They shall return +More than they were, +And ever ascending. + +Leave all for love; +Yet, hear me, yet, +One word more thy heart behoved, +One pulse more of firm endeavour-- +Keep thee to-day, +To-morrow, for ever, +Free as an Arab +Of thy beloved. + +Cling with life to the maid; +But when the surprise, +First vague shadow of surmise, +Flits across her bosom young, +Of a joy apart from thee, +Free be she, fancy-free; +Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, +Nor the palest rose she flung +From her summer diadem. + +Though thou loved her as thyself, +As a self of purer clay; +Though her parting dims the day, +Stealing grace from all alive; +Heartily know, +When half-gods go +The gods arrive. + + +Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882 + +670. Uriel + +IT fell in the ancient periods + Which the brooding soul surveys, +Or ever the wild Time coin'd itself + Into calendar months and days. + +This was the lapse of Uriel, +Which in Paradise befell. +Once, among the Pleiads walking, +Sayd overheard the young gods talking; +And the treason, too long pent, +To his ears was evident. +The young deities discuss'd +Laws of form, and metre just, +Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams, +What subsisteth, and what seems. +One, with low tones that decide, +And doubt and reverend use defied, +With a look that solved the sphere, +And stirr'd the devils everywhere, +Gave his sentiment divine +Against the being of a line. +'Line in nature is not found; +Unit and universe are round; +In vain produced, all rays return; +Evil will bless, and ice will burn.' +As Uriel spoke with piercing eye, +A shudder ran around the sky; +The stern old war-gods shook their heads; +The seraphs frown'd from myrtle-beds; +Seem'd to the holy festival +The rash word boded ill to all; +The balance-beam of Fate was bent; +The bounds of good and ill were rent; +Strong Hades could not keep his own, +But all slid to confusion. + +A sad self-knowledge withering fell +On the beauty of Uriel; +In heaven once eminent, the god +Withdrew that hour into his cloud; +Whether doom'd to long gyration +In the sea of generation, +Or by knowledge grown too bright +To hit the nerve of feebler sight. +Straightway a forgetting wind +Stole over the celestial kind, +And their lips the secret kept, +If in ashes the fire-seed slept. +But, now and then, truth-speaking things +Shamed the angels' veiling wings; +And, shrilling from the solar course, +Or from fruit of chemic force, +Procession of a soul in matter, +Or the speeding change of water, +Or out of the good of evil born, +Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn, +And a blush tinged the upper sky, +And the gods shook, they knew not why. + + +Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882 + +671. Bacchus + +BRING me wine, but wine which never grew +In the belly of the grape, +Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through +Under the Andes to the Cape, +Suffer'd no savour of the earth to 'scape. + +Let its grapes the morn salute +From a nocturnal root, +Which feels the acrid juice +Of Styx and Erebus; +And turns the woe of Night, +By its own craft, to a more rich delight. + +We buy ashes for bread; +We buy diluted wine; +Give me of the true, +Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd +Among the silver hills of heaven +Draw everlasting dew; +Wine of wine, +Blood of the world, +Form of forms, and mould of statures, +That I intoxicated, +And by the draught assimilated, +May float at pleasure through all natures; +The bird-language rightly spell, +And that which roses say so well: + +Wine that is shed +Like the torrents of the sun +Up the horizon walls, +Or like the Atlantic streams, which run +When the South Sea calls. + +Water and bread, +Food which needs no transmuting, +Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, +Wine which is already man, +Food which teach and reason can. + +Wine which Music is,-- +Music and wine are one,-- +That I, drinking this, +Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; +Kings unborn shall walk with me; +And the poor grass shall plot and plan +What it will do when it is man. +Quicken'd so, will I unlock +Every crypt of every rock. + +I thank the joyful juice +For all I know; +Winds of remembering +Of the ancient being blow, +And seeming-solid walls of use +Open and flow. + +Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; +Retrieve the loss of me and mine! +Vine for vine be antidote, +And the grape requite the lote! +Haste to cure the old despair; +Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd-- +The memory of ages quench'd-- +Give them again to shine; +Let wine repair what this undid; +And where the infection slid, +A dazzling memory revive; +Refresh the faded tints, +Recut the aged prints, +And write my old adventures with the pen +Which on the first day drew, +Upon the tablets blue, +The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. + + +Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803-1882 + +672. Brahma + +IF the red slayer think he slays, + Or if the slain think he is slain, +They know not well the subtle ways + I keep, and pass, and turn again. + +Far or forgot to me is near; + Shadow and sunlight are the same; +The vanish'd gods to me appear; + And one to me are shame and fame. + +They reckon ill who leave me out; + When me they fly, I am the wings; +I am the doubter and the doubt, + And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. + +The strong gods pine for my abode, + And pine in vain the sacred Seven; +But thou, meek lover of the good! + Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. + + +Richard Henry Horne. 1803-1884 + +673. The Plough +A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE + +ABOVE yon sombre swell of land + Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, +With one pale streak like yellow sand, + And over that a vein of blue. + +The air is cold above the woods; + All silent is the earth and sky, +Except with his own lonely moods + The blackbird holds a colloquy. + +Over the broad hill creeps a beam, + Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; +And now ascends the nostril-stream + Of stalwart horses come to plough. + +Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind + Your labour is for future hours: +Advance--spare not--nor look behind-- + Plough deep and straight with all your powers! + + +Robert Stephen Hawker. 1804-1875 + +674. King Arthur's Waes-hael + +WAES-HAEL for knight and dame! + O merry be their dole! +Drink-hael! in Jesu's name + We fill the tawny bowl; +But cover down the curving crest, +Mould of the Orient Lady's breast. + +Waes-hael! yet lift no lid: + Drain ye the reeds for wine. +Drink-hael! the milk was hid + That soothed that Babe divine; +Hush'd, as this hollow channel flows, +He drew the balsam from the rose. + +Waes-hael! thus glow'd the breast + Where a God yearn'd to cling; +Drink-hael! so Jesu press'd + Life from its mystic spring; +Then hush and bend in reverent sign +And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine. + +Waes-hael! in shadowy scene + Lo! Christmas children we: +Drink-hael! behold we lean + At a far Mother's knee; +To dream that thus her bosom smiled, +And learn the lip of Bethlehem's Child. + + +Robert Stephen Hawker. 1804-1875 + +675. Are they not all Ministering Spirits? + +WE see them not--we cannot hear + The music of their wing-- +Yet know we that they sojourn near, + The Angels of the spring! + +They glide along this lovely ground + When the first violet grows; +Their graceful hands have just unbound + The zone of yonder rose. + +I gather it for thy dear breast, + From stain and shadow free: +That which an Angel's touch hath blest + Is meet, my love, for thee! + + +Thomas Wade. 1805-1875 + +676. The Half-asleep + +O FOR the mighty wakening that aroused + The old-time Prophets to their missions high; + And to blind Homer's inward sunlike eye +Show'd the heart's universe where he caroused +Radiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused, + And sent them forth to preach divinity; + And made our Milton his great dark defy, +To the light of one immortal theme espoused! +But half asleep are those now most awake; + And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have none +Who for eternity put time at stake, + And hold a constant course as doth the sun: +We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake; + And feebly cease ere we have well begun. + + +Francis Mahony. 1805-1866 + +677. The Bells of Shandon + +WITH deep affection, +And recollection, +I often think of + Those Shandon bells, +Whose sounds so wild would, +In the days of childhood, +Fling around my cradle + Their magic spells. +On this I ponder +Where'er I wander, +And thus grow fonder, + Sweet Cork, of thee; +With thy bells of Shandon, +That sound so grand on +The pleasant waters + Of the River Lee. + +I've heard bells chiming +Full many a clime in, +Tolling sublime in + Cathedral shrine, +While at a glib rate +Brass tongues would vibrate-- +But all their music + Spoke naught like thine; +For memory, dwelling +On each proud swelling +Of the belfry knelling + Its bold notes free, +Made the bells of Shandon +Sound far more grand on +The pleasant waters + Of the River Lee. + +I've heard bells tolling +Old Adrian's Mole in, +Their thunder rolling + From the Vatican, +And cymbals glorious +Swinging uproarious +In the gorgeous turrets + Of Notre Dame; +But thy sounds were sweeter +Than the dome of Peter +Flings o'er the Tiber, + Pealing solemnly-- +O, the bells of Shandon +Sound far more grand on +The pleasant waters + Of the River Lee. + +There 's a bell in Moscow, +While on tower and kiosk O! +In Saint Sophia + The Turkman gets, +And loud in air +Calls men to prayer +From the tapering summits + Of tall minarets. +Such empty phantom +I freely grant them; +But there 's an anthem + More dear to me,-- +'Tis the bells of Shandon, +That sound so grand on +The pleasant waters + Of the River Lee. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +678. Rosalind's Scroll + +I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, + A woman scarce in years: +I come to thee, a solemn corpse + Which neither feels nor fears. +I have no breath to use in sighs; +They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes + To seal them safe from tears. + +Look on me with thine own calm look: + I meet it calm as thou. +No look of thine can change this smile, + Or break thy sinful vow: +I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart +Is of thine earth--thine earth--a part: + It cannot vex thee now. + +I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob + When passion's course was free; +I have pray'd for thee with silent lips + In the anguish none could see; +They whisper'd oft, 'She sleepeth soft'-- + But I only pray'd for thee. + +Go to! I pray for thee no more: + The corpse's tongue is still; +Its folded fingers point to heaven, + But point there stiff and chill: +No farther wrong, no farther woe +Hath licence from the sin below + Its tranquil heart to thrill. + +I charge thee, by the living's prayer, + And the dead's silentness, +To wring from out thy soul a cry + Which God shall hear and bless! +Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, +And pale among the saints I stand, + A saint companionless. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +679. The Deserted Garden + +I MIND me in the days departed, +How often underneath the sun +With childish bounds I used to run + To a garden long deserted. + +The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; +And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, +The greenest grasses Nature laid, + To sanctify her right. + +I call'd the place my wilderness, +For no one enter'd there but I. +The sheep look'd in, the grass to espy, + And pass'd it ne'ertheless. + +The trees were interwoven wild, +And spread their boughs enough about +To keep both sheep and shepherd out, + But not a happy child. + +Adventurous joy it was for me! +I crept beneath the boughs, and found +A circle smooth of mossy ground + Beneath a poplar-tree. + +Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, +Bedropt with roses waxen-white, +Well satisfied with dew and light, + And careless to be seen. + +Long years ago, it might befall, +When all the garden flowers were trim, +The grave old gardener prided him + On these the most of all. + +Some Lady, stately overmuch, +Here moving with a silken noise, +Has blush'd beside them at the voice + That liken'd her to such. + +Or these, to make a diadem, +She often may have pluck'd and twined; +Half-smiling as it came to mind, + That few would look at them. + +O, little thought that Lady proud, +A child would watch her fair white rose, +When buried lay her whiter brows, + And silk was changed for shroud!-- + +Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns +For men unlearn'd and simple phrase) +A child would bring it all its praise, + By creeping through the thorns! + +To me upon my low moss seat, +Though never a dream the roses sent +Of science or love's compliment, + I ween they smelt as sweet. + +It did not move my grief to see +The trace of human step departed: +Because the garden was deserted, + The blither place for me! + +Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken +Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward: +We draw the moral afterward-- + We feel the gladness then. + +And gladdest hours for me did glide +In silence at the rose-tree wall: +A thrush made gladness musical + Upon the other side. + +Nor he nor I did e'er incline +To peck or pluck the blossoms white:-- +How should I know but that they might + Lead lives as glad as mine? + +To make my hermit-home complete, +I brought clear water from the spring +Praised in its own low murmuring, + And cresses glossy wet. + +And so, I thought, my likeness grew +(Without the melancholy tale) +To 'gentle hermit of the dale,' + And Angelina too. + +For oft I read within my nook +Such minstrel stories; till the breeze +Made sounds poetic in the trees, + And then I shut the book. + +If I shut this wherein I write, +I hear no more the wind athwart +Those trees, nor feel that childish heart + Delighting in delight. + +My childhood from my life is parted, +My footstep from the moss which drew +Its fairy circle round: anew + The garden is deserted. + +Another thrush may there rehearse +The madrigals which sweetest are; +No more for me!--myself afar + Do sing a sadder verse. + +Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay +In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, +I laugh'd unto myself and thought, + 'The time will pass away.' + +And still I laugh'd, and did not fear +But that, whene'er was pass'd away +The childish time, some happier play + My womanhood would cheer. + +I knew the time would pass away; +And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, +Dear God, how seldom, if at all, + Did I look up to pray! + +The time is past: and now that grows +The cypress high among the trees, +And I behold white sepulchres + As well as the white rose,-- + +When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, +And I have learnt to lift my face, +Reminded how earth's greenest place + The colour draws from heaven,-- + +It something saith for earthly pain, +But more for heavenly promise free, +That I who was, would shrink to be + That happy child again. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +680. Consolation + +ALL are not taken; there are left behind + Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring + And make the daylight still a happy thing, +And tender voices, to make soft the wind: +But if it were not so--if I could find + No love in all this world for comforting, + Nor any path but hollowly did ring +Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoin'd; +And if, before those sepulchres unmoving + I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb +Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) +Crying 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?'-- + I know a voice would sound, 'Daughter, I AM. +Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?' + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +681. Grief + +I TELL you, hopeless grief is passionless; + That only men incredulous of despair, + Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air +Beat upward to God's throne in loud access +Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness + In souls as countries lieth silent-bare + Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare +Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express +Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death-- + Most like a monumental statue set +In everlasting watch and moveless woe +Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. + Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: +If it could weep, it could arise and go. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +682. Sonnets from the Portuguese +i + +I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung + Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years, + Who each one in a gracious hand appears +To bear a gift for mortals old or young: +And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, + I saw in gradual vision through my tears + The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years-- +Those of my own life, who by turns had flung +A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, + So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move +Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; + And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, +'Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But there + The silver answer rang--'Not Death, but Love.' + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +683. Sonnets from the Portuguese +ii + +UNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely Heart! + Unlike our uses and our destinies. + Our ministering two angels look surprise +On one another, as they strike athwart +Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art + A guest for queens to social pageantries, + With gages from a hundred brighter eyes +Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part +Of chief musician. What hast thou to do + With looking from the lattice-lights at me-- +A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through + The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? +The chrism is on thine head--on mine the dew-- + And Death must dig the level where these agree. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +684. Sonnets from the Portuguese +iii + +GO from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand + Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore + Alone upon the threshold of my door +Of individual life I shall command +The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand + Serenely in the sunshine as before, + Without the sense of that which I forbore-- +Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land +Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine + With pulses that beat double. What I do +And what I dream include thee, as the wine + Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue +God for myself, He hears that name of thine, + And sees within my eyes the tears of two. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +685. Sonnets from the Portuguese +iv + +IF thou must love me, let it be for naught + Except for love's sake only. Do not say, + 'I love her for her smile--her look--her way +Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought +That falls in well with mine, and certes brought + A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'-- + For these things in themselves, Beloved, may +Be changed, or change for thee--and love, so wrought, +May be unwrought so. Neither love me for + Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry: +A creature might forget to weep, who bore + Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! +But love me for love's sake, that evermore + Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +686. Sonnets from the Portuguese +v + +WHEN our two souls stand up erect and strong, + Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, + Until the lengthening wings break into fire +At either curving point,--what bitter wrong +Can the earth do us, that we should not long + Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher, + The angels would press on us, and aspire +To drop some golden orb of perfect song +Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay + Rather on earth, Beloved--where the unfit +Contrarious moods of men recoil away + And isolate pure spirits, and permit +A place to stand and love in for a day, + With darkness and the death-hour rounding it. + + +Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 1806-1861 + +687. A Musical Instrument + +WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, + Down in the reeds by the river? +Spreading ruin and scattering ban, +Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, +And breaking the golden lilies afloat + With the dragon-fly on the river. + +He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, + From the deep cool bed of the river; +The limpid water turbidly ran, +And the broken lilies a-dying lay, +And the dragon-fly had fled away, + Ere he brought it out of the river. + +High on the shore sat the great god Pan, + While turbidly flow'd the river; +And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can +With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, +Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed + To prove it fresh from the river. + +He cut it short, did the great god Pan + (How tall it stood in the river!), +Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, +Steadily from the outside ring, +And notch'd the poor dry empty thing + In holes, as he sat by the river. + +'This is the way,' laugh'd the great god Pan + (Laugh'd while he sat by the river), +'The only way, since gods began +To make sweet music, they could succeed.' +Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, + He blew in power by the river. + +Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! + Piercing sweet by the river! +Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! +The sun on the hill forgot to die, +And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly + Came back to dream on the river. + +Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, + To laugh as he sits by the river, +Making a poet out of a man: +The true gods sigh for the cost and pain-- +For the reed which grows nevermore again + As a reed with the reeds of the river. + + +Frederick Tennyson. 1807-1898 + +688. The Holy Tide + +THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide: + The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; +So let the lifeless Hours be glorified + With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song: +And through the sunset of this purple cup + They will resume the roses of their prime, +And the old Dead will hear us and wake up, + Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime! + +The days are sad, it is the Holy tide: + Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown, +Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side, + Red as the drops upon His thorny crown; +No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth + Fright off the solemn Muse,--tell sweet old tales, +Sing songs as we sit brooding o'er the hearth, + Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails. + + +Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807-1882 + +689. My Lost Youth + +OFTEN I think of the beautiful town + That is seated by the sea; +Often in thought go up and down +The pleasant streets of that dear old town, + And my youth comes back to me. + And a verse of a Lapland song + Is haunting my memory still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, + And catch, in sudden gleams, +The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, +And islands that were the Hesperides + Of all my boyish dreams. + And the burden of that old song, + It murmurs and whispers still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +I remember the black wharves and the slips, + And the sea-tides tossing free; +And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, +And the beauty and mystery of the ships, + And the magic of the sea. + And the voice of that wayward song + Is singing and saying still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +I remember the bulwarks by the shore, + And the fort upon the hill; +The sunrise gun with its hollow roar, +The drum-beat repeated o'er and o'er, + And the bugle wild and shrill. + And the music of that old song + Throbs in my memory still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +I remember the sea-fight far away, + How it thunder'd o'er the tide! +And the dead sea-captains, as they lay +In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay + Where they in battle died. + And the sound of that mournful song + Goes through me with a thrill: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +I can see the breezy dome of groves, + The shadows of Deering's woods; +And the friendships old and the early loves +Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves + In quiet neighbourhoods. + And the verse of that sweet old song, + It flutters and murmurs still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +I remember the gleams and glooms that dart + Across the schoolboy's brain; +The song and the silence in the heart, +That in part are prophecies, and in part + Are longings wild and vain. + And the voice of that fitful song + Sings on, and is never still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +There are things of which I may not speak; + There are dreams that cannot die; +There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, +And bring a pallor into the cheek, + And a mist before the eye. + And the words of that fatal song + Come over me like a chill: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +Strange to me now are the forms I meet + When I visit the dear old town; +But the native air is pure and sweet, +And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, + As they balance up and down, + Are singing the beautiful song, + Are sighing and whispering still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + +And Deering's woods are fresh and fair, + And with joy that is almost pain +My heart goes back to wander there, +And among the dreams of the days that were + I find my lost youth again. + And the strange and beautiful song, + The groves are repeating it still: + 'A boy's will is the wind's will, +And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' + + +John Greenleaf Whittier. 1807-1892 + +690. Vesta + +O CHRIST of God! whose life and death + Our own have reconciled, +Most quietly, most tenderly + Take home thy star-named child! + +Thy grace is in her patient eyes, + Thy words are on her tongue; +The very silence round her seems + As if the angels sung. + +Her smile is as a listening child's + Who hears its mother's call; +The lilies of Thy perfect peace + About her pillow fall. + +She leans from out our clinging arms + To rest herself in Thine; +Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can we + Our well-beloved resign. + +O, less for her than for ourselves + We bow our heads and pray; +Her setting star, like Bethlehem's, + To Thee shall point the way! + + +Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin. 1807-1867 + +691. Lament of the Irish Emigrant + +I'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, + Where we sat side by side +On a bright May mornin' long ago, + When first you were my bride; +The corn was springin' fresh and green, + And the lark sang loud and high-- +And the red was on your lip, Mary, + And the love-light in your eye. + +The place is little changed, Mary, + The day is bright as then, +The lark's loud song is in my ear, + And the corn is green again; +But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, + And your breath warm on my cheek, +And I still keep list'ning for the words + You never more will speak. + +'Tis but a step down yonder lane, + And the little church stands near, +The church where we were wed, Mary, + I see the spire from here. +But the graveyard lies between, Mary, + And my step might break your rest-- +For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, + With your baby on your breast. + +I'm very lonely now, Mary, + For the poor make no new friends, +But, O, they love the better still, + The few our Father sends! +And you were all I had, Mary, + My blessin' and my pride: +There 's nothin' left to care for now, + Since my poor Mary died. + +Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, + That still kept hoping on, +When the trust in God had left my soul, + And my arm's young strength was gone: +There was comfort ever on your lip, + And the kind look on your brow-- +I bless you, Mary, for that same, + Though you cannot hear me now. + +I thank you for the patient smile + When your heart was fit to break, +When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, + And you hid it, for my sake! +I bless you for the pleasant word, + When your heart was sad and sore-- +O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, + Where grief can't reach you more! + +I'm biddin' you a long farewell, + My Mary--kind and true! +But I'll not forget you, darling! + In the land I'm goin' to; +They say there 's bread and work for all, + And the sun shines always there-- +But I'll not forget old Ireland, + Were it fifty times as fair! + +And often in those grand old woods + I'll sit, and shut my eyes, +And my heart will travel back again + To the place where Mary lies; +And I'll think I see the little stile + Where we sat side by side: +And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, + When first you were my bride. + + +Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 1808-1876 + +692. I do not love Thee + +I DO not love thee!--no! I do not love thee! +And yet when thou art absent I am sad; + And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, +Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. + + I do not love thee!--yet, I know not why, +Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: + And often in my solitude I sigh +That those I do love are not more like thee! + + I do not love thee!--yet, when thou art gone, +I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) + Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone +Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. + + I do not love thee!--yet thy speaking eyes, +With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, + Between me and the midnight heaven arise, +Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. + + I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! +Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; + And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, +Because they see me gazing where thou art. + + +Charles Tennyson Turner. 1808-1879 + +693. Letty's Globe + +WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year, + And her young artless words began to flow, +One day we gave the child a colour'd sphere + Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, +By tint and outline, all its sea and land. + She patted all the world; old empires peep'd +Between her baby fingers; her soft hand + Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap'd, + And laugh'd and prattled in her world-wide bliss; +But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye +On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry-- +'Oh! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there!' + And while she hid all England with a kiss, +Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. + + +Edgar Allan Poe. 1809-1849 + +694. To Helen + +HELEN, thy beauty is to me + Like those Nicean barks of yore +That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, + The weary way-worn wanderer bore + To his own native shore. + +On desperate seas long wont to roam, + Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, +Thy Naiad airs have brought me home + To the glory that was Greece, +And the grandeur that was Rome. + +Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche + How statue-like I see thee stand, + The agate lamp within thy hand, +Ah! Psyche, from the regions which + Are holy land! + + +Edgar Allan Poe. 1809-1849 + +695. Annabel Lee + +IT was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea, +That a maiden there lived whom you may know + By the name of Annabel Lee. +And this maiden she lived with no other thought + Than to love and be loved by me. + +I was a child and she was a child + In this kingdom by the sea: +But we loved with a love that was more than love-- + I and my Annabel Lee, +With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven + Coveted her and me. + +And this was the reason that, long ago, + In this kingdom by the sea, +A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling + My beautiful Annabel Lee, +So that her high-born kinsmen came + And bore her away from me, +To shut her up in a sepulchre + In this kingdom by the sea. + +The angels, not half so happy in heaven, + Went envying her and me-- +Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, + In this kingdom by the sea) +That the wind came out of the cloud one night, + Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. + +But our love it was stronger by far than the love + Of those who were older than we-- + Of many far wiser than we-- +And neither the angels in heaven above, + Nor the demons down under the sea, +Can ever dissever my soul from the soul + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: + +For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; +And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes + Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; +And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side +Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, + In the sepulchre there by the sea, + In her tomb by the sounding sea. + + +Edgar Allan Poe. 1809-1849 + +696. For Annie + +THANK Heaven! the crisis-- + The danger is past, +And the lingering illness + Is over at last-- +And the fever called 'Living' + Is conquer'd at last. + +Sadly, I know + I am shorn of my strength, +And no muscle I move + As I lie at full length: +But no matter--I feel + I am better at length. + +And I rest so composedly + Now, in my bed, +That any beholder + Might fancy me dead-- +Might start at beholding me, + Thinking me dead. + +The moaning and groaning, + The sighing and sobbing, +Are quieted now, + With that horrible throbbing +At heart--ah, that horrible, + Horrible throbbing! + +The sickness--the nausea-- + The pitiless pain-- +Have ceased, with the fever + That madden'd my brain-- +With the fever called 'Living' + That burn'd in my brain. + +And O! of all tortures + That torture the worst +Has abated--the terrible + Torture of thirst +For the naphthaline river + Of Passion accurst-- +I have drunk of a water + That quenches all thirst. + +--Of a water that flows, + With a lullaby sound, +From a spring but a very few + Feet under ground-- +From a cavern not very far + Down under ground. + +And ah! let it never + Be foolishly said +That my room it is gloomy, + And narrow my bed; +For man never slept + In a different bed-- +And, to sleep, you must slumber + In just such a bed. + +My tantalized spirit + Here blandly reposes, +Forgetting, or never + Regretting its roses-- +Its old agitations + Of myrtles and roses: + +For now, while so quietly + Lying, it fancies +A holier odour + About it, of pansies-- +A rosemary odour, + Commingled with pansies-- +With rue and the beautiful + Puritan pansies. + +And so it lies happily, + Bathing in many +A dream of the truth + And the beauty of Annie-- +Drown'd in a bath + Of the tresses of Annie. + +She tenderly kiss'd me, + She fondly caress'd, +And then I fell gently + To sleep on her breast-- +Deeply to sleep + From the heaven of her breast. + +When the light was extinguish'd, + She cover'd me warm, +And she pray'd to the angels + To keep me from harm-- +To the queen of the angels + To shield me from harm. + +And I lie so composedly, + Now, in my bed +(Knowing her love), + That you fancy me dead-- +And I rest so contentedly, + Now, in my bed +(With her love at my breast), + That you fancy me dead-- +That you shudder to look at me, + Thinking me dead. + +But my heart it is brighter + Than all of the many +Stars in the sky, + For it sparkles with Annie-- +It glows with the light + Of the love of my Annie-- +With the thought of the light + Of the eyes of my Annie. + + +Edward Fitzgerald. 1809-1883 + +697. Old Song + +TIS a dull sight + To see the year dying, +When winter winds + Set the yellow wood sighing: + Sighing, O sighing! + +When such a time cometh + I do retire +Into an old room + Beside a bright fire: + O, pile a bright fire! + +And there I sit + Reading old things, +Of knights and lorn damsels, + While the wind sings-- + O, drearily sings! + +I never look out + Nor attend to the blast; +For all to be seen + Is the leaves falling fast: + Falling, falling! + +But close at the hearth, + Like a cricket, sit I, +Reading of summer + And chivalry-- + Gallant chivalry! + +Then with an old friend + I talk of our youth-- +How 'twas gladsome, but often + Foolish, forsooth: + But gladsome, gladsome! + +Or, to get merry, + We sing some old rhyme +That made the wood ring again + In summer time-- + Sweet summer time! + +Then go we smoking, + Silent and snug: +Naught passes between us, + Save a brown jug-- + Sometimes! + +And sometimes a tear + Will rise in each eye, +Seeing the two old friends + So merrily-- + So merrily! + +And ere to bed + Go we, go we, +Down on the ashes + We kneel on the knee, + Praying together! + +Thus, then, live I + Till, 'mid all the gloom, +By Heaven! the bold sun + Is with me in the room + Shining, shining! + +Then the clouds part, + Swallows soaring between; +The spring is alive, + And the meadows are green! + +I jump up like mad, + Break the old pipe in twain, +And away to the meadows, + The meadows again! + + +Edward Fitzgerald. 1809-1883 + +698. From Omar Khayyám + +I + +A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough, +A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou + Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- +O, Wilderness were Paradise enow! + +Some for the Glories of This World; and some +Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come; + Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, +Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! + +Look to the blowing Rose about us--'Lo, +Laughing,' she says, 'into the world I blow, + At once the silken tassel of my Purse +Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.' + +And those who husbanded the Golden grain +And those who flung it to the winds like Rain + Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd +As, buried once, Men want dug up again. + +II + +Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai +Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, + How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp +Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. + +They say the Lion and the Lizard keep +The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: + And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the wild Ass +Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. + +I sometimes think that never blows so red +The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled; + That every Hyacinth the Garden wears +Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head. + +And this reviving Herb whose tender Green +Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-- + Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows +From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! + +Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears +TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears: + To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be +Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years. + +For some we loved, the loveliest and the best +That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, + Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, +And one by one crept silently to rest. + +And we, that now make merry in the Room +They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, + Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth +Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom? + +Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, +Before we too into the Dust descend; + Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, +Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! + +III + +Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, +And wash my Body whence the Life has died, + And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, +By some not unfrequented Garden-side.... + +Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-- +How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; + How oft hereafter rising look or us +Through this same Garden--and for one in vain! + +And when like her O Sákí, you shall pass +Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass, + And in your joyous errand reach the spot +Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass! + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +699. Mariana + +WITH blackest moss the flower-plots + Were thickly crusted, one and all: +The rusted nails fell from the knots + That held the pear to the gable-wall. +The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: + Unlifted was the clinking latch; + Weeded and worn the ancient thatch +Upon the lonely moated grange. + She only said, 'My life is dreary, + He cometh not,' she said; + She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!' + +Her tears fell with the dews at even; + Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; +She could not look on the sweet heaven, + Either at morn or eventide. +After the flitting of the bats, + When thickest dark did trance the sky, + She drew her casement-curtain by, +And glanced athwart the glooming flats. + She only said, 'The night is dreary, + He cometh not,' she said; + She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!' + +Upon the middle of the night, + Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: +The cock sung out an hour ere light: + From the dark fen the oxen's low +Came to her: without hope of change, + In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, + Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn +About the lonely moated grange. + She only said, 'The day is dreary, + He cometh not,' she said; + She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!' + +About a stone-cast from the wall + A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, +And o'er it many, round and small, + The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. +Hard by a poplar shook alway, + All silver-green with gnarled bark: + For leagues no other tree did mark +The level waste, the rounding gray. + She only said, 'My life is dreary, + He cometh not,' she said; + She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!' + +And ever when the moon was low, + And the shrill winds were up and away, +In the white curtain, to and fro, + She saw the gusty shadow sway. +But when the moon was very low, + And wild winds bound within their cell, + The shadow of the poplar fell +Upon her bed, across her brow. + She only said, 'The night is dreary, + He cometh not,' she said; + She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!' + +All day within the dreamy house, + The doors upon their hinges creak'd; +The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse + Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, +Or from the crevice peer'd about. + Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, + Old footsteps trod the upper floors, +Old voices call'd her from without. + She only said, 'My life is dreary, + He cometh not,' she said; + She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,' + I would that I were dead!' + +The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, + The slow clock ticking, and the sound +Which to the wooing wind aloof + The poplar made, did all confound +Her sense; but most she loathed the hour + When the thick-moted sunbeam lay + Athwart the chambers, and the day +Was sloping toward his western bower. + Then, said she, 'I am very dreary, + He will not come,' she said; + She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary, + O God, that I were dead!' + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +700. The Lady of Shalott + +PART I + +ON either side the river lie +Long fields of barley and of rye, +That clothe the wold and meet the sky; +And thro' the field the road runs by + To many-tower'd Camelot; +And up and down the people go, +Gazing where the lilies blow +Round an island there below, + The island of Shalott. + +Willows whiten, aspens quiver, +Little breezes dusk and shiver +Thro' the wave that runs for ever +By the island in the river + Flowing down to Camelot. +Four gray walls, and four gray towers, +Overlook a space of flowers, +And the silent isle imbowers + The Lady of Shalott. + +By the margin, willow-veil'd, +Slide the heavy barges trail'd +By slow horses; and unhail'd +The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd + Skimming down to Camelot: +But who hath seen her wave her hand? +Or at the casement seen her stand? +Or is she known in all the land, + The Lady of Shalott? + +Only reapers, reaping early +In among the bearded barley, +Hear a song that echoes cheerly +From the river winding clearly, + Down to tower'd Camelot: +And by the moon the reaper weary, +Piling sheaves in uplands airy, +Listening, whispers ''Tis the fairy + Lady of Shalott.' + +PART II + +There she weaves by night and day +A magic web with colours gay. +She has heard a whisper say, +A curse is on her if she stay + To look down to Camelot. +She knows not what the curse may be, +And so she weaveth steadily, +And little other care hath she, + The Lady of Shalott. + +And moving thro' a mirror clear +That hangs before her all the year, +Shadows of the world appear. +There she sees the highway near + Winding down to Camelot: +There the river eddy whirls, +And there the surly village-churls, +And the red cloaks of market girls, + Pass onward from Shalott. + +Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, +An abbot on an ambling pad, +Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, +Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, + Goes by to tower'd Camelot; +And sometimes thro' the mirror blue +The knights come riding two and two: +She hath no loyal knight and true, + The Lady of Shalott. + +But in her web she still delights +To weave the mirror's magic sights, +For often thro' the silent nights +A funeral, with plumes and lights, + And music, went to Camelot: +Or when the moon was overhead, +Came two young lovers lately wed; +'I am half sick of shadows,' said + The Lady of Shalott. + +PART III + +A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, +He rode between the barley-sheaves, +The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, +And flamed upon the brazen greaves + Of bold Sir Lancelot. +A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd +To a lady in his shield, +That sparkled on the yellow field, + Beside remote Shalott. + +The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, +Like to some branch of stars we see +Hung in the golden Galaxy. +The bridle bells rang merrily + As he rode down to Camelot: +And from his blazon'd baldric slung +A mighty silver bugle hung, +And as he rode his armour rung, + Beside remote Shalott. + +All in the blue unclouded weather +Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, +The helmet and the helmet-feather +Burn'd like one burning flame together, + As he rode down to Camelot. +As often thro' the purple night, +Below the starry clusters bright, +Some bearded meteor, trailing light, + Moves over still Shalott. + +His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; +On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; +From underneath his helmet flow'd +His coal-black curls as on he rode, + As he rode down to Camelot. +From the bank and from the river +He flash'd into the crystal mirror, +'Tirra lirra,' by the river + Sang Sir Lancelot. + +She left the web, she left the loom, +She made three paces thro' the room, +She saw the water-lily bloom, +She saw the helmet and the plume, + She look'd down to Camelot. +Out flew the web and floated wide; +The mirror crack'd from side to side; +'The curse is come upon me!' cried + The Lady of Shalott. + +PART IV + +In the stormy east-wind straining, +The pale yellow woods were waning, +The broad stream in his banks complaining, +Heavily the low sky raining + Over tower'd Camelot; + +Down she came and found a boat +Beneath a willow left afloat, +And round about the prow she wrote + The Lady of Shalott. + +And down the river's dim expanse-- +Like some bold seer in a trance, +Seeing all his own mischance-- +With a glassy countenance + Did she look to Camelot. +And at the closing of the day +She loosed the chain, and down she lay; +The broad stream bore her far away, + The Lady of Shalott. + +Lying, robed in snowy white +That loosely flew to left and right-- +The leaves upon her falling light-- +Thro' the noises of the night + She floated down to Camelot: +And as the boat-head wound along +The willowy hills and fields among, +They heard her singing her last song, + The Lady of Shalott. + +Heard a carol, mournful, holy, +Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, +Till her blood was frozen slowly, +And her eyes were darken'd wholly, + Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; +For ere she reach'd upon the tide +The first house by the water-side, +Singing in her song she died, + The Lady of Shalott. + +Under tower and balcony, +By garden-wall and gallery, +A gleaming shape she floated by, +Dead-pale between the houses high, + Silent into Camelot. +Out upon the wharfs they came, +Knight and burgher, lord and dame, +And round the prow they read her name, + The Lady of Shalott. + +Who is this? and what is here? +And in the lighted palace near +Died the sound of royal cheer; +And they cross'd themselves for fear, + All the knights at Camelot: +But Lancelot mused a little space; +He said, 'She has a lovely face; +God in His mercy lend her grace, + The Lady of Shalott.' + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +701. The Miller's Daughter + +IT is the miller's daughter, + And she is grown so dear, so dear, +That I would be the jewel + That trembles in her ear: +For hid in ringlets day and night, +I'd touch her neck so warm and white. + +And I would be the girdle + About her dainty dainty waist, +And her heart would beat against me, + In sorrow and in rest: +And I should know if it beat right, +I'd clasp it round so close and tight. + +And I would be the necklace, + And all day long to fall and rise +Upon her balmy bosom, + With her laughter or her sighs: +And I would lie so light, so light, +I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +702. Song of the Lotos-Eaters + +THERE is sweet music here that softer falls +Than petals from blown roses on the grass, +Or night-dews on still waters between walls +Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; +Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, +Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; +Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. +Here are cool mosses deep, +And thro' the moss the ivies creep, +And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, +And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. + +Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, +And utterly consumed with sharp distress, +While all things else have rest from weariness? +All things have rest: why should we toil alone, +We only toil, who are the first of things, +And make perpetual moan, +Still from one sorrow to another thrown: +Nor ever fold our wings, +And cease from wanderings, +Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; +Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, +'There is no joy but calm!'-- +Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? + +Lo! in the middle of the wood, +The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud +With winds upon the branch, and there +Grows green and broad, and takes no care, +Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon +Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow +Falls, and floats adown the air. +Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, +The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, +Drops in a silent autumn night. +All its allotted length of days, +The flower ripens in its place, +Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, +Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. + +Hateful is the dark-blue sky, +Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. +Death is the end of life; ah, why +Should life all labour be? +Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, +And in a little while our lips are dumb. +Let us alone. What is it that will last? +All things are taken from us, and become +Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. +Let us alone. What pleasure can we have +To war with evil? Is there any peace +In ever climbing up the climbing wave? +All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave +In silence; ripen, fall and cease: +Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. + +How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, +With half-shut eyes ever to seem +Falling asleep in a half-dream! +To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, +Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; +To hear each other's whisper'd speech; +Eating the Lotos day by day, +To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, +And tender curving lines of creamy spray; +To lend our hearts and spirits wholly +To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; +To muse and brood and live again in memory, +With those old faces of our infancy +Heap'd over with a mound of grass, +Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! + +Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, +And dear the last embraces of our wives +And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; +For surely now our household hearts are cold: +Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: +And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. +Or else the island princes over-bold +Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings +Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, +And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. +Is there confusion in the little isle? +Let what is broken so remain. +The Gods are hard to reconcile: +'Tis hard to settle order once again. +There is confusion worse than death, +Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, +Long labour unto aged breath, +Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars +And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. + +But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, +How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) +With half-dropt eyelids still, +Beneath a heaven dark and holy, +To watch the long bright river drawing slowly +His waters from the purple hill-- +To hear the dewy echoes calling +From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine-- +To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling +Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! +Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, +Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. + +The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: +The Lotos blows by every winding creek: +All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: +Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone +Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. +We have had enough of action, and of motion we, +Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething + free, +Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. +Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, +In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relined +On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. +For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd +Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd +Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: +Where the smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, +Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery + sands, +Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying + hands. +But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song +Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, +Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; +Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, +Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, +Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; +Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd--down in hell +Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, +Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. +Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore +Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; +O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +703. St. Agnes' Eve + +DEEP on the convent-roof the snows + Are sparkling to the moon: +My breath to heaven like vapour goes: + May my soul follow soon! +The shadows of the convent-towers + Slant down the snowy sward, +Still creeping with the creeping hours + That lead me to my Lord: +Make Thou my spirit pure and clear + As are the frosty skies, +Or this first snowdrop of the year + That in my bosom lies. + +As these white robes are soil'd and dark, + To yonder shining ground; +As this pale taper's earthly spark, + To yonder argent round; +So shows my soul before the Lamb, + My spirit before Thee; +So in mine earthly house I am, + To that I hope to be. +Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, + Thro' all yon starlight keen, +Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, + In raiment white and clean. + +He lifts me to the golden doors; + The flashes come and go; +All heaven bursts her starry floors, + And strows her lights below, +And deepens on and up! the gates + Roll back, and far within +For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, + To make me pure of sin. +The sabbaths of Eternity, + One sabbath deep and wide-- +A light upon the shining sea-- + The Bridegroom with his bride! + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +704. Blow, Bugle, blow + + THE splendour falls on castle walls + And snowy summits old in story: + The long light shakes across the lakes, + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. +Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, +Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far from cliff and scar + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! +Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: +Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow for ever and for ever. +Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, +And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +705. Summer Night + +NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; +Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; +Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: +The firefly wakens: waken thou with me. + + Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, +And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. + + Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, +And all thy heart lies open unto me. + + Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves +A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. + + Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, +And slips into the bosom of the lake: +So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip +Into my bosom and be lost in me. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +706. Come down, O Maid + +COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: +What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), +In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? +But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease +To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, +To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; +And come, for Love is of the valley, come, +For Love is of the valley, come thou down +And find him; by the happy threshold, he, +Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, +Or red with spirted purple of the vats, +Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk +With Death and Morning on the silver horns, +Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, +Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, +That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls +To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: +But follow; let the torrent dance thee down +To find him in the valley; let the wild +Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave +The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill +Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, +That like a broken purpose waste in air: +So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales +Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth +Arise to thee; the children call, and I +Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, +Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; +Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, +The moan of doves in immemorial elms, +And murmuring of innumerable bees. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +707. From 'In Memoriam' +(ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, MDCCCXXXIII) + +I + +FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore + Sailest the placid ocean-plains + With my lost Arthur's loved remains, +Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. + +So draw him home to those that mourn + In vain; a favourable speed + Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead +Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. + +All night no ruder air perplex + Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright + As our pure love, thro' early light +Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. + +Sphere all your lights around, above; + Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; + Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, +My friend, the brother of my love; + +My Arthur, whom I shall not see + Till all my widow'd race be run; + Dear as the mother to the son, +More than my brothers are to me. + +II + +I hear the noise about thy keel; + I hear the bell struck in the night; + I see the cabin-window bright; +I see the sailor at the wheel. + +Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, + And travell'd men from foreign lands; + And letters unto trembling hands; +And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. + +So bring him: we have idle dreams: + This look of quiet flatters thus + Our home-bred fancies: O to us, +The fools of habit, sweeter seems + +To rest beneath the clover sod, + That takes the sunshine and the rains, + Or where the kneeling hamlet drains +The chalice of the grapes of God; + +Than if with thee the roaring wells + Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; + And hands so often clasp'd in mine, +Should toss with tangle and with shells. + +III + +Calm is the morn without a sound, + Calm as to suit a calmer grief, + And only thro' the faded leaf +The chestnut pattering to the ground: + +Calm and deep peace on this high wold, + And on these dews that drench the furze, + And all the silvery gossamers +That twinkle into green and gold: + +Calm and still light on yon great plain + That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, + And crowded farms and lessening towers, +To mingle with the bounding main: + +Calm and deep peace in this wide air, + These leaves that redden to the fall; + And in my heart, if calm at all, +If any calm, a calm despair: + +Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, + And waves that sway themselves in rest, + And dead calm in that noble breast +Which heaves but with the heaving deep. + +IV + +To-night the winds begin to rise + And roar from yonder dropping day: + The last red leaf is whirl'd away, +The rooks are blown about the skies; + +The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, + The cattle huddled on the lea; + And wildly dash'd on tower and tree +The sunbeam strikes along the world: + +And but for fancies, which aver + That all thy motions gently pass + Athwart a plane of molten glass, +I scarce could brook the strain and stir + +That makes the barren branches loud; + And but for fear it is not so, + The wild unrest that lives in woe +Would dote and pore on yonder cloud + +That rises upward always higher, + And onward drags a labouring breast, + And topples round the dreary west, +A looming bastion fringed with fire. + +V + +Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze + Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer + Was as the whisper of an air +To breathe thee over lonely seas. + +For I in spirit saw thee move + Thro' circles of the bounding sky, + Week after week: the days go by: +Come quick, thou bringest all I love. + +Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam + My blessing, like a line of light, + Is on the waters day and night, +And like a beacon guards thee home. + +So may whatever tempest mars + Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; + And balmy drops in summer dark +Slide from the bosom of the stars. + +So kind an office hath been done, + Such precious relics brought by thee; + The dust of him I shall not see +Till all my widow'd race be run. + +VI + +Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, + Or breaking into song by fits, + Alone, alone, to where he sits, +The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, + +Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, + I wander, often falling lame, + And looking back to whence I came, +Or on to where the pathway leads; + +And crying, How changed from where it ran + Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; + But all the lavish hills would hum +The murmur of a happy Pan: + +When each by turns was guide to each, + And Fancy light from Fancy caught, + And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought +Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; + +And all we met was fair and good, + And all was good that Time could bring, + And all the secret of the Spring +Moved in the chambers of the blood; + +And many an old philosophy + On Argive heights divinely sang, + And round us all the thicket rang +To many a flute of Arcady. + +VII + +How fares it with the happy dead? + For here the man is more and more; + But he forgets the days before +God shut the doorways of his head. + +The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, + And yet perhaps the hoarding sense + Gives out at times (he knows not whence) +A little flash, a mystic hint; + +And in the long harmonious years + (If Death so taste Lethean springs) + May some dim touch of earthly things +Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. + +If such a dreamy touch should fall, + O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; + My guardian angel will speak out +In that high place, and tell thee all. + +VIII + +The wish, that of the living whole + No life may fail beyond the grave, + Derives it not from what we have +The likest God within the soul? + +Are God and Nature then at strife, + That Nature lends such evil dreams? + So careful of the type she seems, +So careless of the single life; + +That I, considering everywhere + Her secret meaning in her deeds, + And finding that of fifty seeds +She often brings but one to bear, + +I falter where I firmly trod, + And falling with my weight of cares + Upon the great world's altar-stairs +That slope thro' darkness up to God, + +I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, + And gather dust and chaff, and call + To what I feel is Lord of all, +And faintly trust the larger hope. + +IX + +'So careful of the type?' but no. + From scarped cliff and quarried stone + She cries, 'A thousand types are gone: +I care for nothing, all shall go. + +Thou makest thine appeal to me: + I bring to life, I bring to death: + The spirit does but mean the breath: +I know no more.' And he, shall he, + +Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, + Such splendid purpose in his eyes, + Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, +Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, + +Who trusted God was love indeed + And love Creation's final law-- + Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw +With ravine, shriek'd against his creed-- + +Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, + Who battled for the True, the Just, + Be blown about the desert dust, +Or seal'd within the iron hills? + +No more? A monster then, a dream, + A discord. Dragons of the prime, + That tare each other in their slime, +Were mellow music match'd with him. + +O life as futile, then, as frail! + O for thy voice to soothe and bless! + What hope of answer, or redress? +Behind the veil, behind the veil. + +X + +Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, + The tender blossom flutter down; + Unloved, that beech will gather brown, +This maple burn itself away; + +Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, + Ray round with flames her disk of seed, + And many a rose-carnation feed +With summer spice the humming air; + +Unloved, by many a sandy bar, + The brook shall babble down the plain, + At noon or when the lesser wain +Is twisting round the polar star; + +Uncared for, gird the windy grove, + And flood the haunts of hern and crake; + Or into silver arrows break +The sailing moon in creek and cove; + +Till from the garden and the wild + A fresh association blow, + And year by year the landscape grow +Familiar to the stranger's child; + +As year by year the labourer tills + His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; + And year by year our memory fades +From all the circle of the hills. + +XI + +Now fades the last long streak of snow, + Now burgeons every maze of quick + About the flowering squares, and thick +By ashen roots the violets blow. + +Now rings the woodland loud and long, + The distance takes a lovelier hue, + And drown'd in yonder living blue +The lark becomes a sightless song. + +Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, + The flocks are whiter down the vale, + And milkier every milky sail +On winding stream or distant sea; + +Where now the seamew pipes, or dives + In yonder greening gleam, and fly + The happy birds, that change their sky +To build and brood; that live their lives + +From land to land; and in my breast + Spring wakens too; and my regret + Becomes an April violet, +And buds and blossoms like the rest. + +XII + +Love is and was my Lord and King, + And in his presence I attend + To hear the tidings of my friend, +Which every hour his couriers bring. + +Love is and was my King and Lord, + And will be, tho' as yet I keep + Within his court on earth, and sleep +Encompass'd by his faithful guard, + +And hear at times a sentinel + Who moves about from place to place, + And whispers to the worlds of space, +In the deep night, that all is well. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +708. Maud + +COME into the garden, Maud, + For the black bat, Night, has flown, +Come into the garden, Maud, + I am here at the gate alone; +And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, + And the musk of the roses blown. + +For a breeze of morning moves, + And the planet of Love is on high, +Beginning to faint in the light that she loves + On a bed of daffodil sky, +To faint in the light of the sun she loves, + To faint in his light, and to die. + +All night have the roses heard + The flute, violin, bassoon; +All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd + To the dancers dancing in tune; +Till a silence fell with the waking bird, + And a hush with the setting moon. + +I said to the lily, 'There is but one + With whom she has heart to be gay. +When will the dancers leave her alone? + She is weary of dance and play.' +Now half to the setting moon are gone, + And half to the rising day; +Low on the sand and loud on the stone + The last wheel echoes away. + +I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes + In babble and revel and wine. +O young lord-lover, what sighs are those + For one that will never be thine? +But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, + 'For ever and ever, mine.' + +And the soul of the rose went into my blood, + As the music clash'd in the hall; +And long by the garden lake I stood, + For I heard your rivulet fall +From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, + Our wood, that is dearer than all; + +From the meadow your walks have left so sweet + That whenever a March-wind sighs +He sets the jewel-print of your feet + In violets blue as your eyes, +To the woody hollows in which we meet + And the valleys of Paradise. + +The slender acacia would not shake + One long milk-bloom on the tree; +The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, + As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; +But the rose was awake all night for your sake, + Knowing your promise to me; +The lilies and roses were all awake, + They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. + +Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, + Come hither, the dances are done, +In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, + Queen lily and rose in one; +Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. + To the flowers, and be their sun. + +There has fallen a splendid tear + From the passion-flower at the gate. +She is coming, my dove, my dear; + She is coming, my life, my fate; +The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' + And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' +The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' + And the lily whispers, 'I wait.' + +She is coming, my own, my sweet; + Were it ever so airy a tread, +My heart would hear her and beat, + Were it earth in an earthy bed; +My dust would hear her and beat, + Had I lain for a century dead; +Would start and tremble under her feet, + And blossom in purple and red. + + +Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892 + +709. O that 'twere possible + +O THAT 'twere possible +After long grief and pain +To find the arms of my true love +Round me once again!... + +A shadow flits before me, +Not thou, but like to thee: +Ah, Christ! that it were possible +For one short hour to see +The souls we loved, that they might tell us +What and where they be! + + +Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton. 1809-1885 + +710. Shadows + +THEY seem'd, to those who saw them meet, + The casual friends of every day; +Her smile was undisturb'd and sweet, + His courtesy was free and gay. + +But yet if one the other's name + In some unguarded moment heard, +The heart you thought so calm and tame + Would struggle like a captured bird: + +And letters of mere formal phrase + Were blister'd with repeated tears,-- +And this was not the work of days, + But had gone on for years and years! + +Alas, that love was not too strong + For maiden shame and manly pride! +Alas, that they delay'd so long + The goal of mutual bliss beside! + +Yet what no chance could then reveal, + And neither would be first to own, +Let fate and courage now conceal, + When truth could bring remorse alone. + + +Henry Alford. 1810-1871 + +711. The Bride + +'RISE,' said the Master, 'come unto the feast.' +She heard the call and rose with willing feet; + But thinking it not otherwise than meet +For such a bidding to put on her best, +She is gone from us for a few short hours + Into her bridal closet, there to wait + For the unfolding of the palace gate +That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. +We have not seen her yet, though we have been + Full often to her chamber door, and oft +Have listen'd underneath the postern green, + And laid fresh flowers, and whisper'd short and soft. +But she hath made no answer, and the day +From the clear west is fading fast away. + + +Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886 + +712. Cean Dubh Deelish + +PUT your head, darling, darling, darling, + Your darling black head my heart above; +O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, + Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? + +O many and many a young girl for me is pining, + Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, +For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows; + But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee! + +Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, + Your darling black head my heart above; +O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, + Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? + +Cean dubh deelish] darling black head. + + +Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886 + +713. Cashel of Munster +FROM THE IRISH + +I'D wed you without herds, without money or rich array, +And I'd wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray; +My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away +In Cashel town, tho' the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this +day! + +O fair maid, remember the green hill-side, +Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide; +Time now has worn me; my locks are turn'd to gray; +The year is scarce and I am poor--but send me not, love, away! + +O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl; +O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl; +Marry me and prove me, and say soon you will +That noble blood is written on my right side still. + +My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white; +No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight; +But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho' I be and lone, +O, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone! + +O my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are; +And O my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear! +--I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly, +And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I! + + +Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886 + +714. The Fair Hills of Ireland +FROM THE IRISH + +A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, + Uileacan dubh O! +Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; + Uileacan dubh O! +There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, +And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd, +There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, + On the fair hills of holy Ireland. + +Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee-- + Uileacan dubh O! +Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; + Uileacan dubh O! +And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, +Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, +And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, + For the fair hills of holy Ireland. + +Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, + Uileacan dubh O! +The butter and the cream do wondrously abound; + Uileacan dubh O! +The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, +And the cuckoo 's calling daily his note of music bland, +And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand, + On the fair hills of holy Ireland. + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +715. Song from 'Paracelsus' + +HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes + Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, +Smear'd with dull nard an Indian wipes + From out her hair: such balsam falls + Down sea-side mountain pedestals, +From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, +Spent with the vast and howling main, +To treasure half their island-gain. + +And strew faint sweetness from some old + Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud +Which breaks to dust when once unroll'd; + Or shredded perfume, like a cloud + From closet long to quiet vow'd, +With moth'd and dropping arras hung, +Mouldering her lute and books among, +As when a queen, long dead, was young. + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +716. The Wanderers + +OVER the sea our galleys went, +With cleaving prows in order brave +To a speeding wind and a bounding wave-- + A gallant armament: +Each bark built out of a forest-tree + Left leafy and rough as first it grew, +And nail'd all over the gaping sides, +Within and without, with black bull-hides, +Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, +To bear the playful billows' game; +So, each good ship was rude to see, +Rude and bare to the outward view. + But each upbore a stately tent +Where cedar pales in scented row +Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, +And an awning droop'd the mast below, +In fold on fold of the purple fine, +That neither noontide nor star-shine +Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, + Might pierce the regal tenement. +When the sun dawn'd, O, gay and glad +We set the sail and plied the oar; +But when the night-wind blew like breath, +For joy of one day's voyage more, +We sang together on the wide sea, +Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; +Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, +Each helm made sure by the twilight star, +And in a sleep as calm as death, +We, the voyagers from afar, + Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew +In a circle round its wondrous tent +Whence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent, + And with light and perfume, music too: +So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness past, +And at morn we started beside the mast, +And still each ship was sailing fast! + +Now, one morn, land appear'd--a speck +Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky-- +'Avoid it,' cried our pilot, 'check + The shout, restrain the eager eye!' +But the heaving sea was black behind +For many a night and many a day, +And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; +So we broke the cedar pales away, +Let the purple awning flap in the wind, + And a statue bright was on every deck! +We shouted, every man of us, +And steer'd right into the harbour thus, +With pomp and paean glorious. + +A hundred shapes of lucid stone! + All day we built its shrine for each, +A shrine of rock for ever one, +Nor paused till in the westering sun + We sat together on the beach +To sing because our task was done; +When lo! what shouts and merry songs! +What laughter all the distance stirs! +A loaded raft with happy throngs +Of gentle islanders! +'Our isles are just at hand,' they cried, + 'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; +Our temple-gates are open'd wide, + Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping +For these majestic forms'--they cried. +O, then we awoke with sudden start +From our deep dream, and knew, too late, +How bare the rock, how desolate, +Which had received our precious freight: + Yet we call'd out--'Depart! +Our gifts, once given, must here abide: + Our work is done; we have no heart +To mar our work,'--we cried. + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +717. Thus the Mayne glideth + +THUS the Mayne glideth +Where my Love abideth; +Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds +On through lawns, on through meads, +On and on, whate'er befall, +Meandering and musical, +Though the niggard pasturage +Bears not on its shaven ledge +Aught but weeds and waving grasses +To view the river as it passes, +Save here and there a scanty patch +Of primroses too faint to catch +A weary bee.... And scarce it pushes +Its gentle way through strangling rushes +Where the glossy kingfisher +Flutters when noon-heats are near, +Glad the shelving banks to shun, +Red and steaming in the sun, +Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat +Burrows, and the speckled stoat; +Where the quick sandpipers flit +In and out the marl and grit +That seems to breed them, brown as they: +Naught disturbs its quiet way, +Save some lazy stork that springs, +Trailing it with legs and wings, +Whom the shy fox from the hill +Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +718. Pippa's Song + +THE year 's at the spring, +And day 's at the morn; +Morning 's at seven; +The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd; +The lark 's on the wing; +The snail 's on the thorn; +God 's in His heaven-- +All 's right with the world! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +719. You'll love Me yet + +YOU'LL love me yet!--and I can tarry + Your love's protracted growing: +June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry, + From seeds of April's sowing. + +I plant a heartful now: some seed + At least is sure to strike, +And yield--what you'll not pluck indeed, + Not love, but, may be, like. + +You'll look at least on love's remains, + A grave 's one violet: +Your look?--that pays a thousand pains. + What 's death? You'll love me yet! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +720. Porphyria's Lover + +THE rain set early in to-night, + The sullen wind was soon awake, +It tore the elm-tops down for spite, + And did its worst to vex the lake: + I listen'd with heart fit to break. +When glided in Porphyria; straight + She shut the cold out and the storm, +And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate + Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; + Which done, she rose, and from her form +Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, + And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied +Her hat and let the damp hair fall, + And, last, she sat down by my side + And call'd me. When no voice replied, +She put my arm about her waist, + And made her smooth white shoulder bare, +And all her yellow hair displaced, + And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, + And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, +Murmuring how she loved me--she + Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, +To set its struggling passion free + From pride, and vainer ties dissever, + And give herself to me for ever. +But passion sometimes would prevail, + Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain +A sudden thought of one so pale + For love of her, and all in vain: + So, she was come through wind and rain. +Be sure I look'd up at her eyes + Happy and proud; at last I knew +Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise + Made my heart swell, and still it grew + While I debated what to do. +That moment she was mine, mine, fair, + Perfectly pure and good: I found +A thing to do, and all her hair + In one long yellow string I wound + Three times her little throat around, +And strangled her. No pain felt she; + I am quite sure she felt no pain. +As a shut bud that holds a bee, + I warily oped her lids: again + Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain. +And I untighten'd next the tress + About her neck; her cheek once more +Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: + I propp'd her head up as before, + Only, this time my shoulder bore +Her head, which droops upon it still: + The smiling rosy little head, +So glad it has its utmost will, + That all it scorn'd at once is fled, + And I, its love, am gain'd instead! +Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how + Her darling one wish would be heard. +And thus we sit together now, + And all night long we have not stirr'd, + And yet God has not said a word! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +721. Song + +NAY but you, who do not love her, + Is she not pure gold, my mistress? +Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her? + Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, +And this last fairest tress of all, +So fair, see, ere I let it fall? +Because, you spend your lives in praising; + To praise, you search the wide world over: +Then why not witness, calmly gazing, + If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? +Above this tress, and this, I touch +But cannot praise, I love so much! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +722. Earl Mertoun's Song + +THERE 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest; +And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the + surest: +And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre +Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape + cluster, +Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: +Then her voice's music ... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's + warble! + +And this woman says, 'My days were sunless and my nights were + moonless, +Parch'd the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak + tuneless, +If you loved me not!' And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, +Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- +I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, +And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +723. In a Gondola + +THE moth's kiss, first! +Kiss me as if you made me believe +You were not sure, this eve, +How my face, your flower, had pursed +Its petals up; so, here and there +You brush it, till I grow aware +Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. + +The bee's kiss, now! +Kiss me as if you enter'd gay +My heart at some noonday, +A bud that dares not disallow +The claim, so all is render'd up, +And passively its shatter'd cup +Over your head to sleep I bow. + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +724. Meeting at Night + +THE gray sea and the long black land; +And the yellow half-moon large and low; +And the startled little waves that leap +In fiery ringlets from their sleep, +As I gain the cove with pushing prow, +And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. + +Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; +Three fields to cross till a farm appears; +A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch +And blue spurt of a lighted match, +And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, +Than the two hearts beating each to each! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +725. Parting at Morning + +ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, +And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim: +And straight was a path of gold for him, +And the need of a world of men for me. + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +726. The Lost Mistress + +ALL 's over, then: does truth sound bitter + As one at first believes? +Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter + About your cottage eaves! + +And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, + I noticed that, to-day; +One day more bursts them open fully + --You know the red turns gray. + +To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? + May I take your hand in mine? +Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest + Keep much that I resign: + +For each glance of the eye so bright and black, + Though I keep with heart's endeavour,-- +Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, + Though it stay in my soul for ever!-- + +Yet I will but say what mere friends say, + Or only a thought stronger; +I will hold your hand but as long as all may, + Or so very little longer! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +727. The Last Ride together + +I SAID--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, +Since now at length my fate I know, +Since nothing all my love avails, +Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails, + Since this was written and needs must be-- +My whole heart rises up to bless +Your name in pride and thankfulness! +Take back the hope you gave,--I claim +Only a memory of the same, +--And this beside, if you will not blame; + Your leave for one more last ride with me. + +My mistress bent that brow of hers, +Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs +When pity would be softening through, +Fix'd me a breathing-while or two + With life or death in the balance: right! +The blood replenish'd me again; +My last thought was at least not vain: +I and my mistress, side by side +Shall be together, breathe and ride, +So, one day more am I deified. + Who knows but the world may end to-night? + +Hush! if you saw some western cloud +All billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'd +By many benedictions--sun's +And moon's and evening-star's at once-- + And so, you, looking and loving best, +Conscious grew, your passion drew +Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, +Down on you, near and yet more near, +Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- +Thus leant she and linger'd--joy and fear! + Thus lay she a moment on my breast. + +Then we began to ride. My soul +Smooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scroll +Freshening and fluttering in the wind. +Past hopes already lay behind. + What need to strive with a life awry? +Had I said that, had I done this, +So might I gain, so might I miss. +Might she have loved me? just as well +She might have hated, who can tell! +Where had I been now if the worst befell? + And here we are riding, she and I. + +Fail I alone, in words and deeds? +Why, all men strive and who succeeds? +We rode; it seem'd my spirit flew, +Saw other regions, cities new, + As the world rush'd by on either side. +I thought,--All labour, yet no less +Bear up beneath their unsuccess. +Look at the end of work, contrast +The petty done, the undone vast, +This present of theirs with the hopeful past! + I hoped she would love me; here we ride. + +What hand and brain went ever pair'd? +What heart alike conceived and dared? +What act proved all its thought had been? +What will but felt the fleshly screen? + We ride and I see her bosom heave. +There 's many a crown for who can reach. +Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! +The flag stuck on a heap of bones, +A soldier's doing! what atones? +They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. + My riding is better, by their leave. + +What does it all mean, poet? Well, +Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell +What we felt only; you express'd +You hold things beautiful the best, + And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. +'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, +Have you yourself what 's best for men? +Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- +Nearer one whit your own sublime +Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme? + Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride. + +And you, great sculptor--so, you gave +A score of years to Art, her slave, +And that 's your Venus, whence we turn +To yonder girl that fords the burn! + You acquiesce, and shall I repine? +What, man of music, you grown gray +With notes and nothing else to say, +Is this your sole praise from a friend, +'Greatly his opera's strains intend, +But in music we know how fashions end!' + I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine. + +Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate +Proposed bliss here should sublimate +My being--had I sign'd the bond-- +Still one must lead some life beyond, + Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. +This foot once planted on the goal, +This glory-garland round my soul, +Could I descry such? Try and test! +I sink back shuddering from the quest. +Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? + Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. + +And yet--she has not spoke so long! +What if heaven be that, fair and strong +At life's best, with our eyes upturn'd +Whither life's flower is first discern'd, + We, fix'd so, ever should so abide? +What if we still ride on, we two +With life for ever old yet new, +Changed not in kind but in degree, +The instant made eternity,-- +And heaven just prove that I and she + Ride, ride together, for ever ride? + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +728. Misconceptions + + THIS is a spray the Bird clung to, + Making it blossom with pleasure, + Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, + Fit for her nest and her treasure. + O, what a hope beyond measure +Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,-- +So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! + + This is a heart the Queen leant on, + Thrill'd in a minute erratic, + Ere the true bosom she bent on, + Meet for love's regal dalmatic. + O, what a fancy ecstatic +Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on-- +Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +729. Home-thoughts, from Abroad + +O, TO be in England +Now that April 's there, +And whoever wakes in England +Sees, some morning, unaware, +That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf +Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, +While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough +In England--now! + +And after April, when May follows, +And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! +Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge +Leans to the field and scatters on the clover +Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- +That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, +Lest you should think he never could recapture +The first fine careless rapture! +And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, +All will be gay when noontide wakes anew +The buttercups, the little children's dower +--Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! + + +Robert Browning. 1812-1889 + +730. Home-thoughts, from the Sea + +NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; +Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; +Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; +In the dimmest North-east distance dawn'd Gibraltar grand and gray; +'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say, +Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, +While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. + + +William Bell Scott. 1812-1890 + +731. The Which's Ballad + +O, I hae come from far away, + From a warm land far away, +A southern land across the sea, +With sailor-lads about the mast, +Merry and canny, and kind to me. + +And I hae been to yon town + To try my luck in yon town; +Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too. +Right braw we were to pass the gate, +Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue. + +Mysie smiled wi' miminy mouth, + Innocent mouth, miminy mouth; +Elspie wore a scarlet gown, +Nort's grey eyes were unco' gleg. +My Castile comb was like a crown. + +We walk'd abreast all up the street, + Into the market up the street; +Our hair with marigolds was wound, +Our bodices with love-knots laced, +Our merchandise with tansy bound. + +Nort had chickens, I had cocks, + Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; +Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,-- +For a wee groat or a pound; +We lost nae time wi' gives and takes. + +--Lost nae time, for well we knew, + In our sleeves full well we knew, +When the gloaming came that night, +Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock +Would be found by candle-light. + +And when our chaffering all was done, + All was paid for, sold and done, +We drew a glove on ilka hand, +We sweetly curtsied, each to each, +And deftly danced a saraband. + +The market-lassies look'd and laugh'd, + Left their gear, and look'd and laugh'd; +They made as they would join the game, +But soon their mithers, wild and wud, +With whack and screech they stopp'd the same. + +Sae loud the tongues o' randies grew, + The flytin' and the skirlin' grew, +At all the windows in the place, +Wi' spoons or knives, wi' needle or awl, +Was thrust out every hand and face. + +And down each stair they throng'd anon, + Gentle, semple, throng'd anon: +Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan, +The ancient widow young again, +Simpering behind her fan. + +Without a choice, against their will, + Doited, dazed, against their will, +The market lassie and her mither, +The farmer and his husbandman, +Hand in hand dance a' thegither. + +Slow at first, but faster soon, + Still increasing, wild and fast, +Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, +Blindly doff'd and cast away, +Left them naked, heads and toes. + +They would have torn us limb from limb, + Dainty limb from dainty limb; +But never one of them could win +Across the line that I had drawn +With bleeding thumb a-widdershin. + +But there was Jeff the provost's son, + Jeff the provost's only son; +There was Father Auld himsel', +The Lombard frae the hostelry, +And the lawyer Peter Fell. + +All goodly men we singled out, + Waled them well, and singled out, +And drew them by the left hand in; +Mysie the priest, and Elspie won +The Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle, +I mysel' the provost's son. + +Then, with cantrip kisses seven, + Three times round with kisses seven, +Warp'd and woven there spun we +Arms and legs and flaming hair, +Like a whirlwind on the sea. + +Like a wind that sucks the sea, + Over and in and on the sea, +Good sooth it was a mad delight; +And every man of all the four +Shut his eyes and laugh'd outright. + +Laugh'd as long as they had breath, + Laugh'd while they had sense or breath; +And close about us coil'd a mist +Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies, +Like the whirlwind shaft it rist. + +Drawn up I was right off my feet, + Into the mist and off my feet; +And, dancing on each chimney-top, +I saw a thousand darling imps +Keeping time with skip and hop. + +And on the provost's brave ridge-tile, + On the provost's grand ridge-tile, +The Blackamoor first to master me +I saw, I saw that winsome smile, +The mouth that did my heart beguile, +And spoke the great Word over me, +In the land beyond the sea. + +I call'd his name, I call'd aloud, + Alas! I call'd on him aloud; +And then he fill'd his hand with stour, +And threw it towards me in the air; +My mouse flew out, I lost my pow'r! + +My lusty strength, my power were gone; + Power was gone, and all was gone. +He will not let me love him more! +Of bell and whip and horse's tail +He cares not if I find a store. + +But I am proud if he is fierce! + I am as proud as he is fierce; +I'll turn about and backward go, +If I meet again that Blackamoor, +And he'll help us then, for he shall know +I seek another paramour. + +And we'll gang once more to yon town, + Wi' better luck to yon town; +We'll walk in silk and cramoisie, +And I shall wed the provost's son +My lady of the town I'll be! + +For I was born a crown'd king's child, + Born and nursed a king's child, +King o' a land ayont the sea, +Where the Blackamoor kiss'd me first, +And taught me art and glamourie. + +Each one in her wame shall hide + Her hairy mouse, her wary mouse, +Fed on madwort and agramie,-- +Wear amber beads between her breasts, +And blind-worm's skin about her knee. + +The Lombard shall be Elspie's man, + Elspie's gowden husband-man; +Nort shall take the lawyer's hand; +The priest shall swear another vow: +We'll dance again the saraband! + +miminy] prim, demure. gleg] bright, sharp. wud] mad. randies] +viragoes. flytin'] scolding. skirlin'] shrieking. souter] +cobbler. doited] mazed. a-widdershin] the wrong way of the sun: +or E. to W. through N. waled] chose. cantrip] magic. stour] +dust. cramoisie] crimson. ayont] beyond. glamourie] wizardry. + + +Aubrey De Vere. 1814-1902 + +732. Serenade + +SOFTLY, O midnight Hours! + Move softly o'er the bowers +Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! + For ye have power, men say, + Our hearts in sleep to sway, +And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. + Round ivory neck and arm + Enclasp a separate charm; +Hang o'er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: + Silently ye may smile, + But hold your breath the while, +And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair! + + Bend down your glittering urns, + Ere yet the dawn returns, +And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; + Upon the air rain balm, + Bid all the woods be calm, +Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed; + That so the Maiden may + With smiles your care repay, +When from her couch she lifts her golden head; + Waking with earliest birds, + Ere yet the misty herds +Leave warm 'mid the gray grass their dusky bed. + + +Aubrey De Vere. 1814-1902 + +733. Sorrow + +COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, + God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou + With courtesy receive him; rise and bow; +And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave +Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; + Then lay before him all thou hast; allow + No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, +Or mar thy hospitality; no wave +Of mortal tumult to obliterate + The soul's marmoreal calmness: Grief should be, +Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; + Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; +Strong to consume small troubles; to commend +Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. + + +George Fox. 1815-? + +734. The County of Mayo +FROM THE IRISH OF THOMAS LAVELLE + +ON the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, +Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night; +Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, +By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo! + +When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, +In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round-- +'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go +And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo. + +They are alter'd girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and +high, +With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles +by-- +But it 's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, +That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo. + +'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, +And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: +And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low, +And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo. + + +Emily Bronte. 1818-1848 + +735. My Lady's Grave + +THE linnet in the rocky dells, + The moor-lark in the air, +The bee among the heather bells + That hide my lady fair: + +The wild deer browse above her breast; + The wild birds raise their brood; +And they, her smiles of love caress'd, + Have left her solitude! + +I ween that when the grave's dark wall + Did first her form retain, +They thought their hearts could ne'er recall + The light of joy again. + +They thought the tide of grief would flow + Uncheck'd through future years; +But where is all their anguish now, + And where are all their tears? + +Well, let them fight for honour's breath, + Or pleasure's shade pursue-- +The dweller in the land of death + Is changed and careless too. + +And if their eyes should watch and weep + Till sorrow's source were dry, +She would not, in her tranquil sleep, + Return a single sigh! + +Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: + And murmur, summer streams! +There is no need of other sound + To soothe my lady's dreams. + + +Emily Bronte. 1818-1848 + +736. Remembrance + +COLD in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, + Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! +Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, + Sever'd at last by Time's all-severing wave? + +Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover + Over the mountains, on that northern shore, +Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover + Thy noble heart for ever, ever more? + +Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers + From those brown hills have melted into spring: +Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers + After such years of change and suffering! + +Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, + While the world's tide is bearing me along; +Other desires and other hopes beset me, + Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! + +No later light has lighten'd up my heaven, + No second morn has ever shone for me; +All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, + All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. + +But when the days of golden dreams had perish'd, + And even Despair was powerless to destroy; +Then did I learn how existence could be cherish'd, + Strengthen'd and fed without the aid of joy. + +Then did I check the tears of useless passion-- + Wean'd my young soul from yearning after thine; +Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten + Down to that tomb already more than mine. + +And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, + Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; +Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, + How could I seek the empty world again? + + +Emily Bronte. 1818-1848 + +737. The Prisoner + +STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear +Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; +A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, +And offers for short life, eternal liberty. + +He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs, +With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: +Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, +And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire. + +Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, +When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: +When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, +I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm. + +But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends; +The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. +Mute music soothes my breast--unutter'd harmony +That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me. + +Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; +My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; +Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found, +Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound. + +O dreadful is the check--intense the agony-- +When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; +When the pulse begins to throb--the brain to think again-- +The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain. + +Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; +The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; +And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, +If it but herald Death, the vision is divine. + + +Emily Bronte. 1818-1848 + +738. Last Lines + + NO coward soul is mine, +No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: + I see Heaven's glories shine, +And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. + + O God within my breast, +Almighty, ever-present Deity! + Life--that in me has rest, +As I--undying Life--have power in Thee! + + Vain are the thousand creeds +That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; + Worthless as wither'd weeds, +Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, + + To waken doubt in one +Holding so fast by Thine infinity; + So surely anchor'd on +The steadfast rock of immortality. + + With wide-embracing love +Thy Spirit animates eternal years, + Pervades and broods above, +Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. + + Though earth and man were gone, +And suns and universes cease to be, + And Thou were left alone, +Every existence would exist in Thee. + + There is not room for Death, +Nor atom that his might could render void: + Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, +And what Thou art may never be destroyed. + + +Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875 + +739. Airly Beacon + +AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon; + O the pleasant sight to see +Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, + While my love climb'd up to me! + +Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + O the happy hours we lay +Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, + Courting through the summer's day! + +Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; + O the weary haunt for me, +All alone on Airly Beacon, + With his baby on my knee! + + +Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875 + +740. The Sands of Dee + +'O MARY, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + Across the sands of Dee.' +The western wind was wild and dark with foam, + And all alone went she. + +The western tide crept up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see. +The rolling mist came down and hid the land: + And never home came she. + +'O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- + A tress of golden hair, + A drowned maiden's hair, + Above the nets at sea?' +Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes of Dee. + +They row'd her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea. +But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, + Across the sands of Dee. + + +Arthur Hugh Clough. 1819-1861 + +741. Say not the Struggle Naught availeth + +SAY not the struggle naught availeth, + The labour and the wounds are vain, +The enemy faints not, nor faileth, + And as things have been they remain. + +If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; + It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, +Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, + And, but for you, possess the field. + +For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, + Seem here no painful inch to gain, +Far back, through creeks and inlets making, + Comes silent, flooding in, the main. + +And not by eastern windows only, + When daylight comes, comes in the light; +In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! + But westward, look, the land is bright! + + +Walt Whitman. 1819-1892 + +742. The Imprisoned Soul + +AT the last, tenderly, +From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house, +From the clasp of the knitted locks--from the keep of the well-closed +doors, +Let me be wafted. + +Let me glide noiselessly forth; +With the key of softness unlock the locks--with a whisper +Set ope the doors, O soul! + +Tenderly! be not impatient! +(Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! +Strong is your hold, O love!) + + +Walt Whitman. 1819-1892 + +743. O Captain! My Captain! + +O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, +The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, +The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, +While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red! + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + +O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; +Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, +For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores crowding, +For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here, Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck + You've fallen cold and dead. + +My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, +My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; +The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, +From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; + Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! + But I, with mournful tread, + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + +John Ruskin. 1819-1900 + +744. Trust Thou Thy Love + +TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet? +Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure? +Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet; +Fail, Sun and Breath!--yet, for thy peace, She shall endure. + + +Ebenezer Jones. 1820-1860 + +745. When the World is burning + +WHEN the world is burning, +Fired within, yet turning + Round with face unscathed; +Ere fierce flames, uprushing, +O'er all lands leap, crushing, + Till earth fall, fire-swathed; +Up amidst the meadows, +Gently through the shadows, + Gentle flames will glide, +Small, and blue, and golden. +Though by bard beholden, +When in calm dreams folden,-- + Calm his dreams will bide. + +Where the dance is sweeping, +Through the greensward peeping, + Shall the soft lights start; +Laughing maids, unstaying, +Deeming it trick-playing, +High their robes upswaying, + O'er the lights shall dart; +And the woodland haunter +Shall not cease to saunter + When, far down some glade, +Of the great world's burning, +One soft flame upturning +Seems, to his discerning, + Crocus in the shade. + + +Frederick Locker-Lampson. 1821-1895 + +746. At Her Window + +BEATING Heart! we come again + Where my Love reposes; +This is Mabel's window-pane; + These are Mabel's roses. + +Is she nested? Does she kneel + In the twilight stilly, +Lily clad from throat to heel, + She, my virgin Lily? + +Soon the wan, the wistful stars, + Fading, will forsake her; +Elves of light, on beamy bars, + Whisper then, and wake her. + +Let this friendly pebble plead + At her flowery grating; +If she hear me will she heed? + Mabel, I am waiting. + +Mabel will be deck'd anon, + Zoned in bride's apparel; +Happy zone! O hark to yon + Passion-shaken carol! + +Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, + Pipe thy best, thy clearest;-- +Hush, her lattice moves, O hush-- + Dearest Mabel!--dearest... + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +747. The Forsaken Merman + + COME, dear children, let us away; + Down and away below. + Now my brothers call from the bay; + Now the great winds shoreward blow; + Now the salt tides seaward flow; + Now the wild white horses play, + Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. + Children dear, let us away. + This way, this way! + + Call her once before you go. + Call once yet. + In a voice that she will know: + 'Margaret! Margaret!' + Children's voices should be dear + (Call once more) to a mother's ear; + Children's voices, wild with pain. + Surely she will come again. + Call her once and come away. + This way, this way! + 'Mother dear, we cannot stay.' + The wild white horses foam and fret. + Margaret! Margaret! + + Come, dear children, come away down. + Call no more. + One last look at the white-wall'd town, +And the little grey church on the windy shore. + Then come down. + She will not come though you call all day. + Come away, come away. + Children dear, was it yesterday + We heard the sweet bells over the bay? + In the caverns where we lay, + Through the surf and through the swell, + The far-off sound of a silver bell? + Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, + Where the winds are all asleep; + Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; + Where the salt weed sways in the stream; + Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, + Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; + Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, + Dry their mail, and bask in the brine; + Where great whales come sailing by, + Sail and sail, with unshut eye, + Round the world for ever and aye? + When did music come this way? + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, was it yesterday + (Call yet once) that she went away? + Once she sate with you and me, +On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, + And the youngest sate on her knee. +She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, +When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. +She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea. +She said, 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray +In the little grey church on the shore to-day. +'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! +And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.' +I said, 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves. +Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.' +She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, were we long alone? +'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. +Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say. +Come,' I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. +We went up the beach, by the sandy down +Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town. +Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, +To the little grey church on the windy hill. +From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, +But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs. +We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, +And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. + She sate by the pillar; we saw her dear: + 'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. + Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone. + The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' +But, ah! she gave me never a look, +For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. +Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. + Came away, children, call no more. + Come away, come down, call no more. + + Down, down, down; + Down to the depths of the sea. +She sits at her wheel in the humming town, + Singing most joyfully. +Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy, +For the humming street, and the child with its toy. +For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. + For the wheel where I spun, + And the blessed light of the sun.' + And so she sings her fill, + Singing most joyfully, + Till the shuttle falls from her hand, + And the whizzing wheel stands still. +She steals to the window, and looks at the sand; + And over the sand at the sea; + And her eyes are set in a stare; + And anon there breaks a sigh, + And anon there drops a tear, + From a sorrow-clouded eye, + And a heart sorrow-laden, + A long, long sigh +For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, + And the gleam of her golden hair. + + Come away, away, children. + Come children, come down. + The hoarse wind blows colder; + Lights shine in the town. + She will start from her slumber + When gusts shake the door; + She will hear the winds howling, + Will hear the waves roar. + We shall see, while above us + The waves roar and whirl, + A ceiling of amber, + A pavement of pearl. + Singing, 'Here came a mortal, + But faithless was she: + And alone dwell for ever + The kings of the sea.' + + But, children, at midnight, + When soft the winds blow; + When clear falls the moonlight; + When spring-tides are low: + When sweet airs come seaward + From heaths starr'd with broom; + And high rocks throw mildly + On the blanch'd sands a gloom: + Up the still, glistening beaches, + Up the creeks we will hie; + Over banks of bright seaweed + The ebb-tide leaves dry. + We will gaze, from the sand-hills, + At the white, sleeping town; + At the church on the hill-side-- + And then come back down. + Singing, 'There dwells a loved one, + But cruel is she. + She left lonely for ever + The kings of the sea.' + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +748. The Song of Callicles + +THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts, +Thick breaks the red flame. +All Etna heaves fiercely +Her forest-clothed frame. + +Not here, O Apollo! +Are haunts meet for thee. +But, where Helicon breaks down +In cliff to the sea. + +Where the moon-silver'd inlets +Send far their light voice +Up the still vale of Thisbe, +O speed, and rejoice! + +On the sward at the cliff-top, +Lie strewn the white flocks; +On the cliff-side, the pigeons +Roost deep in the rocks. + +In the moonlight the shepherds, +Soft lull'd by the rills, +Lie wrapt in their blankets, +Asleep on the hills. + +--What forms are these coming +So white through the gloom? +What garments out-glistening +The gold-flower'd broom? + +What sweet-breathing Presence +Out-perfumes the thyme? +What voices enrapture +The night's balmy prime?-- + +'Tis Apollo comes leading +His choir, The Nine. +--The Leader is fairest, +But all are divine. + +They are lost in the hollows. +They stream up again. +What seeks on this mountain +The glorified train?-- + +They bathe on this mountain, +In the spring by their road. +Then on to Olympus, +Their endless abode. + +--Whose praise do they mention: +Of what is it told?-- +What will be for ever. +What was from of old. + +First hymn they the Father +Of all things: and then, +The rest of Immortals, +The action of men. + +The Day in his hotness, +The strife with the palm; +The Night in her silence, +The Stars in their calm. + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +749. To Marguerite + +YES: in the sea of life enisled, + With echoing straits between us thrown. +Dotting the shoreless watery wild, + We mortal millions live alone. +The islands feel the enclasping flow, +And then their endless bounds they know. + +But when the moon their hollows lights, + And they are swept by balms of spring, +And in their glens, on starry nights, + The nightingales divinely sing; +And lovely notes, from shore to shore, +Across the sounds and channels pour; + +O then a longing like despair + Is to their farthest caverns sent! +For surely once, they feel, we were + Parts of a single continent. +Now round us spreads the watery plain-- +O might our marges meet again! + +Who order'd that their longing's fire + Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? +Who renders vain their deep desire?-- + A God, a God their severance ruled; +And bade betwixt their shores to be +The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +750. Requiescat + +STREW on her roses, roses, + And never a spray of yew. +In quiet she reposes: + Ah! would that I did too. + +Her mirth the world required: + She bathed it in smiles of glee. +But her heart was tired, tired, + And now they let her be. + +Her life was turning, turning, + In mazes of heat and sound. +But for peace her soul was yearning, + And now peace laps her round. + +Her cabin'd, ample Spirit, + It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. +To-night it doth inherit + The vasty hall of Death. + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +751. The Scholar-Gipsy + +GO, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; + Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: + No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, + Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, + Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head. + But when the fields are still, + And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, + And only the white sheep are sometimes seen + Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green; +Come Shepherd, and again begin the quest. + +Here, where the reaper was at work of late, + In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves + His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise, + And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, + Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use; + Here will I sit and wait, + While to my ear from uplands far away + The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, + With distant cries of reapers in the corn-- + All the live murmur of a summer's day. + +Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, + And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be. + Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, + And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see + Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: + And air-swept lindens yield + Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers + Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, + And bower me from the August sun with shade; + And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers: + +And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book-- + Come, let me read the oft-read tale again: + The story of that Oxford scholar poor, + Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, + Who, tired of knocking at Preferment's door, + One summer morn forsook + His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, + And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, + And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, + But came to Oxford and his friends no more. + +But once, years after, in the country lanes, + Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, + Met him, and of his way of life inquired. + Whereat he answer'd that the Gipsy crew, + His mates, had arts to rule as they desired + The workings of men's brains; + And they can bind them to what thoughts they will: + 'And I,' he said, 'the secret of their art, + When fully learn'd, will to the world impart: + But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill!' + +This said, he left them, and return'd no more, + But rumours hung about the country-side, + That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, + Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, + In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, + The same the Gipsies wore. + Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; + At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, + On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors + Had found him seated at their entering, + +But 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly: + And I myself seem half to know thy looks, + And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace; + And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks + I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place; + Or in my boat I lie + Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats, + 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, + And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor hills, + And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. + +For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. + Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, + Returning home on summer nights, have met + Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, + Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, + As the slow punt swings round: + And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, + And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers + Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, + And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream: + +And then they land, and thou art seen no more. + Maidens who from the distant hamlets come + To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, + Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, + Or cross a stile into the public way. + Oft thou hast given them store + Of flowers--the frail-leaf'd, white anemone-- + Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, + And purple orchises with spotted leaves-- + But none has words she can report of thee. + +And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here + In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, + Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass + Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, + To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, + Have often pass'd thee near + Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown: + Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, + Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; + But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone. + +At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills, + Where at her open door the housewife darns, + Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate + To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. + Children, who early range these slopes and late + For cresses from the rills, + Have known thee watching, all an April day, + The springing pastures and the feeding kine; + And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, + Through the long dewy grass move slow away. + +In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood, + Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way + Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see + With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray, + Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly-- + The blackbird picking food + Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; + So often has he known thee past him stray + Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, + And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. + +And once, in winter, on the causeway chill + Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, + Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge + Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, + Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? + And thou hast climb'd the hill + And gain'd the white brow of the Cumnor range; + Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, + The line of festal light in Christ Church hall-- + Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. + +But what--I dream! Two hundred years are flown + Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, + And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe + That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls + To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: + And thou from earth art gone + Long since and in some quiet churchyard laid; + Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave + Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave-- + Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade. + +--No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. + For what wears out the life of mortal men? + 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls: + 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, + Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, + And numb the elastic powers. + Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, + And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, + To the just-pausing Genius we remit + Our worn-out life, and are--what we have been. + +Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? + Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire: + Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead-- + Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. + The generations of thy peers are fled, + And we ourselves shall go; + But thou possessest an immortal lot, + And we imagine thee exempt from age + And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, + Because thou hadst--what we, alas, have not! + +For early didst thou leave the world, with powers + Fresh, undiverted to the world without, + Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; + Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, + Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. + O Life unlike to ours! + Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, + Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, + And each half lives a hundred different lives; + Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. + +Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, + Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, + Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, + Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, + Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill'd; + For whom each year we see + Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; + Who hesitate and falter life away, + And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-- + Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too? + +Yes, we await it, but it still delays, + And then we suffer; and amongst us One, + Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly + His seat upon the intellectual throne; + And all his store of sad experience he + Lays bare of wretched days; + Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, + And how the dying spark of hope was fed, + And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, + And all his hourly varied anodynes. + +This for our wisest: and we others pine, + And wish the long unhappy dream would end, + And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, + With close-lipp'd Patience for our only friend, + Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: + But none has hope like thine. + Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, + Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, + Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, + And every doubt long blown by time away. + +O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, + And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; + Before this strange disease of modern life, + With its sick hurry, its divided aims, + Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife-- + Fly hence, our contact fear! + Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! + Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern + From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, + Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. + +Still nursing the unconquerable hope, + Still clutching the inviolable shade, + With a free onward impulse brushing through, + By night, the silver'd branches of the glade-- + Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, + On some mild pastoral slope + Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, + Freshen they flowers, as in former years, + With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, + From the dark dingles, to the nightingales. + +But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! + For strong the infection of our mental strife, + Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; + And we should win thee from they own fair life, + Like us distracted, and like us unblest. + Soon, soon thy cheer would die, + Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd they powers, + And they clear aims be cross and shifting made: + And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, + Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. + +Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! + --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, + Descried at sunrise an emerging prow + Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, + The fringes of a southward-facing brow + Among the Aegean isles; + And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, + Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, + Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine; + And knew the intruders on his ancient home, + +The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; + And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail, + And day and night held on indignantly + O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, + Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, + To where the Atlantic raves + Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails + There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, + Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; + And on the beach undid his corded bales. + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +752. Philomela + +HARK! ah, the Nightingale! +The tawny-throated! +Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! +What triumph! hark--what pain! + +O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, +Still, after many years, in distant lands, +Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain +That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- + Say, will it never heal? +And can this fragrant lawn +With its cool trees, and night, +And the sweet, tranquil Thames, +And moonshine, and the dew, +To thy rack'd heart and brain + Afford no balm? + + Dost thou to-night behold +Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, +The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? + Dost thou again peruse +With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes +The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's shame? + Dost thou once more assay +Thy flight, and feel come over thee, +Poor Fugitive, the feathery change +Once more, and once more seem to make resound +With love and hate, triumph and agony, +Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? + Listen, Eugenia-- +How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! + Again--thou hearest! +Eternal Passion! +Eternal Pain! + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +753. Shakespeare + +OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. +We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, +Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill +That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, +Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, +Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, +Spares but the cloudy border of his base +To the foil'd searching of mortality; +And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, +Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, +Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so! +All pains the immortal spirit must endure, + All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, + Find their sole voice in that victorious brow. + + +Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888 + +754. From the Hymn of Empedocles + + IS it so small a thing + To have enjoy'd the sun, + To have lived light in the spring, + To have loved, to have thought, to have done; +To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes; + + That we must feign a bliss + Of doubtful future date, + And while we dream on this + Lose all our present state, +And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? + + Not much, I know, you prize + What pleasures may be had, + Who look on life with eyes + Estranged, like mine, and sad: +And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you; + + Who 's loth to leave this life + Which to him little yields: + His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, + His often-labour'd fields; +The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew. + + But thou, because thou hear'st + Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; + Because the gods thou fear'st + Fail to make blest thy state, +Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are. + + I say, Fear not! life still + Leaves human effort scope. + But, since life teems with ill, + Nurse no extravagant hope. +Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair. + + +William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880 + +755. The Flowers + +WHEN Love arose in heart and deed + To wake the world to greater joy, +'What can she give me now?' said Greed, + Who thought to win some costly toy. + +He rose, he ran, he stoop'd, he clutch'd; + And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, +In Greed's hot grasp were fray'd and smutch'd, + And Greed said, 'Flowers! Can this be all?' + +He flung them down and went his way, + He cared no jot for thyme or rose; +But boys and girls came out to play, + And some took these and some took those-- + +Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; + And at their touch the dew return'd, +And all the bloom a thousandfold-- + So red, so ripe, the roses burn'd! + + +William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880 + +756. The Thought + +INTO the skies, one summer's day, +I sent a little Thought away; +Up to where, in the blue round, +The sun sat shining without sound. + +Then my Thought came back to me.-- +Little Thought, what did you see +In the regions whence you come? +And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb. + +But she breathed of what was there, +In the pure bright upper air; +And, because my Thought so shone, +I knew she had been shone upon. + +Next, by night a Thought I sent +Up into the firmament; +When the eager stars were out, +And the still moon shone about. + +And my Thought went past the moon +In between the stars, but soon +Held her breath and durst not stir, +For the fear that covered her; +Then she thought, in this demur: + +'Dare I look beneath the shade, +Into where the worlds are made; +Where the suns and stars are wrought? +Shall I meet another Thought? + +'Will that other Thought have wings? +Shall I meet strange, heavenly things? +Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights, +Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?' + +Then my Thought began to hark +In the illuminated dark, +Till the silence, over, under, +Made her heart beat more than thunder. + +And my Thought, came trembling back, +But with something on her track, +And with something at her side; +Nor till she has lived and died, +Lived and died, and lived again, +Will that awful thing seem plain. + + +William Philpot. 1823-1889 + +757. Maritae Suae + +I + +OF all the flowers rising now, + Thou only saw'st the head +Of that unopen'd drop of snow + I placed beside thy bed. + +In all the blooms that blow so fast, + Thou hast no further part, +Save those the hour I saw thee last, + I laid above thy heart. + +Two snowdrops for our boy and girl, + A primrose blown for me, +Wreathed with one often-play'd-with curl + From each bright head for thee. + +And so I graced thee for thy grave, + And made these tokens fast +With that old silver heart I gave, + My first gift--and my last. + +II + +I dream'd, her babe upon her breast, +Here she might lie and calmly rest +Her happy eyes on that far hill +That backs the landscape fresh and still. + +I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs +Where careless birds on love carouse, +And gaze those apple-blossoms through +To revel in the boundless blue. + +But now her faculty of sight +Is elder sister to the light, +And travels free and unconfined +Through dense and rare, through form and mind. + +Or else her life to be complete +Hath found new channels full and meet-- +Then, O, what eyes are leaning o'er, +If fairer than they were before! + + +William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892 + +758. Mimnermus in Church + +YOU promise heavens free from strife, + Pure truth, and perfect change of will; +But sweet, sweet is this human life, + So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; +Your chilly stars I can forgo, +This warm kind world is all I know. + +You say there is no substance here, + One great reality above: +Back from that void I shrink in fear, + And child-like hide myself in love: +Show me what angels feel. Till then +I cling, a mere weak man, to men. + +You bid me lift my mean desires + From faltering lips and fitful veins +To sexless souls, ideal quires, + Unwearied voices, wordless strains: +My mind with fonder welcome owns +One dear dead friend's remember'd tones. + +Forsooth the present we must give + To that which cannot pass away; +All beauteous things for which we live + By laws of time and space decay. +But O, the very reason why +I clasp them, is because they die. + + +William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892 + +759. Heraclitus + +THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, +They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. +I wept as I remember'd how often you and I +Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. + +And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, +A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, +Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; +For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. + + +Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896 + +760. The Married Lover + +WHY, having won her, do I woo? + Because her spirit's vestal grace +Provokes me always to pursue, + But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; +Because her womanhood is such + That, as on court-days subjects kiss +The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch + Affirms no mean familiarness; +Nay, rather marks more fair the height + Which can with safety so neglect +To dread, as lower ladies might, + That grace could meet with disrespect; +Thus she with happy favour feeds + Allegiance from a love so high +That thence no false conceit proceeds + Of difference bridged, or state put by; +Because although in act and word + As lowly as a wife can be, +Her manners, when they call me lord, + Remind me 'tis by courtesy; +Not with her least consent of will, + Which would my proud affection hurt, +But by the noble style that still + Imputes an unattain'd desert; +Because her gay and lofty brows, + When all is won which hope can ask, +Reflect a light of hopeless snows + That bright in virgin ether bask; +Because, though free of the outer court + I am, this Temple keeps its shrine +Sacred to Heaven; because, in short, + She 's not and never can be mine. + + +Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896 + +761. 'If I were dead' + +'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' +The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, +And the tears brake +From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. +Poor Child, poor Child! +I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. +It is not true that Love will do no wrong. +Poor Child! +And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, +How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, +And of those words your full avengers make? +Poor Child, poor Child! +And now, unless it be +That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, +O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! +Poor Child! + + +Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896 + +762. Departure + +IT was not like your great and gracious ways! +Do you, that have naught other to lament, +Never, my Love, repent +Of how, that July afternoon, +You went, +With sudden, unintelligible phrase, +And frighten'd eye, +Upon your journey of so many days +Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? +I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; +And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, +You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, +Your harrowing praise. +Well, it was well +To hear you such things speak, +And I could tell +What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, +As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. +And it was like your great and gracious ways +To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, +Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash +To let the laughter flash, +Whilst I drew near, +Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. +But all at once to leave me at the last, +More at the wonder than the loss aghast, +With huddled, unintelligible phrase, +And frighten'd eye, +And go your journey of all days +With not one kiss, or a good-bye, +And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd: +'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. + + +Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896 + +763. The Toys + +MY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes +And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, +Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, +I struck him, and dismiss'd +With hard words and unkiss'd, +--His Mother, who was patient, being dead. +Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, +I visited his bed, +But found him slumbering deep, +With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet +From his late sobbing wet. +And I, with moan, +Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; +For, on a table drawn beside his head, +He had put, within his reach, +A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, +A piece of glass abraded by the beach, +And six or seven shells, +A bottle with bluebells, +And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, +To comfort his sad heart. +So when that night I pray'd +To God, I wept, and said: +Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, +Not vexing Thee in death, +And Thou rememberest of what toys +We made our joys, +How weakly understood +Thy great commanded good, +Then, fatherly not less +Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, +Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, +'I will be sorry for their childishness.' + + +Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896 + +764. A Farewell + +WITH all my will, but much against my heart, +We two now part. +My Very Dear, +Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. +It needs no art, +With faint, averted feet +And many a tear, +In our opposed paths to persevere. +Go thou to East, I West. +We will not say +There 's any hope, it is so far away. +But, O, my Best, +When the one darling of our widowhead, +The nursling Grief, +Is dead, +And no dews blur our eyes +To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, +Perchance we may, +Where now this night is day, +And even through faith of still averted feet, +Making full circle of our banishment, +Amazed meet; +The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet +Seasoning the termless feast of our content +With tears of recognition never dry. + + +Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874 + +765. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston + +THE murmur of the mourning ghost + That keeps the shadowy kine, +'O Keith of Ravelston, + The sorrows of thy line!' + +Ravelston, Ravelston, + The merry path that leads +Down the golden morning hill, + And thro' the silver meads; + +Ravelston, Ravelston, + The stile beneath the tree, +The maid that kept her mother's kine, + The song that sang she! + +She sang her song, she kept her kine, + She sat beneath the thorn, +When Andrew Keith of Ravelston + Rode thro' the Monday morn. + +His henchman sing, his hawk-bells ring, + His belted jewels shine; +O Keith of Ravelston, + The sorrows of thy line! + +Year after year, where Andrew came, + Comes evening down the glade, +And still there sits a moonshine ghost + Where sat the sunshine maid. + +Her misty hair is faint and fair, + She keeps the shadowy kine; +O Keith of Ravelston, + The sorrows of thy line! + +I lay my hand upon the stile, + The stile is lone and cold, +The burnie that goes babbling by + Says naught that can be told. + +Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, + She keeps her shadowy kine; +O Keith of Ravelston, + The sorrows of thy line! + +Step out three steps, where Andrew stood-- + Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? +The ancient stile is not alone, + 'Tis not the burn I hear! + +She makes her immemorial moan, + She keeps her shadowy kine; +O Keith of Ravelston, + The sorrows of thy line! + + +Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874 + +766. Return! + +RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning, +All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn; +Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning +Bears witness that the absent can return, + Return, return. + +Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, +Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, +Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness +To feed the sorrowy signal for return, + Return, return. + +Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings, +I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn, +When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings, +Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn-- + Burn in the watchfire of return, + Return, return. + +Like it, the very flame whereby I pine +Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn +My soul becomes a better soul than mine, +And from its brightening beacon I discern +My starry love go forth from me, and shine +Across the seas a path for thy return, + Return, return. + +Return, return! all night I see it burn, +All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin +Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn-- +Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. +Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, +And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn + As warmly still for thy return; +Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin +Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn +Naught but that votive sign for thy return-- +That single suppliant sign for thy return, + Return, return. + +Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er +Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, +And thou, who thro' the window didst discern +The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair + To find no wide eyes watching there, +No wither'd welcome waiting thy return! +A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, +The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, +Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn-- +Burn out its lingering life for thy return, +Its last of lingering life for thy return, +Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, + Return, return. + + +Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874 + +767. A Chanted Calendar + + FIRST came the primrose, + On the bank high, + Like a maiden looking forth + From the window of a tower + When the battle rolls below, + So look'd she, + And saw the storms go by. + + Then came the wind-flower + In the valley left behind, + As a wounded maiden, pale + With purple streaks of woe, + When the battle has roll'd by + Wanders to and fro, + So totter'd she, + Dishevell'd in the wind. + + Then came the daisies, + On the first of May, + Like a banner'd show's advance + While the crowd runs by the way, +With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the +fields. + As a happy people come, + So came they, + As a happy people come + When the war has roll'd away, + With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, + And all make holiday. + + Then came the cowslip, + Like a dancer in the fair, + She spread her little mat of green, + And on it danced she. + With a fillet bound about her brow, + A fillet round her happy brow, + A golden fillet round her brow, + And rubies in her hair. + + +Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874 + +768. Laus Deo + +IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands. +At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands. +The bed of state is hung with crape--the grand old bed where she was +wed-- +And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed. +Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door, +And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor, +And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red; + +'Touch him not,' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' +'O my own dear mistress,' the ancient Nurse did say, +'Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch'd him where he +lay.' +'Seven long days and seven long nights,' the hoary Steward said; +'Seven long days and seven long nights,' groan'd the Warrener gray; +'Seven,' said the old Henchman, and bow'd his aged head; +'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' + Then a father Priest they sought, + The Priest that taught her all she knew, + And they told him of her loss. + 'For she is mild and sweet of will, + She loved him, and his words are peace, + And he shall heal her ill.' + But her watch she did not cease. + He bless'd her where she sat distraught, + And show'd her holy cross,-- + The cross she kiss'd from year to year-- + But she neither saw nor heard; + And said he in her deaf ear + All he had been wont to teach, + All she had been fond to hear, + Missall'd prayer, and solemn speech, + But she answer'd not a word. +Only when he turn'd to speak with those who wept about the bed, +'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' +Then how sadly he turn'd from her, it were wonderful to tell, +And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well, +And he lean'd o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low, +'He is not dead, but sleepeth,' said the Priest, and smooth'd his +brow. +'Sleepeth?' said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face! +'He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.' +'He is better,' said the Priest, and call'd her maidens round. +With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child; +O Nurse!' she sigh'd, 'O Nurse!' she cried 'O Nurse!' and then she +smiled, + And then she wept; with that they drew + About her, as of old; + Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, + Her trembling touch was cold; + But she said, 'My maidens true, + No more weeping and well-away; + Let them kill the feast. + I would be happy in my soul. + "He is better," saith the Priest; + He did but sleep the weary day, + And will waken whole. + Carry me to his dear side, + And let the halls be trim; + Whistly, whistly,' said she, + 'I am wan with watching and wail, + He must not wake to see me pale, + Let me sleep with him. + See you keep the tryst for me, + I would rest till he awake + And rise up like a bride. + But whistly, whistly!' said she. + 'Yet rejoice your Lord doth live; + And for His dear sake + Say Laus, Domine.' + Silent they cast down their eyes, + And every breast a sob did rive, + She lifted her in wild surprise + And they dared not disobey. +'Laus Deo,' said the Steward, hoary when her days were new; +'Laus Deo,' said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows; +'Laus Deo,' the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee. + The old Nurse moved her lips in vain, + And she stood among the train + Like a dead tree shaking dew. + Then the Priest he softly stept + Midway in the little band, + And he took the Lady's hand. + 'Laus Deo,' he said aloud, + 'Laus Deo,' they said again, + Yet again, and yet again, + Humbly cross'd and lowly bow'd, + Till in wont and fear it rose + To the Sabbath strain. + But she neither turn'd her head + Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she. + Her hands were folded as in grace, + We laid her with her ancient race + And all the village wept. + + +William Allingham. 1824-1889 + +769. The Fairies + +UP the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen, +We daren't go a-hunting + For fear of little men; +Wee folk, good folk, + Trooping all together; +Green jacket, red cap, + And white owl's feather! + +Down along the rocky shore + Some make their home, +They live on crispy pancakes + Of yellow tide-foam; +Some in the reeds + Of the black mountain lake, +With frogs for their watch-dogs, + All night awake. + +High on the hill-top + The old King sits; +He is now so old and gray + He 's nigh lost his wits. +With a bridge of white mist + Columbkill he crosses, +On his stately journeys + From Slieveleague to Rosses; +Or going up with music + On cold starry nights +To sup with the Queen + Of the gay Northern Lights. + +They stole little Bridget + For seven years long; +When she came down again + Her friends were all gone. +They took her lightly back, + Between the night and morrow, +They thought that she was fast asleep, + But she was dead with sorrow. +They have kept her ever since + Deep within the lake, +On a bed of flag-leaves, + Watching till she wake. + +By the craggy hill-side, + Through the mosses bare, +They have planted thorn-trees + For pleasure here and there. +If any man so daring + As dig them up in spite, +He shall find their sharpest thorns + In his bed at night. + +Up the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen, +We daren't go a-hunting + For fear of little men; +Wee folk, good folk, + Trooping all together; +Green jacket, red cap, + And white owl's feather! + + +George MacDonald. 1824-1905 + +770. That Holy Thing + +THEY all were looking for a king + To slay their foes and lift them high: +Thou cam'st, a little baby thing + That made a woman cry. + +O Son of Man, to right my lot + Naught but Thy presence can avail; +Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, + Nor on the sea Thy sail! + +My how or when Thou wilt not heed, + But come down Thine own secret stair, +That Thou mayst answer all my need-- + Yea, every bygone prayer. + + +Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1828-1882 + +771. The Blessed Damozel + +THE blessed Damozel lean'd out + From the gold bar of Heaven: +Her blue grave eyes were deeper much + Than a deep water, even. +She had three lilies in her hand, + And the stars in her hair were seven. + +Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, + No wrought flowers did adorn, +But a white rose of Mary's gift + On the neck meetly worn; +And her hair, lying down her back, + Was yellow like ripe corn. + +Herseem'd she scarce had been a day + One of God's choristers; +The wonder was not yet quite gone + From that still look of hers; +Albeit, to them she left, her day + Had counted as ten years. + +(To one it is ten years of years: + ...Yet now, here in this place, +Surely she lean'd o'er me,--her hair + Fell all about my face.... +Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. + The whole year sets apace.) + +It was the terrace of God's house + That she was standing on,-- +By God built over the sheer depth + In which Space is begun; +So high, that looking downward thence, + She scarce could see the sun. + +It lies from Heaven across the flood + Of ether, as a bridge. +Beneath, the tides of day and night + With flame and darkness ridge +The void, as low as where this earth + Spins like a fretful midge. + +But in those tracts, with her, it was + The peace of utter light +And silence. For no breeze may stir + Along the steady flight +Of seraphim; no echo there, + Beyond all depth or height. + +Heard hardly, some of her new friends, + Playing at holy games, +Spake gentle-mouth'd, among themselves, + Their virginal chaste names; +And the souls, mounting up to God, + Went by her like thin flames. + +And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'd + Into the vast waste calm; +Till her bosom's pressure must have made + The bar she lean'd on warm, +And the lilies lay as if asleep + Along her bended arm. + +From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw + Time, like a pulse, shake fierce +Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, + In that steep gulf, to pierce +The swarm; and then she spoke, as when + The stars sang in their spheres. + +'I wish that he were come to me, + For he will come,' she said. +'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven? + On earth, has he not pray'd? +Are not two prayers a perfect strength? + And shall I feel afraid? + +'When round his head the aureole clings, + And he is clothed in white, +I'll take his hand, and go with him + To the deep wells of light, +And we will step down as to a stream + And bathe there in God's sight. + +'We two will stand beside that shrine, + Occult, withheld, untrod, +Whose lamps tremble continually + With prayer sent up to God; +And where each need, reveal'd, expects + Its patient period. + +'We two will lie i' the shadow of + That living mystic tree +Within whose secret growth the Dove + Sometimes is felt to be, +While every leaf that His plumes touch + Saith His name audibly. + +'And I myself will teach to him,-- + I myself, lying so,-- +The songs I sing here; which his mouth + Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, +Finding some knowledge at each pause, + And some new thing to know.' + +(Alas! to her wise simple mind + These things were all but known +Before: they trembled on her sense,-- + Her voice had caught their tone. +Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas + For life wrung out alone! + +Alas, and though the end were reach'd?... + Was thy part understood +Or borne in trust? And for her sake + Shall this too be found good?-- +May the close lips that knew not prayer + Praise ever, though they would?) + +'We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves + Where the lady Mary is, +With her five handmaidens, whose names + Are five sweet symphonies:-- +Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, + Margaret and Rosalys. + +'Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks + And bosoms covered; +Into the fine cloth, white like flame, + Weaving the golden thread, +To fashion the birth-robes for them + Who are just born, being dead. + +'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb. + Then I will lay my cheek +To his, and tell about our love, + Not once abash'd or weak: +And the dear Mother will approve + My pride, and let me speak. + +'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, + To Him round whom all souls +Kneel--the unnumber'd solemn heads + Bow'd with their aureoles: +And Angels, meeting us, shall sing + To their citherns and citoles. + +'There will I ask of Christ the Lord + Thus much for him and me:-- +To have more blessing than on earth + In nowise; but to be +As then we were,--being as then + At peace. Yea, verily. + +'Yea, verily; when he is come + We will do thus and thus: +Till this my vigil seem quite strange + And almost fabulous; +We two will live at once, one life; + And peace shall be with us.' + +She gazed, and listen'd, and then said, + Less sad of speech than mild,-- +'All this is when he comes.' She ceased: + The light thrill'd past her, fill'd +With Angels, in strong level lapse. + Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled. + +(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight + Was vague 'mid the poised spheres. +And then she cast her arms along + The golden barriers, +And laid her face between her hands, + And wept. (I heard her tears.) + + +George Meredith. 1828-1909 + +772. Love in the Valley + +UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, + Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head, +Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, + Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. +Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, + Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, +Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: + Then would she hold me and never let me go? +. . . +Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, + Swift as the swallow along the river's light +Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets, + Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. +Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, + Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, +She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, + Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! +. . . +When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, + Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, +Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, + More love should I have, and much less care. +When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, + Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, +Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, + I should miss but one for many boys and girls. +. . . +Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows + Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. +No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: + Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. +Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, + Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: +Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones + Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. +. . . +Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping + Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. +Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, + Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown evejar. +Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: + So were it with me if forgetting could be will'd. +Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, + Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill'd. +. . . +Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, + Arm in arm, all against the raying West, +Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, + Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess'd. +Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking + Whisper'd the world was; morning light is she. +Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; + Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. +. . . +Happy happy time, when the white star hovers + Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, +Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, + Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. +Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens + Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. +Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; + Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. +. . . +Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting + Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, +Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter + Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. +Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather'd bosom + Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend +Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset + Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. +. . . +When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window + Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, +Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily + Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. +When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle + In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, +Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily + Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. +. . . +Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight, + Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, +Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, + Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. +Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, + Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. +Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever + Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. +. . . +All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; + Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. +My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, + Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. +Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, + Coming the rose: and unaware a cry +Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, + Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why. +. . . +Kerchief'd head and chin she darts between her tulips, + Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain: +Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel + She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. +Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: + She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. +So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder + Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. + +Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, + Train'd to stand in rows, and asking if they please. +I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: + O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. +You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, + Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, +They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, + You are of life's, on the banks that line the way. +. . . +Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, + Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. +Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine + Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. +Sweeter unpossess'd, have I said of her my sweetest? + Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, +Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine + Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. +. . . +Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; + Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; +Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; + Blue-neck'd the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. +Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; + Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: +Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, + Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. +. . . +This I may know: her dressing and undressing + Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport +Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder + Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port +White sails furl; or on the ocean borders + White sails lean along the waves leaping green. +Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight + Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. +. . . +Front door and back of the moss'd old farmhouse + Open with the morn, and in a breezy link +Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow'd orchard, + Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. +Busy in the grass the early sun of summer + Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes +Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: + Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats! +. . . +Cool was the woodside; cool as her white diary + Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, +Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with sunshine; + O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! +Spying from the farm, herself she fetch'd a pitcher + Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. +Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, + Said, 'I will kiss you': she laugh'd and lean'd her cheek. +. . . +Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof + Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. +Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway + Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. +Cows flap a show tail knee-deep in the river, + Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. +Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, + Lighting may come, straight rains and tiger sky. +. . . +O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! + O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! +O the treasure-tresses one another over + Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! +Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet + Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, +Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! + O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! +. . . +Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, + Clipp'd by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: +Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, + Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. +Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree + Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. +Here may life on death or death on life be painted. + Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! +. . . +Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber + Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. +'When she was a tiny,' one aged woman quavers, + Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. +Faults she had once as she learn'd to run and tumbled: + Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. +Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy + Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. +. . . +Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, + Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise +High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; + Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. +Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, + Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.-- +Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, + Arms up, she dropp'd: our souls were in our names. +. . . +Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. + Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, +Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, + Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly. +Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. + Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring! +Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, + Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. +. . . +Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April + Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you +Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, + Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: +Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: + Fair as in image my seraph love appears +Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: + Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. +. . . +Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, + I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. +Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, + Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. +Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; + Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; +Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: + All seem to know what is for heaven alone. + + +George Meredith. 1828-1909 + +773. Phoebus with Admetus + +WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, + Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God, +Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked, + Who: and what a track show'd the upturn'd sod! +Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe + Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide, +How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere, + Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. +Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch'd in ranks: + Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray: +Scarce the stony lizard suck'd hollows in his flanks: + Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. +Sudden bow'd the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard, + Lengthen'd ran the grasses, the sky grew slate: +Then amid a swift flight of wing'd seed white as curd, + Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + +Water, first of singers, o'er rocky mount and mead, + First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, +Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed, + Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. +Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool, + Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, +Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool + Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + +Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: + Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: +Big of heart we labour'd at storing mighty yields, + Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! +Hand-like rush'd the vintage; we strung the bellied skins + Plump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose: +Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; + Gentle beasties through push'd a cold long nose. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + +Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm'd the slender shaft: + Often down the pit spied the lean wolf's teeth +Grin against his will, trapp'd by masterstrokes of craft; + Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! +Safe the tender lambs tugg'd the teats, and winter sped + Whirl'd before the crocus, the year's new gold. +Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead + Redden'd through his feathers for our dear fold. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + +Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above: + Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb'd air! +Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love + Ease because the creature was all too fair. +Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good. + Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. +He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood + Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp'd mast. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + +Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, + Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame. +Ere the string was tighten'd we heard the mellow tone, + After he had taught how the sweet sounds came. +Stretch'd about his feet, labour done, 'twas as you see + Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. +So began contention to give delight and be + Excellent in things aim'd to make life kind. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + +You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats, + You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! +Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! + Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! +You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays, + You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: +He has been our fellow, the morning of our days; + Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. + God! of whom music + And song and blood are pure, + The day is never darken'd + That had thee here obscure. + + +George Meredith. 1828-1909 + +774. Tardy Spring + + NOW the North wind ceases, + The warm South-west awakes; + Swift fly the fleeces, + Thick the blossom-flakes. + +Now hill to hill has made the stride, +And distance waves the without-end: +Now in the breast a door flings wide; +Our farthest smiles, our next is friend. +And song of England's rush of flowers +Is this full breeze with mellow stops, +That spins the lark for shine, for showers; +He drinks his hurried flight, and drops. +The stir in memory seem these things, +Which out of moisten'd turf and clay, +Astrain for light push patient rings, +Or leap to find the waterway. +'Tis equal to a wonder done, +Whatever simple lives renew +Their tricks beneath the father sun, +As though they caught a broken clue: +So hard was earth an eyewink back; +But now the common life has come, +The blotting cloud a dappled pack, +The grasses one vast underhum. +A City clothed in snow and soot, +With lamps for day in ghostly rows, +Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot, +The river that reflective flows: +And there did fog down crypts of street +Play spectre upon eye and mouth:-- +Their faces are a glass to greet +This magic of the whirl for South. +A burly joy each creature swells +With sound of its own hungry quest; +Earth has to fill her empty wells, +And speed the service of the nest; +The phantom of the snow-wreath melt, +That haunts the farmer's look abroad, +Who sees what tomb a white night built, +Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod. +For iron Winter held her firm; +Across her sky he laid his hand; +And bird he starved, he stiffen'd worm; +A sightless heaven, a shaven land. +Her shivering Spring feign'd fast asleep, +The bitten buds dared not unfold: +We raced on roads and ice to keep +Thought of the girl we love from cold. + + But now the North wind ceases, + The warm South-west awakes, + The heavens are out in fleeces, + And earth's green banner shakes. + + +George Meredith. 1828-1909 + +775. Love's Grave + +MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, +Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave! +Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; +Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, +And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: +In hearing of the ocean, and in sight +Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white. +If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, +I never could have made it half so sure, +As by the unblest kisses which upbraid +The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! +'Tis morning: but no morning can restore +What we have forfeited. I see no sin: +The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, +No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: +We are betray'd by what is false within. + + +George Meredith. 1828-1909 + +776. Lucifer in Starlight + +ON a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose. + Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend + Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd, +Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose. +Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. + And now upon his western wing he lean'd, + Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd, +Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows. +Soaring through wider zones that prick'd his scars + With memory of the old revolt from Awe, +He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars, +Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank. +Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank, + The army of unalterable law. + + +Alexander Smith. 1829-1867 + +777. Love + +THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, + The churlish thistles, scented briers, +The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, + Down to the central fires, + +Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea + Filling all the abysses dim +Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally + Suns and their bright broods swim. + +This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, + Is sternly just to sun and grain; +'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides, + 'Tis in my blood and brain. + +All things have something more than barren use; + There is a scent upon the brier, +A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, + Cold morns are fringed with fire. + +The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers; + In music dies poor human speech, +And into beauty blow those hearts of ours + When Love is born in each. + +Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, + Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give. +The world is very lovely. O my God, + I thank Thee that I live! + + +Alexander Smith. 1829-1867 + +778. Barbara + + ON the Sabbath-day, + Through the churchyard old and gray, +Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; +And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, +'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ-calms, +'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, + I stood careless, Barbara. + + My heart was otherwhere, + While the organ shook the air, +And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with a + prayer; +But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine +Gleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine-- +Gleam'd and vanish'd in a moment--O that face was surely thine + Out of heaven, Barbara! + + O pallid, pallid face! + O earnest eyes of grace! +When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. +You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: +The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist-- +A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss'd, + That wild morning, Barbara. + + I search'd, in my despair, + Sunny noon and midnight air; +I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. +O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, +My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone-- +Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, + You were sleeping, Barbara. + + 'Mong angels, do you think + Of the precious golden link +I clasp'd around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? +Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, +Was emptied of its music, and we watch'd, through lattice-bars, +The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, + Till the day broke, Barbara? + + In the years I've changed; + Wild and far my heart has ranged, +And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; +But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack'd: +I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact-- +Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. + Still I love you. Barbara. + + Yet, Love, I am unblest; + With many doubts opprest, +I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest. +Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, +The hunger of my soul were still'd; for Death hath told you more +Than the melancholy world doth know--things deeper than all lore + You could teach me, Barbara. + + In vain, in vain, in vain! + You will never come again. +There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; +The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, +Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea; +There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee-- + Barbara! + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +779. Bride Song +FROM 'THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS' + +TOO late for love, too late for joy, + Too late, too late! +You loiter'd on the road too long, + You trifled at the gate: +The enchanted dove upon her branch + Died without a mate; +The enchanted princess in her tower + Slept, died, behind the grate; +Her heart was starving all this while + You made it wait. + +Ten years ago, five years ago, + One year ago, +Even then you had arrived in time, + Though somewhat slow; +Then you had known her living face + Which now you cannot know: +The frozen fountain would have leap'd, + The buds gone on to blow, +The warm south wind would have awaked + To melt the snow. + +Is she fair now as she lies? + Once she was fair; +Meet queen for any kingly king, + With gold-dust on her hair. +Now there are poppies in her locks, + White poppies she must wear; +Must wear a veil to shroud her face + And the want graven there: +Or is the hunger fed at length, + Cast off the care? + +We never saw her with a smile + Or with a frown; +Her bed seem'd never soft to her, + Though toss'd of down; +She little heeded what she wore, + Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; +We think her white brows often ached + Beneath her crown, +Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks + That used to be so brown. + +We never heard her speak in haste: + Her tones were sweet, +And modulated just so much + As it was meet: +Her heart sat silent through the noise + And concourse of the street. +There was no hurry in her hands, + No hurry in her feet; +There was no bliss drew nigh to her, + That she might run to greet. + +You should have wept her yesterday, + Wasting upon her bed: +But wherefore should you weep to-day + That she is dead? +Lo, we who love weep not to-day, + But crown her royal head. +Let be these poppies that we strew, + Your roses are too red: +Let be these poppies, not for you + Cut down and spread. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +780. A Birthday + +MY heart is like a singing bird + Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; +My heart is like an apple-tree + Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; +My heart is like a rainbow shell + That paddles in a halcyon sea; +My heart is gladder than all these, + Because my love is come to me. + +Raise me a daïs of silk and down; + Hang it with vair and purple dyes; +Carve it in doves and pomegranates, + And peacocks with a hundred eyes; +Work it in gold and silver grapes, + In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; +Because the birthday of my life + Is come, my love is come to me. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +781. Song + +WHEN I am dead, my dearest, + Sing no sad songs for me; +Plant thou no roses at my head, + Nor shady cypress tree: +Be the green grass above me + With showers and dewdrops wet; +And if thou wilt, remember, + And if thou wilt, forget. + +I shall not see the shadows, + I shall not feel the rain; +I shall not hear the nightingale + Sing on, as if in pain; +And dreaming through the twilight + That doth not rise nor set, +Haply I may remember, + And haply may forget. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +782. Twice + +I TOOK my heart in my hand + (O my love, O my love), +I said: Let me fall or stand, + Let me live or die, +But this once hear me speak + (O my love, O my love)-- +Yet a woman's words are weak; + You should speak, not I. + +You took my heart in your hand + With a friendly smile, +With a critical eye you scann'd, + Then set it down, +And said, 'It is still unripe, + Better wait awhile; +Wait while the skylarks pipe, + Till the corn grows brown.' +As you set it down it broke-- + Broke, but I did not wince; +I smiled at the speech you spoke, + At your judgement I heard: +But I have not often smiled + Since then, nor question'd since, +Nor cared for cornflowers wild, + Nor sung with the singing bird. + +I take my heart in my hand, + O my God, O my God, +My broken heart in my hand: + Thou hast seen, judge Thou. +My hope was written on sand, + O my God, O my God: +Now let thy judgement stand-- + Yea, judge me now. + +This contemn'd of a man, + This marr'd one heedless day, +This heart take thou to scan + Both within and without: +Refine with fire its gold, + Purge Thou its dross away-- +Yea, hold it in Thy hold, + Whence none can pluck it out. + +I take my heart in my hand-- + I shall not die, but live-- +Before Thy face I stand; + I, for Thou callest such: +All that I have I bring, + All that I am I give, +Smile Thou and I shall sing, + But shall not question much. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +783. Uphill + +DOES the road wind uphill all the way? + Yes, to the very end. +Will the day's journey take the whole long day? + From morn to night, my friend. + +But is there for the night a resting-place? + A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. +May not the darkness hide it from my face? + You cannot miss that inn. + +Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? + Those who have gone before. +Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? + They will not keep you waiting at that door. + +Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? + Of labour you shall find the sum. +Will there be beds for me and all who seek? + Yea, beds for all who come. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +784. Passing Away + +PASSING away, saith the World, passing away: +Chances, beauty and youth sapp'd day by day: +Thy life never continueth in one stay. +Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray +That hath won neither laurel nor bay? +I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: +Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay +On my bosom for aye. +Then I answer'd: Yea. + +Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: +With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play, +Hearken what the past doth witness and say: +Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, +A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. +At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day, +Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: +Watch thou and pray. +Then I answer'd: Yea. + +Passing away, saith my God, passing away: +Winter passeth after the long delay: +New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, +Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. +Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray. +Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day; +My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say-- +Then I answer'd: Yea. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +785. Marvel of Marvels + +MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall behold +With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; +Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, +Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, +Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. +O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould, +Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd, +See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold +Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,-- +The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold! + +Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was toll'd: +Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold! + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +786. Is it Well with the Child? + +SAFE where I cannot die yet, + Safe where I hope to lie too, +Safe from the fume and the fret; + You, and you, + Whom I never forget. +Safe from the frost and the snow, + Safe from the storm and the sun, +Safe where the seeds wait to grow + One by one, + And to come back in blow. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +787. Remember + +REMEMBER me when I am gone away, + Gone far away into the silent land; + When you can no more hold me by the hand, +Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. +Remember me when no more day by day + You tell me of our future that you plann'd: + Only remember me; you understand +It will be late to counsel then or pray. +Yet if you should forget me for a while + And afterwards remember, do not grieve: + For if the darkness and corruption leave + A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, +Better by far you should forget and smile + Than that you should remember and be sad. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +788. Aloof + +THE irresponsive silence of the land, + The irresponsive sounding of the sea, + Speak both one message of one sense to me:-- +Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand +Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band + Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; + But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? +What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand? +And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, + And sometimes I remember days of old +When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek, + And all the world and I seem'd much less cold, + And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, +And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak. + + +Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894 + +789. Rest + +O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes; + Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; + Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth +With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. +She hath no questions, she hath no replies, + Hush'd in and curtain'd with a blessed dearth + Of all that irk'd her from the hour of birth; +With stillness that is almost Paradise. +Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, + Silence more musical than any song; +Even her very heart has ceased to stir: +Until the morning of Eternity +Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; + And when she wakes she will not think it long. + + +Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897 + +790. Dora + +SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, + My little girl of six years old-- +He used to be so good and brave, + The sweetest lamb of all our fold; +He used to shout, he used to sing, +Of all our tribe the little king-- +And so unto the turf her ear she laid, +To hark if still in that dark place he play'd. + No sound! no sound! + Death's silence was profound; + And horror crept + Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. + If this is as it ought to be, + My God, I leave it unto Thee. + + +Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897 + +791. Jessie + +WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast, + And yields the golden keys, +Then is it as if God caress'd + Twin babes upon His knees-- +Twin babes that, each to other press'd, +Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd. + +But when I think if we must part, + And all this personal dream be fled-- +O then my heart! O then my useless heart! + Would God that thou wert dead-- +A clod insensible to joys and ills-- +A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills! + + +Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897 + +792. Salve! + +TO live within a cave--it is most good; + But, if God make a day, + And some one come, and say, +'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!' + E'en let him stay, +And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood! + +So sit till morning! when the light is grown + That he the path can read, + Then bid the man God-speed! +His morning is not thine: yet must thou own +They have a cheerful warmth--those ashes on the stone. + + +Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897 + +793. My Garden + +A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! + Rose plot, + Fringed pool, +Fern'd grot-- + The veriest school + Of peace; and yet the fool +Contends that God is not-- +Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? + Nay, but I have a sign; + 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. + + +Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892 + +794. A Night in Italy + +SWEET are the rosy memories of the lips + That first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more: +Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships, + Altho' they leave us on a lonely shore: +Sweet are familiar songs, tho' Music dips + Her hollow shell in Thought's forlornest wells: + And sweet, tho' sad, the sound of midnight bells +When the oped casement with the night-rain drips. + +There is a pleasure which is born of pain: + The grave of all things hath its violet. +Else why, thro' days which never come again, + Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret? +Why put the posy in the cold dead hand? + Why plant the rose above the lonely grave? + Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave? +Why deem the dead more near in native land? + +Thy name hath been a silence in my life + So long, it falters upon language now, +O more to me than sister or than wife + Once ... and now--nothing! It is hard to know +That such things have been, and are not; and yet + Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure, + And goes upon its business and its pleasure, +And knows not all the depths of its regret.... + +Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do + The snake's brood theirs in spring! and be once more +Wholly renew'd, to dwell i' the time that 's new, + With no reiterance of those pangs of yore. +Peace, peace! My wild song will go wandering + Too wantonly, down paths a private pain + Hath trodden bare. What was it jarr'd the strain? +Some crush'd illusion, left with crumpled wing + +Tangled in Music's web of twined strings-- + That started that false note, and crack'd the tune +In its beginning. Ah, forgotten things + Stumble back strangely! and the ghost of June +Stands by December's fire, cold, cold! and puts + The last spark out.--How could I sing aright + With those old airs haunting me all the night +And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts? + +For back she comes, and moves reproachfully, + The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft +(Cruel to the last!) as tho' 'twere I, not she, + That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left +Memory comfortless.--Away! away! + Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, + Hopeless regret! In thinking of these things +Some men have lost their minds, and others may. + +Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour! + One deep, deep draught of the departed time! +O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power, + To beat and breathe thro' all the valves of rhyme! +Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that art + The cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long, + Brim all the vacant chalices of song +With health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart + +One draught of what I shall not taste again + Save when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm'd,-- +One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain, + And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm'd, +Love's footsteps thro' the waning Past to explore + Undaunted; and to carve in the wan light + Of Hope's last outposts, on Song's utmost height, +The sad resemblance of an hour or more. + +Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy! + Love in the land where love most lovely seems! +Land of my love, tho' I be far from thee, + Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams, +The spirit of thy cypress-groves and all + Thy dark-eyed beauty for a little while + To my desire. Yet once more let her smile +Fall o'er me: o'er me let her long hair fall.... + +Under the blessed darkness unreproved + We were alone, in that best hour of time +Which first reveal'd to us how much we loved, + 'Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublime +Hung trembling o'er us. At her feet I knelt, + And gazed up from her feet into her eyes. + Her face was bow'd: we breathed each other's sighs: +We did not speak: not move: we look'd: we felt. + +The night said not a word. The breeze was dead. + The leaf lay without whispering on the tree, +As I lay at her feet. Droop'd was her head: + One hand in mine: and one still pensively +Went wandering through my hair. We were together. + How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream, + Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream: +Whither? Together: then what matter whither? + +It was enough for me to clasp her hand: + To blend with her love-looks my own: no more. +Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land, + Blown by faint winds about a magic shore) +To realize, in each mysterious feeling, + The droop of the warm cheek so near my own: + The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown: +Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling. + +How little know they life's divinest bliss, + That know not to possess and yet refrain! +Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss: + Grasp it--a few poor grains of dust remain. +See how those floating flowers, the butterflies, + Hover the garden thro', and take no root! + Desire for ever hath a flying foot: +Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies. + +Close not thy hand upon the innocent joy + That trusts itself within thy reach. It may, +Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroy + The winged wanderer. Let it go or stay. +Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem. + Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold. + Blessed are those that spare, and that withhold; +Because the whole world shall be trusted them. + +The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling Nymph + That culls her flowers beside the precipice +Or dips her shining ankles in the lymph: + But, just when she must perish or be his, +Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shore + Gains some new fountain; or the lilied lawn + A rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun! +To thee she shall be changed for evermore. + +Chase not too close the fading rapture. Leave + To Love his long auroras, slowly seen. +Be ready to release as to receive. + Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, between +Whose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh. + Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own, + If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknown +Is life to love, religion, poetry. + +The moon had set. There was not any light, + Save of the lonely legion'd watch-stars pale +In outer air, and what by fits made bright + Hot oleanders in a rosy vale +Search'd by the lamping fly, whose little spark + Went in and out, like passion's bashful hope. + Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slope +A ponderous shoulder sunward thro' the dark. + +And the night pass'd in beauty like a dream. + Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny, +With her last star descending in the gleam + Of the cold morrow, from the emptied sky. +The hour, the distance from her old self, all + The novelty and loneness of the place + Had left a lovely awe on that fair face, +And all the land grew strange and magical. + +As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch'd hill, + Heavy with all heaven's tears, for all earth's care, +She droop'd unto me, without force or will, + And sank upon my bosom, murmuring there +A woman's inarticulate passionate words. + O moment of all moments upon earth! + O life's supreme! How worth, how wildly worth, +Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords. + +What even Eternity can not restore! + When all the ends of life take hands and meet +Round centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more, + Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweet +Be mingled so in the pale after-years! + One hour of life immortal spirits possess. + This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, +And parching passion, and perplexing tears. + +Sad is it, that we cannot even keep + That hour to sweeten life's last toil: but Youth +Grasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep, + We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth, +They fall upon our work which must be done. + And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking: + Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching: +And follow the long pathway all alone. + + +Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892 + +795. The Last Wish + +SINCE all that I can ever do for thee +Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be: +That thou mayst never guess nor ever see +The all-endured this nothing-done costs me. + + +James Thomson. 1834-1882 + +796. In the Train + +AS we rush, as we rush in the Train, + The trees and the houses go wheeling back, +But the starry heavens above the plain + Come flying on our track. + +All the beautiful stars of the sky, + The silver doves of the forest of Night, +Over the dull earth swarm and fly, + Companions of our flight. + +We will rush ever on without fear; + Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet! +For we carry the Heavens with us, dear, + While the Earth slips from our feet! + + +James Thomson. 1834-1882 + +797. Sunday up the River + +MY love o'er the water bends dreaming; + It glideth and glideth away: +She sees there her own beauty, gleaming + Through shadow and ripple and spray. + +O tell her, thou murmuring river, + As past her your light wavelets roll, +How steadfast that image for ever + Shines pure in pure depths of my soul. + + +James Thomson. 1834-1882 + +798. Gifts + +GIVE a man a horse he can ride, + Give a man a boat he can sail; +And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, + On sea nor shore shall fail. + +Give a man a pipe he can smoke, + Give a man a book he can read: +And his home is bright with a calm delight, + Though the room be poor indeed. + +Give a man a girl he can love, + As I, O my love, love thee; +And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, + At home, on land, on sea. + + +James Thomson. 1834-1882 + +799. The Vine + +THE wine of Love is music, + And the feast of Love is song: +And when Love sits down to the banquet, + Love sits long: + +Sits long and arises drunken, + But not with the feast and the wine; +He reeleth with his own heart, + That great, rich Vine. + + +William Morris. 1834-1896 + +800. Summer Dawn + +PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, + Think but one thought of me up in the stars. +The summer night waneth, the morning light slips + Faint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the +cloud-bars, +That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: + Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold +Waits to float through them along with the sun. +Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, + The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold +The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; +Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn +Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. + Speak but one word to me over the corn, + Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn. + + +William Morris. 1834-1896 + +801. Love is enough + +LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning, +And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, + Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover +The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, +Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, + And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over, +Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; +The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter + These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover. + + +William Morris. 1834-1896 + +802. The Nymph's Song to Hylas + +I KNOW a little garden-close +Set thick with lily and red rose, +Where I would wander if I might +From dewy dawn to dewy night, +And have one with me wandering. + +And though within it no birds sing, +And though no pillar'd house is there, +And though the apple boughs are bare +Of fruit and blossom, would to God, +Her feet upon the green grass trod, +And I beheld them as before! + +There comes a murmur from the shore, +And in the place two fair streams are, +Drawn from the purple hills afar, +Drawn down unto the restless sea; +The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, +The shore no ship has ever seen, +Still beaten by the billows green, +Whose murmur comes unceasingly +Unto the place for which I cry. + +For which I cry both day and night, +For which I let slip all delight, +That maketh me both deaf and blind, +Careless to win, unskill'd to find, +And quick to lose what all men seek. + +Yet tottering as I am, and weak, +Still have I left a little breath +To seek within the jaws of death +An entrance to that happy place; +To seek the unforgotten face +Once seen, once kiss'd, once reft from me +Anigh the murmuring of the sea. + + +Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894 + +803. The Water-Nymph and the Boy + +I FLUNG me round him, +I drew him under; +I clung, I drown'd him, +My own white wonder!... + + Father and mother, + Weeping and wild, + Came to the forest, + Calling the child, + Came from the palace, + Down to the pool, + Calling my darling, + My beautiful! + Under the water, + Cold and so pale! + Could it be love made + Beauty to fail? + + Ah me for mortals! + In a few moons, + If I had left him, + After some Junes + He would have faded, + Faded away, + He, the young monarch, whom + All would obey, + Fairer than day; + Alien to springtime, + Joyless and gray, + He would have faded, + Faded away, + Moving a mockery, + Scorn'd of the day! + Now I have taken him + All in his prime, + Saved from slow poisoning + Pitiless Time, + Fill'd with his happiness, + One with the prime, + Saved from the cruel + Dishonour of Time. + Laid him, my beautiful, + Laid him to rest, + Loving, adorable, + Softly to rest, + Here in my crystalline, + Here in my breast! + + +Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894 + +804. The Old + +THEY are waiting on the shore + For the bark to take them home: +They will toil and grieve no more; + The hour for release hath come. + +All their long life lies behind + Like a dimly blending dream: +There is nothing left to bind + To the realms that only seem. + +They are waiting for the boat; + There is nothing left to do: +What was near them grows remote, + Happy silence falls like dew; +Now the shadowy bark is come, + And the weary may go home. + +By still water they would rest + In the shadow of the tree: +After battle sleep is best, + After noise, tranquillity. + + +Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889 + +805. Meet We no Angels, Pansie? + +CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, + In white, to find her lover; +The grass grew proud beneath her feet, + The green elm-leaves above her:-- + Meet we no angels, Pansie? + +She said, 'We meet no angels now'; + And soft lights stream'd upon her; +And with white hand she touch'd a bough; + She did it that great honour:-- + What! meet no angels, Pansie? + +O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, + Down-dropp'd brown eyes, so tender! +Then what said I? Gallant replies + Seem flattery, and offend her:-- + But--meet no angels, Pansie? + + +Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889 + +806. To Two Bereaved + +YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, +'Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven. +Alas, for me 'tis hard my grief to rule, +Who only met her as she went to school; +Who never heard the little lips so sweet +Say even 'Good-morning,' though our eyes would meet +As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh, +Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I, +Who never clasp'd the small hands any day! +Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray. + + +Theodore Watts-Dunton. 1836-1914 + +807. Wassail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern + + CHRISTMAS knows a merry, merry place, + Where he goes with fondest face, + Brightest eye, brightest hair: +Tell the Mermaid where is that one place, + Where? + +Raleigh. 'Tis by Devon's glorious halls, + Whence, dear Ben, I come again: +Bright of golden roofs and walls-- + El Dorado's rare domain-- + + Seem those halls when sunlight launches + Shafts of gold thro' leafless branches, +Where the winter's feathery mantle blanches + Field and farm and lane. + +CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. + +Drayton. 'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weave + Through the boughs a lace of rime, + While the bells of Christmas Eve + Fling for Will the Stratford-chime + O'er the river-flags emboss'd + Rich with flowery runes of frost-- +O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd-- + Strains of olden time. + +CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. + +Shakespeare's Friend. 'Tis, methinks, on any ground + Where our Shakespeare's feet are set. + There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'd + With his blithest coronet: + Friendship's face he loveth well: + 'Tis a countenance whose spell +Sheds a balm o'er every mead and dell + Where we used to fret. + +CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. + +Heywood. More than all the pictures, Ben, + Winter weaves by wood or stream, +Christmas loves our London, when + Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam-- + Clouds like these, that, curling, take + Forms of faces gone, and wake +Many a lay from lips we loved, and make + London like a dream. + +CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. + +Ben Jonson. Love's old songs shall never die, + Yet the new shall suffer proof: + Love's old drink of Yule brew I + Wassail for new love's behoof. + Drink the drink I brew, and sing + Till the berried branches swing, +Till our song make all the Mermaid ring-- + Yea, from rush to roof. + +FINALE. Christmas loves this merry, merry place; + Christmas saith with fondest face, + Brightest eye, brightest hair: +'Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace: + Rare!' + + +Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909 + +808. Chorus from 'Atalanta' + +WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, + The mother of months in meadow or plain +Fills the shadows and windy places + With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; +And the brown bright nightingale amorous +Is half assuaged for Itylus, +For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. + The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. + +Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, + Maiden most perfect, lady of light, +With a noise of winds and many rivers, + With a clamour of waters, and with might; +Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, +Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; +For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, + Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. + +Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, + Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? +O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, + Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! +For the stars and the winds are unto her +As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; +For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, + And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. + +For winter's rains and ruins are over, + And all the season of snows and sins; +The days dividing lover and lover, + The light that loses, the night that wins; +And time remember'd is grief forgotten, +And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, +And in green underwood and cover + Blossom by blossom the spring begins. + +The full streams feed on flower of rushes, + Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, +The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes + From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; +And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, +And the oat is heard above the lyre, +And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes + The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. + +And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, + Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, +Follows with dancing and fills with delight + The Maenad and the Bassarid; +And soft as lips that laugh and hide +The laughing leaves of the trees divide, +And screen from seeing and leave in sight + The god pursuing, the maiden hid. + +The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair + Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; +The wild vine slipping down leaves bare + Her bright breast shortening into sighs; +The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, +But the berried ivy catches and cleaves +To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare + The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. + + +Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909 + +809. Hertha + +I AM that which began; + Out of me the years roll; + Out of me God and man; + I am equal and whole; +God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. + + Before ever land was, + Before ever the sea, + Or soft hair of the grass, + Or fair limbs of the tree, +Or the flesh-colour'd fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in +me. + + First life on my sources + First drifted and swam; + Out of me are the forces + That save it or damn; +Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I +am. + + Beside or above me + Naught is there to go; + Love or unlove me, + Unknow me or know, +I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the +blow. + + I the mark that is miss'd + And the arrows that miss, + I the mouth that is kiss'd + And the breath in the kiss, +The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that +is. + + I am that thing which blesses + My spirit elate; + That which caresses + With hands uncreate +My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate. + + But what thing dost thou now, + Looking Godward, to cry, + 'I am I, thou art thou, + I am low, thou art high'? +I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou +art I. + + I the grain and the furrow, + The plough-cloven clod + And the ploughshare drawn thorough, + The germ and the sod, +The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. + + Hast thou known how I fashion'd thee, + Child, underground? + Fire that impassion'd thee, + Iron that bound, +Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or +found? + + Canst thou say in thine heart + Thou hast seen with thine eyes + With what cunning of art + Thou wast wrought in what wise, +By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast +to the skies? + + Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, + Knowledge of me? + Has the wilderness told it thee? + Hast thou learnt of the sea? +Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel +with thee? + + Have I set such a star + To show light on thy brow + That thou sawest from afar + What I show to thee now? +Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and +thou? + + What is here, dost thou know it? + What was, hast thou known? + Prophet nor poet + Nor tripod nor throne +Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone. + + Mother, not maker, + Born, and not made; + Though her children forsake her, + Allured or afraid, +Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all +that have pray'd. + + A creed is a rod, + And a crown is of night; + But this thing is God, + To be man with thy might, +To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life +as the light. + + I am in thee to save thee, + As my soul in thee saith; + Give thou as I gave thee, + Thy life-blood and breath, +Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red +fruit of thy death. + + Be the ways of thy giving + As mine were to thee; + The free life of thy living, + Be the gift of it free; +Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee +to me. + + O children of banishment, + Souls overcast, + Were the lights ye see vanish meant + Alway to last, +Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast. + + I that saw where ye trod + The dim paths of the night + Set the shadow call'd God + In your skies to give light; +But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in +sight. + + The tree many-rooted + That swells to the sky + With frondage red-fruited, + The life-tree am I; +In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and +not die. + + But the Gods of your fashion + That take and that give, + In their pity and passion + That scourge and forgive, +They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall +die and not live. + + My own blood is what stanches + The wounds in my bark; + Stars caught in my branches + Make day of the dark, +And are worshipp'd as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their +fires as a spark. + + Where dead ages hide under + The live roots of the tree, + In my darkness the thunder + Makes utterance of me; +In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of +the sea. + + That noise is of Time, + As his feathers are spread + And his feet set to climb + Through the boughs overhead, +And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with +his tread. + + The storm-winds of ages + Blow through me and cease, + The war-wind that rages, + The spring-wind of peace, +Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms +increase. + + All sounds of all changes, + All shadows and lights + On the world's mountain-ranges + And stream-riven heights, +Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on +earth-shaking nights; + + All forms of all faces, + All works of all hands + In unsearchable places + Of time-stricken lands, +All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me +as sands. + + Though sore be my burden + And more than ye know, + And my growth have no guerdon + But only to grow, +Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below. + + These too have their part in me, + As I too in these; + Such fire is at heart in me, + Such sap is this tree's, +Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of +seas. + + In the spring-colour'd hours + When my mind was as May's + There brake forth of me flowers + By centuries of days, +Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as +rays. + + And the sound of them springing + And smell of their shoots + Were as warmth and sweet singing + And strength to my roots; +And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my +fruits. + + I bid you but be; + I have need not of prayer; + I have need of you free + As your mouths of mine air; +That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me +fair. + + More fair than strange fruit is + Of faiths ye espouse; + In me only the root is + That blooms in your boughs; +Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your +vows. + + In the darkening and whitening + Abysses adored, + With dayspring and lightning + For lamp and for sword, +God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the +Lord. + + O my sons, O too dutiful + Toward Gods not of me, + Was not I enough beautiful? + Was it hard to be free? +For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and +see. + + Lo, wing'd with world's wonders, + With miracles shod, + With the fires of his thunders + For raiment and rod, +God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of +God. + + For his twilight is come on him, + His anguish is here; + And his spirits gaze dumb on him, + Grown gray from his fear; +And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite +year. + + Thought made him and breaks him, + Truth slays and forgives; + But to you, as time takes him, + This new thing it gives, +Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. + + For truth only is living, + Truth only is whole, + And the love of his giving + Man's polestar and pole; +Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. + + One birth of my bosom; + One beam of mine eye; + One topmost blossom + That scales the sky; +Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I. + + +Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909 + +810. Ave atque Vale +(IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE) + +SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, + Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? + Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, +Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, + Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, + Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? +Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, + Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat + And full of bitter summer, but more sweet +To thee than gleanings of a northern shore + Trod by no tropic feet? + +For always thee the fervid languid glories + Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; + Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs +Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, + The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave + That knows not where is that Leucadian grave +Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. + Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, + The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear +Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, + Blind gods that cannot spare. + +Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, + Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: + Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, +Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other + Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; + The hidden harvest of luxurious time, +Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; + And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep + Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; +And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, + Seeing as men sow men reap. + +O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, + That were athirst for sleep and no more life + And no more love, for peace and no more strife! +Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping + Spirit and body and all the springs of song, + Is it well now where love can do no wrong, +Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang + Behind the unopening closure of her lips? + Is it not well where soul from body slips +And flesh from bone divides without a pang + As dew from flower-bell drips? + +It is enough; the end and the beginning + Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. + O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, +For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, + No triumph and no labour and no lust, + Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. +O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, + Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night + With obscure finger silences your sight, +Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, + Sleep, and have sleep for light. + +Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, + Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, + Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet +Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, + Such as thy vision here solicited, + Under the shadow of her fair vast head, +The deep division of prodigious breasts, + The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, + The weight of awful tresses that still keep +The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests + Where the wet hill-winds weep? + +Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? + O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, + Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? +What of despair, of rapture, of derision, + What of life is there, what of ill or good? + Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? +Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, + The faint fields quicken any terrene root, + In low lands where the sun and moon are mute +And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers + At all, or any fruit? + +Alas, but though my flying song flies after, + O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet + Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, +Some dim derision of mysterious laughter + From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, + Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, +Some little sound of unregarded tears + Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, + And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- +These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, + Sees only such things rise. + +Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, + Far too far off for thought or any prayer. + What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? +What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? + Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, + Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, +Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. + Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, + The low light fails us in elusive skies, +Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind + Are still the eluded eyes. + +Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, + Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, + The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll +I lay my hand on, and not death estranges + My spirit from communion of thy song-- + These memories and these melodies that throng +Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal-- + These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold + As though a hand were in my hand to hold, +Or through mine ears a mourning musical + Of many mourners roll'd. + +I among these, I also, in such station + As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods. + And offering to the dead made, and their gods, +The old mourners had, standing to make libation, + I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead + Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed +Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, + And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, + And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, +And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb + A curl of sever'd hair. + +But by no hand nor any treason stricken, + Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, + The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, +Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. + There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear + Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear +Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. + Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; + But bending us-ward with memorial urns +The most high Muses that fulfil all ages + Weep, and our God's heart yearns. + +For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often + Among us darkling here the lord of light + Makes manifest his music and his might +In hearts that open and in lips that soften + With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. + Thy lips indeed he touch'd with bitter wine, +And nourish'd them indeed with bitter bread; + Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, + The fire that scarr'd thy spirit at his flame +Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed + Who feeds our hearts with fame. + +Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, + God of all suns and songs, he too bends down + To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, +And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. + Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, + Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, +Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, + And hollows with strange tears and alien sighs + Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, +And over thine irrevocable head + Sheds light from the under skies. + +And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, + And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; + That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, +That thing transform'd which was the Cytherean, + With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine + Long since, and face no more call'd Erycine-- +A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. + Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell + Did she, a sad and second prey, compel +Into the footless places once more trod, + And shadows hot from hell. + +And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, + No choral salutation lure to light + A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night +And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. + There is no help for these things; none to mend, + And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, +Will make death clear or make life durable. + Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine + And with wild notes about this dust of thine +At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell + And wreathe an unseen shrine. + +Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, + If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; + And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. +Out of the mystic and the mournful garden + Where all day through thine hands in barren braid + Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, +Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, + Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, + Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, +Shall death not bring us all as thee one day + Among the days departed? + +For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, + Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. + Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, +And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, + With sadder than the Niobean womb, + And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. +Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; + There lies not any troublous thing before, + Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, +For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, + All waters as the shore. + + +Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909 + +811. Itylus + +SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow, + How can thine heart be full of the spring? + A thousand summers are over and dead. +What hast thou found in the spring to follow? + What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? + What wilt thou do when the summer is shed? + +O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, + Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, + The soft south whither thine heart is set? +Shall not the grief of the old time follow? + Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? + Hast thou forgotten ere I forget? + +Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, + Thy way is long to the sun and the south; + But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire, +Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, + From tawny body and sweet small mouth + Feed the heart of the night with fire. + +I the nightingale all spring through, + O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, + All spring through till the spring be done, +Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, + Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, + Take fight and follow and find the sun. + +Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, + Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, + How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? +For where thou fliest I shall not follow, + Till life forget and death remember, + Till thou remember and I forget. + +Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, + I know not how thou hast heart to sing. + Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? +Thy lord the summer is good to follow, + And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: + But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover? + +O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, + My heart in me is a molten ember + And over my head the waves have met. +But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow + Could I forget or thou remember, + Couldst thou remember and I forget. + +O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, + The heart's division divideth us. + Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; +But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow + To the place of the slaying of Itylus, + The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea. + +O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, + I pray thee sing not a little space. + Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? +The woven web that was plain to follow, + The small slain body, the flower-like face, + Can I remember if thou forget? + +O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! + The hands that cling and the feet that follow, + The voice of the child's blood crying yet, +Who hath remember'd me? who hath forgotten? + Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, + But the world shall end when I forget. + + +William Dean Howells. b. 1837 + +812. Earliest Spring + +TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, + Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, +Through all the moaning chimneys, and 'thwart all the hollows and + angles + Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. + +But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow + Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift +Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, + Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift. + +Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire + (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes-- +Rapture of life ineffable, perfect--as if in the brier, + Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose. + + +Bret Harte. 1839-1902 + +813. What the Bullet sang + +O JOY of creation, + To be! +O rapture, to fly + And be free! +Be the battle lost or won, +Though its smoke shall hide the sun, +I shall find my love--the one + Born for me! + +I shall know him where he stands + All alone, +With the power in his hands + Not o'erthrown; +I shall know him by his face, +By his godlike front and grace; +I shall hold him for a space + All my own! + +It is he--O my love! + So bold! +It is I--all thy love + Foretold! +It is I--O love, what bliss! +Dost thou answer to my kiss? +O sweetheart! what is this + Lieth there so cold? + + +John Todhunter. 1839-1916 + +814. Maureen + +O, YOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, + Girl of my choice, Maureen! +Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, + Maureen? + +Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, + White rose of the West, Maureen: +For it 's pale you are, and the fear that 's on you is over me too, + Maureen! + +Sure it 's one complaint that 's on us, asthore, this day, + Bride of my dreams, Maureen: +The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, + Maureen! + +I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, + Mavourneen, my own Maureen! +When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's + embrace, + Maureen! + +O where was the King o' the World that day--only me? + My one true love, Maureen! +And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, + Maureen! + + +John Todhunter. 1839-1916 + +815. Aghadoe + +THERE 's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, + There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, +Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, + O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe. + +There 's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, + There 's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, +Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies, + That year the trouble came to Aghadoe. + +O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, + On Shaun Dhu, my mother's son in Aghadoe! +When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your +mouth, + For the treachery you did in Aghadoe! + +For they track'd me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, + When the price was on his head in Aghadoe: +O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, + Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe. + +But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; + With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, +There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where 'twould +rest, + Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe! + +I walk'd to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, + Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe; +Then I cover'd him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn, + Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe. + +O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! + There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! +Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, + Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe. + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +816. Song + +O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; + Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: + For my heart no measure + Knows, nor other treasure +To buy a garland for my love to-day. + +And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, + Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: + For I fain would borrow + Thy sad weeds to-morrow, + To make a mourning for love's yesterday. + +The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity, + Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, + But passed forth from the city, + Making thus my ditty +Of fair love lost for ever and a day. + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +817. The Desolate City + +DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. + Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? +Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. + A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain. + +Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, + Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. +Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting; + Each one sang to his love; only I was alone. + +This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure. + Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, +Each in another's eyes finds light, the light of compassion, + This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love. + +Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness! + Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul? +Where are those passionate eyes that appeal'd to my eyes in passion? + Where is the mouth that kiss'd me, the breast I laid to my own? + +Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. + Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear? +See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, + See, my desire is fulfill'd in thee, for it fills the earth. + +Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn'd I from the window, + Turn'd to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, +Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, + None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears. + +Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved's. + There I stopp'd at the silent door, and listen'd and tried the + latch. +Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, + This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand. + +I knew the house, with its windows barr'd, and its leafless fig-tree, + Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; +I knew where my hope had climb'd to its goal and there encircled + All that those desolate walls once held, my beloved's heart. + +There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not. + She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips. +She told me all her pain and show'd me all her trouble. + I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return'd her kiss. + +Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them. + Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life. +Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; + This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise. + +Weeping strangled my voice. I call'd out, but none answer'd; + Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; +See whom I love, who loved me, look'd not on my yearning, + Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show'd me no more her soul. + +Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, + Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; +Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty, + A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain! + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +818. With Esther + +HE who has once been happy is for aye + Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then +Holds nothing secret; and Eternity, + Which is a mystery to other men, +Has like a woman given him its joy. + Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret. +Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die, + He who has once been happy! When I set +The world before me and survey its range, + Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies, +The shreds of pleasure which for lack of change + Men wrap around them and call happiness, +The poor delights which are the tale and sum +Of the world's courage in its martyrdom; + +When I hear laughter from a tavern door, + When I see crowds agape and in the rain +Watching on tiptoe and with stifled roar + To see a rocket fired or a bull slain, +When misers handle gold, when orators + Touch strong men's hearts with glory till they weep, +When cities deck their streets for barren wars + Which have laid waste their youth, and when I keep +Calmly the count of my own life and see + On what poor stuff my manhood's dreams were fed +Till I too learn'd what dole of vanity + Will serve a human soul for daily bread, +--Then I remember that I once was young +And lived with Esther the world's gods among. + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +819. To Manon, on his Fortune in loving Her + +I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love +That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind +As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove +His offering brings and cares not at what shrine +He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; +The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand, +And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, +And spoke the words I might not understand. + I was unwise in all but the dear chance +Which was my fortune, and the blind desire +Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode, +And youth's sublime unreason'd prescience +Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire +Its dedication To the Unknown God. + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +820. St. Valentine's Day + +TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down, +With hounds and horsemen, a brave company +On this side in its glory lay the sea, +On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. +The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, +And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse: +And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse +Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown. + I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even +Better than all by this, that through my chase +In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven +I seem'd to see and follow still your face. +Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, +My horse a thing of wings, myself a god. + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +821. Gibraltar + +SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm +Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more +We ride into still water and the calm +Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore +Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, +Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again +We look on Europe, mistress as of yore +Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. + Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules +And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door +England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill +Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, +And at the summons of the rock gun's roar +To see her red coats marching from the hill! + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +822. Written at Florence + +O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young; +When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age? +World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, +Hast thou forgot what generations sprung +Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone? +Hast thou no place in all their heritage +Where thou dost only weep, that I may come +Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers? + O world, in very truth thou art too young. +The heroic wealth of passionate emprize +Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: +How hast thou set thy summer growth among +The broken stones which were their palaces! +Hast thou forgot the darkness where he lies +Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees +Found out his grave to build their honeycombs? + +O world, in very truth thou art too young: +They gave thee love who measured out thy skies, +And, when they found for thee another star, +Who made a festival and straightway hung +The jewel on thy neck. O merry world, +Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes +Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd +One banner of thy bridal car for them. + O world, in very truth thou art too young. +There was a voice which sang about thy spring, +Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips, +And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue +Before thy nightingales were come again. +O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing? +Say, has thy merriment no secret pain, +No sudden weariness that thou art young? + + +Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840 + +823. The Two Highwaymen + +I LONG have had a quarrel set with Time +Because he robb'd me. Every day of life +Was wrested from me after bitter strife: +I never yet could see the sun go down +But I was angry in my heart, nor hear +The leaves fall in the wind without a tear +Over the dying summer. I have known +No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death. + The fair world is the witness of a crime +Repeated every hour. For life and breath +Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly +The voices of these robbers of the heath +Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by. +--What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time? +What have we done to Death that we must die? + + +Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840 + +824. A Garden Song + +HERE in this sequester'd close +Bloom the hyacinth and rose, +Here beside the modest stock +Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; +Here, without a pang, one sees +Ranks, conditions, and degrees. + +All the seasons run their race +In this quiet resting-place; +Peach and apricot and fig +Here will ripen and grow big; +Here is store and overplus,-- +More had not Alcinoüs! + +Here, in alleys cool and green, +Far ahead the thrush is seen; +Here along the southern wall +Keeps the bee his festival; +All is quiet else--afar +Sounds of toil and turmoil are. + +Here be shadows large and long; +Here be spaces meet for song; +Grant, O garden-god, that I, +Now that none profane is nigh,-- +Now that mood and moment please,-- +Find the fair Pierides! + + +Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840 + +825. Urceus Exit +Triolet + +I INTENDED an Ode, + And it turn'd to a Sonnet +It began a la mode, +I intended an Ode; +But Rose cross'd the road + In her latest new bonnet; +I intended an Ode; + And it turn'd to a Sonnet. + + +Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840 + +826. In After Days +Rondeau + +IN after days when grasses high +O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, + Though ill or well the world adjust + My slender claim to honour'd dust, +I shall not question nor reply. + +I shall not see the morning sky; +I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; + I shall be mute, as all men must + In after days! + +But yet, now living, fain would I +That some one then should testify, + Saying--'He held his pen in trust + To Art, not serving shame or lust.' +Will none?--Then let my memory die + In after days! + + +Henry Clarence Kendall. 1841-1882 + +827. Mooni + +HE that is by Mooni now +Sees the water-sapphires gleaming +Where the River Spirit, dreaming, +Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming + Under lute of leaf and bough!-- +Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is, +Psalms from unseen wildernesses +Deep amongst far hill-recesses-- + He that is by Mooni now. + + Yea, for him by Mooni's marge +Sings the yellow-hair'd September, +With the face the gods remember, +When the ridge is burnt to ember, + And the dumb sea chains the barge! +Where the mount like molten brass is, +Down beneath fern-feather'd passes +Noonday dew in cool green grasses + Gleams on him by Mooni's marge. + + Who that dwells by Mooni yet, +Feels in flowerful forest arches +Smiting wings and breath that parches +Where strong Summer's path of march is, + And the suns in thunder set! +Housed beneath the gracious kirtle +Of the shadowy water-myrtle-- +Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle, + He is safe by Mooni yet! + + Days there were when he who sings +(Dumb so long through passion's losses) +Stood where Mooni's water crosses +Shining tracks of green-hair'd mosses, + Like a soul with radiant wings: +Then the psalm the wind rehearses-- +Then the song the stream disperses-- +Lent a beauty to his verses, + Who to-night of Mooni sings. + + Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme! +Certain days are not above me, +Certain hearts have ceased to love me, +Certain fancies fail to move me, + Like the effluent morning dream. +Head whereon the white is stealing, +Heart whose hurts are past all healing, +Where is now the first, pure feeling? + Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme! +. . . + Still to be by Mooni cool-- +Where the water-blossoms glister, +And by gleaming vale and vista +Sits the English April's sister, + Soft and sweet and wonderful! +Just to rest beneath the burning +Outer world--its sneers and spurning-- +Ah, my heart--my heart is yearning + Still to be by Mooni cool! + + +Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881 + +828. Ode + +WE are the music-makers, + And we are the dreamers of dreams, +Wandering by lone sea-breakers, + And sitting by desolate streams; +World-losers and world-forsakers, + On whom the pale moon gleams: +Yet we are the movers and shakers + Of the world for ever, it seems. + +With wonderful deathless ditties +We build up the world's great cities, + And out of a fabulous story + We fashion an empire's glory: +One man with a dream, at pleasure, + Shall go forth and conquer a crown; +And three with a new song's measure + Can trample an empire down. + +We, in the ages lying + In the buried past of the earth, +Built Nineveh with our sighing, + And Babel itself with our mirth; +And o'erthrew them with prophesying + To the old of the new world's worth; +For each age is a dream that is dying, + Or one that is coming to birth. + + +Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881 + +829. Song + +I MADE another garden, yea, + For my new Love: +I left the dead rose where it lay + And set the new above. +Why did my Summer not begin? + Why did my heart not haste? +My old Love came and walk'd therein, + And laid the garden waste. + +She enter'd with her weary smile, + Just as of old; +She look'd around a little while + And shiver'd with the cold: +Her passing touch was death to all, + Her passing look a blight; +She made the white rose-petals fall, + And turn'd the red rose white. + +Her pale robe clinging to the grass + Seem'd like a snake +That bit the grass and ground, alas! + And a sad trail did make. +She went up slowly to the gate, + And then, just as of yore, +She turn'd back at the last to wait + And say farewell once more. + + +Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881 + +830. The Fountain of Tears + +IF you go over desert and mountain, + Far into the country of Sorrow, + To-day and to-night and to-morrow, +And maybe for months and for years; + You shall come with a heart that is bursting + For trouble and toiling and thirsting, +You shall certainly come to the fountain +At length,--to the Fountain of Tears. + +Very peaceful the place is, and solely + For piteous lamenting and sighing, + And those who come living or dying +Alike from their hopes and their fears; + Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, + And statues that cover their faces: +But out of the gloom springs the holy +And beautiful Fountain of Tears. + +And it flows and it flows with a motion + So gentle and lovely and listless, + And murmurs a tune so resistless +To him who hath suffer'd and hears-- + You shall surely--without a word spoken, + Kneel down there and know your heart broken, +And yield to the long-curb'd emotion +That day by the Fountain of Tears. + +For it grows and it grows, as though leaping + Up higher the more one is thinking; + And ever its tunes go on sinking +More poignantly into the ears: + Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain, + Reach'd after dry desert and mountain, +You shall fall down at length in your weeping +And bathe your sad face in the tears. + +Then alas! while you lie there a season + And sob between living and dying, + And give up the land you were trying +To find 'mid your hopes and your fears; + --O the world shall come up and pass o'er you, + Strong men shall not stay to care for you, +Nor wonder indeed for what reason +Your way should seem harder than theirs. + +But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting + Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, + Nor caring to raise your wet tresses +And look how the cold world appears-- + O perhaps the mere silences round you-- + All things in that place Grief hath found you-- +Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting, +May soothe you somewhat through your tears. + +You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes + Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you, + Or think at least some one who miss'd you +Had sent you a thought,--if that cheers; + Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, + May pass for a tender word spoken: +--Enough, while around you there rushes +That life-drowning torrent of tears. + +And the tears shall flow faster and faster, + Brim over and baffle resistance, + And roll down blear'd roads to each distance +Of past desolation and years; + Till they cover the place of each sorrow, + And leave you no past and no morrow: +For what man is able to master +And stem the great Fountain of Tears? + +But the floods and the tears meet and gather; + The sound of them all grows like thunder: + --O into what bosom, I wonder, +Is pour'd the whole sorrow of years? + For Eternity only seems keeping + Account of the great human weeping: +May God, then, the Maker and Father-- +May He find a place for the tears! + + +John Boyle O'Reilly. 1844-1890 + +831. A White Rose + +THE red rose whispers of passion, + And the white rose breathes of love; +O the red rose is a falcon, + And the white rose is a dove. + +But I send you a cream-white rosebud + With a flush on its petal tips; +For the love that is purest and sweetest + Has a kiss of desire on the lips. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +832. My Delight and Thy Delight + +MY delight and thy delight +Walking, like two angels white, +In the gardens of the night: + +My desire and thy desire +Twining to a tongue of fire, +Leaping live, and laughing higher: + +Thro' the everlasting strife +In the mystery of life. + + +Love, from whom the world begun, +Hath the secret of the sun. + +Love can tell, and love alone, +Whence the million stars were strewn, +Why each atom knows its own, +How, in spite of woe and death, +Gay is life, and sweet is breath: + +This he taught us, this we knew, +Happy in his science true, +Hand in hand as we stood +'Neath the shadows of the wood, +Heart to heart as we lay +In the dawning of the day. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +833. Spirits + +ANGEL spirits of sleep, +White-robed, with silver hair, +In your meadows fair, +Where the willows weep, +And the sad moonbeam +On the gliding stream +Writes her scatter'd dream: + +Angel spirits of sleep, +Dancing to the weir +In the hollow roar +Of its waters deep; +Know ye how men say +That ye haunt no more +Isle and grassy shore +With your moonlit play; +That ye dance not here, +White-robed spirits of sleep, +All the summer night +Threading dances light? + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +834. Nightingales + + BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come, + And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom + Ye learn your song: +Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, + Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air + Bloom the year long! + + Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: + Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, + A throe of the heart, +Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, + No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, + For all our art. + + Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men + We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, + As night is withdrawn +From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, + Dream, while the innumerable choir of day + Welcome the dawn. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +835. A Passer-by + +WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, + Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, +That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, + Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? + Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, +When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, + Wilt thou glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest +In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. + +I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, + Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: +I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, + And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, + Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: +Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest + Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair +Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest. + +And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless, + I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine +That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, + Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. + But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, +As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, + From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line +In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +836. Absence + +WHEN my love was away, +Full three days were not sped, +I caught my fancy astray +Thinking if she were dead, + +And I alone, alone: +It seem'd in my misery +In all the world was none +Ever so lone as I. + +I wept; but it did not shame +Nor comfort my heart: away +I rode as I might, and came +To my love at close of day. + +The sight of her still'd my fears, +My fairest-hearted love: +And yet in her eyes were tears: +Which when I question'd of, + +'O now thou art come,' she cried, +''Tis fled: but I thought to-day +I never could here abide, +If thou wert longer away.' + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +837. On a Dead Child + +PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee, + With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! + Though cold and stark and bare, +The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. + +Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer + To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be + Thy father's pride:--ah, he +Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. + +To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, +Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; + Startling my fancy fond +With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. + +Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: + But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; + Yet feels to my hand as if +'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. + +So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- + Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- + Propping thy wise, sad head, +Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. + +So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, whither hath he taken + thee? + To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? + The vision of which I miss, +Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee? + +Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us + To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, + Unwilling, alone we embark, +And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +838. Pater Filio + +SENSE with keenest edge unused, + Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; +Lovely feet as yet unbruised + On the ways of dark desire; +Sweetest hope that lookest smiling +O'er the wilderness defiling! + +Why such beauty, to be blighted + By the swarm of foul destruction? +Why such innocence delighted, + When sin stalks to thy seduction? +All the litanies e'er chaunted +Shall not keep thy faith undaunted. + +I have pray'd the sainted Morning + To unclasp her hands to hold thee; +From resignful Eve's adorning + Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee; +With all charms of man's contriving +Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving. + +Me too once unthinking Nature, + --Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,-- +Fashion'd so divine a creature, + Yea, and like a beast forsook me. +I forgave, but tell the measure +Of her crime in thee, my treasure. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +839. Winter Nightfall + +THE day begins to droop,-- + Its course is done: +But nothing tells the place + Of the setting sun. + +The hazy darkness deepens, + And up the lane +You may hear, but cannot see, + The homing wain. + +An engine pants and hums + In the farm hard by: +Its lowering smoke is lost + In the lowering sky. + +The soaking branches drip, + And all night through +The dropping will not cease + In the avenue. + +A tall man there in the house + Must keep his chair: +He knows he will never again + Breathe the spring air: + +His heart is worn with work; + He is giddy and sick +If he rise to go as far + As the nearest rick: + +He thinks of his morn of life, + His hale, strong years; +And braves as he may the night + Of darkness and tears. + + +Robert Bridges. b. 1844 + +840. When Death to Either shall come + +WHEN Death to either shall come,-- + I pray it be first to me,-- +Be happy as ever at home, + If so, as I wish, it be. + +Possess thy heart, my own; + And sing to the child on thy knee, +Or read to thyself alone + The songs that I made for thee. + + +Andrew Lang. 1844-1912 + +841. The Odyssey + +AS one that for a weary space has lain + Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine + In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, +Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, +And only the low lutes of love complain, + And only shadows of wan lovers pine-- + As such an one were glad to know the brine +Salt on his lips, and the large air again-- +So gladly from the songs of modern speech + Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free + Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, + And through the music of the languid hours +They hear like Ocean on a western beach + The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. + + +William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903 + +842. Invictus + +OUT of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. +Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbow'd. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, +And yet the menace of the years + Finds and shall find me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate: + I am the captain of my soul. + + +William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903 + +843. Margaritae Sorori + +A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies: +And from the west, +Where the sun, his day's work ended, +Lingers as in content, +There falls on the old, gray city +An influence luminous and serene, +A shining peace. + +The smoke ascends +In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires +Shine and are changed. In the valley +Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, +Closing his benediction, +Sinks, and the darkening air +Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- +Night with her train of stars +And her great gift of sleep. + +So be my passing! +My task accomplish'd and the long day done, +My wages taken, and in my heart +Some late lark singing, +Let me be gather'd to the quiet west, +The sundown splendid and serene, +Death. + + +William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903 + +844. England, My England + +WHAT have I done for you, + England, my England? +What is there I would not do, + England, my own? +With your glorious eyes austere, +As the Lord were walking near, +Whispering terrible things and dear + As the Song on your bugles blown, + England-- + Round the world on your bugles blown! + +Where shall the watchful sun, + England, my England, +Match the master-work you've done, + England, my own? +When shall he rejoice agen +Such a breed of mighty men +As come forward, one to ten, + To the Song on your bugles blown, + England-- + Down the years on your bugles blown? + +Ever the faith endures, + England, my England:-- +'Take and break us: we are yours, + England, my own! +Life is good, and joy runs high +Between English earth and sky: +Death is death; but we shall die + To the Song on your bugles blown, + England-- + To the stars on your bugles blown!' + +They call you proud and hard, + England, my England: +You with worlds to watch and ward, + England, my own! +You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys +Of such teeming destinies, +You could know nor dread nor ease + Were the Song on your bugles blown, + England, + Round the Pit on your bugles blown! + +Mother of Ships whose might, + England, my England, +Is the fierce old Sea's delight, + England, my own, +Chosen daughter of the Lord, +Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, +There 's the menace of the Word + In the Song on your bugles blown, + England-- + Out of heaven on your bugles blown! + + +Edmund Gosse. b. 1849 + +845. Revelation + + INTO the silver night + She brought with her pale hand + The topaz lanthorn-light, + And darted splendour o'er the land; + Around her in a band, +Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying, + And flapping with their mad wings, fann'd +The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying. + + Behind the thorny pink + Close wall of blossom'd may, + I gazed thro' one green chink + And saw no more than thousands may,-- + Saw sweetness, tender and gay,-- +Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry, + Saw braided locks more dark than bay, +And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry. + + With food for furry friends + She pass'd, her lamp and she, + Till eaves and gable-ends + Hid all that saffron sheen from me: + Around my rosy tree +Once more the silver-starry night was shining, + With depths of heaven, dewy and free, +And crystals of a carven moon declining. + + Alas! for him who dwells + In frigid air of thought, + When warmer light dispels + The frozen calm his spirit sought; + By life too lately taught +He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing; + Reels from the joy experience brought, +And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing. + + +Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894 + +846. Romance + +I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight +Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. +I will make a palace fit for you and me, +Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. + +I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, +Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, +And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white +In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. + +And this shall be for music when no one else is near, +The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! +That only I remember, that only you admire, +Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. + + +Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894 + +847. In the Highlands + +IN the highlands, in the country places, +Where the old plain men have rosy faces, + And the young fair maidens + Quiet eyes; +Where essential silence cheers and blesses, +And for ever in the hill-recesses + Her more lovely music + Broods and dies-- + +O to mount again where erst I haunted; +Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, + And the low green meadows + Bright with sward; +And when even dies, the million-tinted, +And the night has come, and planets glinted, + Lo, the valley hollow + Lamp-bestarr'd! + +O to dream, O to awake and wander +There, and with delight to take and render, + Through the trance of silence, + Quiet breath! +Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, +Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; + Only winds and rivers, + Life and death. + + +Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894 + +848. Requiem + +UNDER the wide and starry sky +Dig the grave and let me lie: +Glad did I live and gladly die, + And I laid me down with a will. + +This be the verse you grave for me: +Here he lies where he long'd to be; +Home is the sailor, home from sea, + And the hunter home from the hill. + + +T. W. Rolleston. b. 1857 + +849. The Dead at Clonmacnois +FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O'GILLAN + +IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses, + Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; +And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations + Slumber there. + +There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest + Of the clan of Conn, +Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham + And the sacred knot thereon. + +There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, + There the sons of Cairbre sleep-- +Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran's plain of crosses + Now their final hosting keep. + +And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, + And right many a lord of Breagh; +Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, + Kind in hall and fierce in fray. + +Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter + In the red earth lies at rest; +Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, + Many a swan-white breast. + + +John Davidson. 1857-1909 + +850. Song + +THE boat is chafing at our long delay, + And we must leave too soon +The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray, + The tawny sands, the moon. + +Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight! + Watch from thy pearly throne +Our vessel, plunging deeper into night + To reach a land unknown. + + +John Davidson. 1857-1909 + +851. The Last Rose + +'O WHICH is the last rose?' +A blossom of no name. +At midnight the snow came; +At daybreak a vast rose, +In darkness unfurl'd, +O'er-petall'd the world. + +Its odourless pallor +Blossom'd forlorn, +Till radiant valour +Establish'd the morn-- +Till the night +Was undone +In her fight +With the sun. + +The brave orb in state rose, +And crimson he shone first; +While from the high vine +Of heaven the dawn burst, +Staining the great rose +From sky-line to sky-line. + +The red rose of morn +A white rose at noon turn'd; +But at sunset reborn +All red again soon burn'd. +Then the pale rose of noonday +Rebloom'd in the night, +And spectrally white + In the light +Of the moon lay. + +But the vast rose + Was scentless, +And this is the reason: +When the blast rose + Relentless, +And brought in due season +The snow rose, the last rose +Congeal'd in its breath, +Then came with it treason; +The traitor was Death. + +In lee-valleys crowded, +The sheep and the birds +Were frozen and shrouded +In flights and in herds. +In highways +And byways +The young and the old +Were tortured and madden'd +And kill'd by the cold. +But many were gladden'd +By the beautiful last rose, +The blossom of no name +That came when the snow came, +In darkness unfurl'd-- +The wonderful vast rose +That fill'd all the world. + + +William Watson. b. 1858 + +852. Song + +APRIL, April, +Laugh thy girlish laughter; +Then, the moment after, +Weep thy girlish tears! +April, that mine ears +Like a lover greetest, +If I tell thee, sweetest, +All my hopes and fears, +April, April, +Laugh thy golden laughter, +But, the moment after, +Weep thy golden tears! + + +William Watson. b. 1858 + +853. Ode in May + +LET me go forth, and share + The overflowing Sun + With one wise friend, or one +Better than wise, being fair, +Where the pewit wheels and dips + On heights of bracken and ling, +And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, + Tingles with the Spring. + +What is so sweet and dear + As a prosperous morn in May, + The confident prime of the day, +And the dauntless youth of the year, +When nothing that asks for bliss, + Asking aright, is denied, +And half of the world a bridegroom is, + And half of the world a bride? + +The Song of Mingling flows, + Grave, ceremonial, pure, + As once, from lips that endure, +The cosmic descant rose, +When the temporal lord of life, + Going his golden way, +Had taken a wondrous maid to wife + That long had said him nay. + +For of old the Sun, our sire, + Came wooing the mother of men, + Earth, that was virginal then, +Vestal fire to his fire. +Silent her bosom and coy, + But the strong god sued and press'd; +And born of their starry nuptial joy + Are all that drink of her breast. + +And the triumph of him that begot, + And the travail of her that bore, + Behold they are evermore +As warp and weft in our lot. +We are children of splendour and flame, + Of shuddering, also, and tears. +Magnificent out of the dust we came, + And abject from the Spheres. + +O bright irresistible lord! + We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, + And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, +Whence first was the seed outpour'd. +To thee as our Father we bow, + Forbidden thy Father to see, +Who is older and greater than thou, as thou + Art greater and older than we. + +Thou art but as a word of his speech; + Thou art but as a wave of his hand; + Thou art brief as a glitter of sand +'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; +Thou art less than a spark of his fire, + Or a moment's mood of his soul: +Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir + That chant the chant of the Whole. + + +William Watson. b. 1858 + +854. The Great Misgiving + +'NOT ours,' say some, 'the thought of death to dread; + Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell: +Life is a feast, and we have banqueted-- + Shall not the worms as well? + +'The after-silence, when the feast is o'er, + And void the places where the minstrels stood, +Differs in nought from what hath been before, + And is nor ill nor good.' + +Ah, but the Apparition--the dumb sign-- + The beckoning finger bidding me forgo +The fellowship, the converse, and the wine, + The songs, the festal glow! + +And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit, + And while the purple joy is pass'd about, +Whether 'tis ampler day divinelier lit + Or homeless night without; + +And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall see + New prospects, or fall sheer--a blinded thing! +There is, O grave, thy hourly victory, + And there, O death, thy sting. + + +Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919 + +855. Prayers + +GOD who created me + Nimble and light of limb, +In three elements free, + To run, to ride, to swim: +Not when the sense is dim, + But now from the heart of joy, +I would remember Him: + Take the thanks of a boy. + +Jesu, King and Lord, + Whose are my foes to fight, +Gird me with Thy sword + Swift and sharp and bright. +Thee would I serve if I might; + And conquer if I can, +From day-dawn till night, + Take the strength of a man. + +Spirit of Love and Truth, + Breathing in grosser clay, +The light and flame of youth, + Delight of men in the fray, +Wisdom in strength's decay; + From pain, strife, wrong to be free, +This best gift I pray, + Take my spirit to Thee. + + +Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919 + +856. Going down Hill on a Bicycle +A BOY'S SONG + +WITH lifted feet, hands still, +I am poised, and down the hill +Dart, with heedful mind; +The air goes by in a wind. + +Swifter and yet more swift, +Till the heart with a mighty lift +Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- +'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. + +'Is this, is this your joy? +O bird, then I, though a boy +For a golden moment share +Your feathery life in air!' + +Say, heart, is there aught like this +In a world that is full of bliss? +'Tis more than skating, bound +Steel-shod to the level ground. + +Speed slackens now, I float +Awhile in my airy boat; +Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, +My feet to the treadles fall. + +Alas, that the longest hill +Must end in a vale; but still, +Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, +Shall find wings waiting there. + + +Bliss Carman. b. 1861 + +857. Why + +FOR a name unknown, +Whose fame unblown +Sleeps in the hills + For ever and aye; + +For her who hears +The stir of the years +Go by on the wind + By night and day; + +And heeds no thing +Of the needs of spring, +Of autumn's wonder + Or winter's chill; + +For one who sees +The great sun freeze, +As he wanders a-cold + From hill to hill; + +And all her heart +Is a woven part +Of the flurry and drift + Of whirling snow; + +For the sake of two +Sad eyes and true, +And the old, old love + So long ago. + + +Douglas Hyde. b. 1861 + +858. My Grief on the Sea +FROM THE IRISH + +MY grief on the sea, + How the waves of it roll! +For they heave between me + And the love of my soul! + +Abandon'd, forsaken, + To grief and to care, +Will the sea ever waken + Relief from despair? + +My grief and my trouble! + Would he and I were, +In the province of Leinster, + Or County of Clare! + +Were I and my darling-- + O heart-bitter wound!-- +On board of the ship + For America bound. + +On a green bed of rushes + All last night I lay, +And I flung it abroad + With the heat of the day. + +And my Love came behind me, + He came from the South; +His breast to my bosom, + His mouth to my mouth. + + +Arthur Christopher Benson. b. 1862 + +859. The Phoenix + +BY feathers green, across Casbeen + The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown, +By gems he strew'd in waste and wood, + And jewell'd plumes at random thrown. + +Till wandering far, by moon and star, + They stand beside the fruitful pyre, +Where breaking bright with sanguine light + The impulsive bird forgets his sire. + +Those ashes shine like ruby wine, + Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, +The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl + Are with the glorious anguish gilt. + +So rare the light, so rich the sight, + Those pilgrim men, on profit bent, +Drop hands and eyes and merchandise, + And are with gazing most content. + + +Henry Newbolt. b. 1862 + +860. He fell among Thieves + +'YE have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end, + Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: +What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?' + 'Blood for our blood,' they said. + +He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five, + I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: +I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.' + 'You shall die at dawn,' said they. + +He flung his empty revolver down the slope, + He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; +All night long in a dream untroubled of hope + He brooded, clasping his knees. + +He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills + The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows; +He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, + Or the far Afghan snows. + +He saw the April noon on his books aglow, + The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; +He heard his father's voice from the terrace below + Calling him down to ride. + +He saw the gray little church across the park, + The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead; +The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, + The brasses black and red. + +He saw the School Close, sunny and green, + The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, +The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, + His own name over all. + +He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, + The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; +The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, + The Dons on the daïs serene. + +He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, + He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; +He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, + He saw the flag she flew. + +And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, + And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; +He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: + His murderers round him stood. + +Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, + The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white; +He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, + Cut by the Eastern height. + +'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, + I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' + A sword swept. +Over the pass the voices one by one + Faded, and the hill slept. + + +Gilbert Parker. b. 1862 + +861. Reunited + +WHEN you and I have play'd the little hour, + Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death + Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, +The first long breath of freedom; when the flower +Of Recompense hath flutter'd to our feet, + As to an actor's; and, the curtain down, + We turn to face each other all alone-- +Alone, we two, who never yet did meet, +Alone, and absolute, and free: O then, + O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale? +Clasp'd hands, press'd lips, and so clasp'd hands again; + No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, + My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan + Of joy, and then our infinite Alone. + + +William Butler Yeats. b. 1865 + +862. Where My Books go + +ALL the words that I utter, + And all the words that I write, +Must spread out their wings untiring, + And never rest in their flight, +Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, + And sing to you in the night, +Beyond where the waters are moving, + Storm-darken'd or starry bright. + + +William Butler Yeats. b. 1865 + +863. When You are Old + +WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep + And nodding by the fire, take down this book, + And slowly read, and dream of the soft look +Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; + +How many loved your moments of glad grace, + And loved your beauty with love false or true; + But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, +And loved the sorrows of your changing face. + +And bending down beside the glowing bars, + Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled + And paced upon the mountains overhead, +And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. + + +William Butler Yeats. b. 1865 + +864. The Lake Isle of Innisfree + +I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, +And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; +Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, + And live alone in the bee-loud glade. + +And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, +Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; +There midnight 's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, + And evening full of the linnet's wings. + +I will arise and go now, for always night and day +I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; +While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, + I hear it in the deep heart's core. + + +Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865 + +865. A Dedication + +MY new-cut ashlar takes the light + Where crimson-blank the windows flare; +By my own work, before the night, + Great Overseer, I make my prayer. + +If there be good in that I wrought, + Thy hand compell'd it, Master, Thine; +Where I have fail'd to meet Thy thought + I know, through Thee, the blame if mine. + +One instant's toil to Thee denied + Stands all Eternity's offence; +Of that I did with Thee to guide + To Thee, through Thee, be excellence. + +Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, + Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain, +Godlike to muse o'er his own trade + And manlike stand with God again. + +The depth and dream of my desire, + The bitter paths wherein I stray, +Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, + Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay. + +One stone the more swings to her place + In that dread Temple of Thy worth-- +It is enough that through Thy grace + I saw naught common on Thy earth. + +Take not that vision from my ken; + O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, +Help me to need no aid from men, + That I may help such men as need! + + +Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865 + +866. L'Envoi + +THERE 's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield + And the ricks stand gray to the sun, +Singing:--'Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover + And your English summer 's done.' + You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind + And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; + You have heard the song--how long! how long! + Pull out on the trail again! + +Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, +We've seen the seasons through, +And it 's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + +Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +It 's North you may run to the rime-ring'd sun, + Or South to the blind Horn's hate; +Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, + Or West to the Golden Gate; +Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, +And the wildest tales are true, +And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, + And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; +And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll + Of a black Bilbao tramp; +With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, +And a drunken Dago crew, +And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + +From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, + Or the way of a man with a maid; +But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea + In the heel of the North-East Trade. +Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, +And the drum of the racing screw, +As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, +As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always + new? + +See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, + And the fenders grind and heave, +And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, + And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; +It 's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear lass, +It 's 'Hawsers warp her through!' +And it 's 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our own trail, the out + trail, +We're backing down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, + And the sirens hoot their dread! +When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep + To the sob of the questing lead! +It 's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, +With the Gunfleet Sands in view, +Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out + trail, +And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always + new. + +O the blazing tropic night, when the wake 's a welt of light + That holds the hot sky tame, +And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder'd floors + Where the scared whale flukes in flame! +Her plates are scarr'd by the sun, dear lass, +And her ropes are taut with the dew, +For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + +We're sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + +Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, + And the shouting seas drive by, +And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, + And the Southern Cross rides high! +Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, +That blaze in the velvet blue. +They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out + trail, +They're God's own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always + new. + +Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start-- + We're steaming all too slow, +And it 's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle + Where the trumpet-orchids blow! +You have heard the call of the off-shore wind +And the voice of the deep-sea rain; +You have heard the song--how long! how long! + Pull out on the trail again! + +The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, +And the deuce knows what we may do-- +But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out + trail, +We're down, hull down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. + + +Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865 + +867. Recessional +June 22, 1897 + +GOD of our fathers, known of old-- + Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- +Beneath whose awful Hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine-- +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, +Lest we forget, lest we forget! + +The tumult and the shouting dies-- + The captains and the kings depart-- +Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, +Lest we forget, lest we forget! + +Far-call'd our navies melt away-- + On dune and headland sinks the fire-- +Lo, all our pomp of yesterday + Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! +Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, +Lest we forget, lest we forget! + +If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- +Such boasting as the Gentiles use + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, +Lest we forget, lest we forget! + +For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard-- +All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- +For frantic boast and foolish word, +Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! + + +Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866 + +868. Song + +SHE 's somewhere in the sunlight strong, + Her tears are in the falling rain, +She calls me in the wind's soft song, + And with the flowers she comes again. + +Yon bird is but her messenger, + The moon is but her silver car; +Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, + And every wistful waiting star. + + +Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866 + +869. The Second Crucifixion + +LOUD mockers in the roaring street + Say Christ is crucified again: +Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet, + Twice broken His great heart in vain. + +I hear, and to myself I smile, +For Christ talks with me all the while. + +No angel now to roll the stone + From off His unawaking sleep, +In vain shall Mary watch alone, + In vain the soldiers vigil keep. + +Yet while they deem my Lord is dead +My eyes are on His shining head. + +Ah! never more shall Mary hear + That voice exceeding sweet and low +Within the garden calling clear: + Her Lord is gone, and she must go. + +Yet all the while my Lord I meet +In every London lane and street. + +Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, + And Bartimaeus still go blind; +The healing hem shall ne'er again + Be touch'd by suffering humankind. + +Yet all the while I see them rest, +The poor and outcast, on His breast. + +No more unto the stubborn heart + With gentle knocking shall He plead, +No more the mystic pity start, + For Christ twice dead is dead indeed. + +So in the street I hear men say, +Yet Christ is with me all the day. + + +Laurence Binyon. b. 1869 + +870. Invocation to Youth + +COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning! + Joyous, O Youth, in the aged world renew +Freshness to feel the eternities around it, + Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew. + The strong sun shines above thee: + That strength, that radiance bring! + If Winter come to Winter, + When shall men hope for Spring? + + +Laurence Binyon. b. 1869 + +871. O World, be Nobler + +O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake! + If she but knew thee what thou art, +What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done +In thee, beneath thy daily sun, + Know'st thou not that her tender heart +For pain and very shame would break? +O World, be nobler, for her sake! + + +George William Russell ('A. E.'). b. 1853 + +872. By the Margin of the Great Deep + +WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, +All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, +With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; + I am one with the twilight's dream. + +When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood, +Every heart of man is rapt within the mother's breast: +Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude, + I am one with their hearts at rest. + +From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love +Stray'd away along the margin of the unknown tide, +All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above + Word or touch from the lips beside. + +Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw +From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, +Such primaeval being as o'erfills the heart with awe, + Growing one with its silent stream. + + +George William Russell ('A. E.'). b. 1853 + +873. The Great Breath + +ITS edges foam'd with amethyst and rose, +Withers once more the old blue flower of day: +There where the ether like a diamond glows, + Its petals fade away. + +A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; +Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; +The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere + The breath of Beauty blows. + +I saw how all the trembling ages past, +Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, +Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last + And knows herself in death. + + +T. Sturge Moore. b. 1870 + +874. A Duet + +'FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air, +Flowers posied, flowers for the hair, +Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare----' + 'O pick me some!' + +'Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum, +Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper Come, +Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb----' + 'O let me hear.' + +'Eyes so black they draw one trembling near, +Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear, +Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear----' + 'O look at me!' + +'Kisses sadly blown across the sea, +Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free, +Bob-a-cherry kisses 'neath a tree----' + 'O give me one!' + +Thus sand a king and queen in Babylon. + + +Francis Thompson. 1859-1907 + +875. The Poppy + +SUMMER set lip to earth's bosom bare, +And left the flush'd print in a poppy there; +Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, +And the fanning wind puff'd it to flapping flame. + +With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank +The blood of the sun as he slaughter'd sank, +And dipp'd its cup in the purpurate shine +When the eastern conduits ran with wine. + +Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, +And hot as a swinked gipsy is, +And drowsed in sleepy savageries, +With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss. + +A child and man paced side by side, +Treading the skirts of eventide; +But between the clasp of his hand and hers +Lay, felt not, twenty wither'd years. + +She turn'd, with the rout of her dusk South hair, +And saw the sleeping gipsy there; +And snatch'd and snapp'd it in swift child's whim, +With--'Keep it, long as you live!'--to him. + +And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, +Trembled up from a bath of tears; +And joy, like a mew sea-rock'd apart, +Toss'd on the wave of his troubled heart. + +For he saw what she did not see, +That--as kindled by its own fervency-- +The verge shrivell'd inward smoulderingly: + +And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers +He knew the twenty wither'd years-- +No flower, but twenty shrivell'd years. + +'Was never such thing until this hour,' +Low to his heart he said; 'the flower +Of sleep brings wakening to me, +And of oblivion memory.' + +'Was never this thing to me,' he said, +'Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!' +And again to his own heart very low: +'O child! I love, for I love and know; + +'But you, who love nor know at all +The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall, +Where some rise early, few sit long: +In how differing accents hear the throng +His great Pentecostal tongue; + +'Who know not love from amity, +Nor my reported self from me; +A fair fit gift is this, meseems, +You give--this withering flower of dreams. + +'O frankly fickle, and fickly true, +Do you know what the days will do to you? +To your Love and you what the days will do, +O frankly fickle, and fickly true? + +'You have loved me, Fair, three lives--or days: +'Twill pass with the passing of my face. +But where I go, your face goes too, +To watch lest I play false to you. + +'I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, +Knowing well when certain years are over +You vanish from me to another; +Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother. + +'So frankly fickle, and fickly true! +For my brief life-while I take from you +This token, fair and fit, meseems, +For me--this withering flower of dreams.' +. . . +The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, +Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: +The goodly grain and the sun-flush'd sleeper +The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper. + +I hang 'mid men my needless head, +And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: +The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper +Time shall reap, but after the reaper +The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper! + +Love! love! your flower of wither'd dream +In leaved rhyme lies safe, I deem, +Shelter'd and shut in a nook of rhyme, +From the reaper man, and his reaper Time. + +Love! I fall into the claws of Time: +But lasts within a leaved rhyme +All that the world of me esteems-- +My wither'd dreams, my wither'd dreams. + + +Henry Cust. 1861-1917 + +876. Non Nobis + +NOT unto us, O Lord, +Not unto us the rapture of the day, +The peace of night, or love's divine surprise, +High heart, high speech, high deeds 'mid honouring eyes; +For at Thy word +All these are taken away. + +Not unto us, O Lord: +To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar, +The ache of life, the loneliness of death, +The insufferable sufficiency of breath; +And with Thy sword +Thou piercest very far. + +Not unto us, O Lord: +Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given-- +My light and life and earth and sky be blasted-- +But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted: +Let Hell afford +The pavement of her Heaven! + + +Katharine Tynan Hinkson. b. 1861 + +877. Sheep and Lambs + +ALL in the April morning, + April airs were abroad; +The sheep with their little lambs + Pass'd me by on the road. + +The sheep with their little lambs + Pass'd me by on the road; +All in an April evening + I thought on the Lamb of God. + +The lambs were weary, and crying + With a weak human cry, +I thought on the Lamb of God + Going meekly to die. + +Up in the blue, blue mountains + Dewy pastures are sweet: +Rest for the little bodies, + Rest for the little feet. + +Rest for the Lamb of God + Up on the hill-top green, +Only a cross of shame + Two stark crosses between. + +All in the April evening, + April airs were abroad; +I saw the sheep with their lambs, + And thought on the Lamb of God. + + +Frances Bannerman. + +878. An Upper Chamber + +I CAME into the City and none knew me; + None came forth, none shouted 'He is here! +Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me, + All the way by which I drew anear-- + Night my banner, and my herald Fear. + +But I knew where one so long had waited + In the low room at the stairway's height, +Trembling lest my foot should be belated, + Singing, sighing for the long hours' flight + Towards the moment of our dear delight. + +I came into the City when you hail'd me + Saviour, and again your chosen Lord:-- +Not one guessing what it was that fail'd me, + While along the way as they adored + Thousands, thousands, shouted in accord. + +But through all the joy I knew--I only-- + How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold, +Silent of its music, and how lonely! + Never, though you crown me with your gold, + Shall I find that little chamber as of old! + + +Alice Meynell. b. 1850 + +879. Renouncement + +I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, + I shun the love that lurks in all delight-- + The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height, +And in the dearest passage of a song. +Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng + This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright; + But it must never, never come in sight; +I must stop short of thee the whole day long. +But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, + When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, +And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, +Must doff my will as raiment laid away,-- + With the first dream that comes with the first sleep +I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart. + + +Alice Meynell. b. 1850 + +880. The Lady of the Lambs + +SHE walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. +Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; + She guards them from the steep. +She feeds them on the fragrant height, + And folds them in for sleep. + +She roams maternal hills and bright, + Dark valleys safe and deep. +Her dreams are innocent at night; + The chastest stars may peep. +She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + +She holds her little thoughts in sight, + Though gay they run and leap. +She is so circumspect and right; + She has her soul to keep. +She walks--the lady of my delight-- + A shepherdess of sheep. + + +Dora Sigerson. d. 1918 + +881. Ireland + +'TWAS the dream of a God, + And the mould of His hand, +That you shook 'neath His stroke, +That you trembled and broke + To this beautiful land. + +Here He loosed from His hold + A brown tumult of wings, +Till the wind on the sea +Bore the strange melody + Of an island that sings. + +He made you all fair, + You in purple and gold, +You in silver and green, +Till no eye that has seen + Without love can behold. + +I have left you behind + In the path of the past, +With the white breath of flowers, +With the best of God's hours, + I have left you at last. + + +Margaret L. Woods. b. 1856 + +882. Genius Loci + +PEACE, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? + Since long ago grace-giving Phoebus died, + And all the train that loved the stream-bright side +Of the poetic mount with him are gone +Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron, + In unexplored realms of night to hide. + The clouds that strew their shadows far and wide +Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon. +Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt, + Still may some nameless power of Nature stray, +Pleased with the reedy stream's continual chant + And purple pomp of these broad fields in May. +The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine, +And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine. + + +Anonymous. c. 19th Cent. + +883. Dominus Illuminatio Mea + +IN the hour of death, after this life's whim, +When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, +And pain has exhausted every limb-- + The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him. + +When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim, +And the mind can only disgrace its fame, +And a man is uncertain of his own name-- + The power of the Lord shall fill this frame. + +When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed, +And the coffin is waiting beside the bed, +And the widow and child forsake the dead-- + The angel of the Lord shall lift this head. + +For even the purest delight may pall, +And power must fail, and the pride must fall, +And the love of the dearest friends grow small-- + But the glory of the Lord is all in all. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg Etext/Project Gutenberg Book of English Verse + |