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diff --git a/2080-h/2080-h.htm b/2080-h/2080-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3fdf45 --- /dev/null +++ b/2080-h/2080-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15627 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Flower of the Mind, by Alice Meynell</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .5em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Flower of the Mind, by Alice Meynell + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Flower of the Mind + + +Author: Alice Meynell + + + +Release Date: June 28, 2015 [eBook #2080] +[This file was first posted 22 June 1999] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLOWER OF THE MIND*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1898 Grant Richards edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Of this reissue</i><br /> +<i>only</i> 250<br /> +<i>copies will</i><br /> +<i>be bound</i><br /> +<i>up</i>.</p> +<h1>THE FLOWER<br /> +OF THE MIND</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">A Choice among the best Poems</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">MADE +BY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">ALICE MEYNELL</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +GRANT RICHARDS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">9 HENRIETTA STREET</span><br /> +1898</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span><span class="GutSmall">Edinburgh: T. +and A. </span><span class="GutSmall"><span +class="smcap">Constable</span></span><span class="GutSmall">, +Printers to Her Majesty</span></p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Partial</span> collections of English +poems, decided by a common subject or bounded by narrow dates and +periods of literary history, are made at very short intervals, +and the makers are safe from the reproach of proposing their own +personal taste as a guide for the reading of others. But a +general Anthology gathered from the whole of English +literature—the whole from Chaucer to Wordsworth—by a +gatherer intent upon nothing except the quality of poetry, is a +more rare enterprise. It is hardly to be made without +tempting the suspicion—nay, hardly without seeming to +hazard the confession—of some measure of +self-confidence. Nor can even the desire to enter upon that +labour be a frequent one—the desire of the heart of one for +whom poetry is veritably ‘the complementary life’ to +set up a pale for inclusion and exclusion, to add honours, to +multiply homage, to cherish, to restore, to protest, to proclaim, +to depose; and to gain the consent of a multitude of readers to +all those acts. Many years, then—some part of a +century—may easily pass between the publication of one +general anthology and the making of another.</p> +<p>The enterprise would be a sorry one if it were really +arbitrary, and if an anthologist should give effect to passionate +preferences without authority. An anthology that shall have +any <a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span>value +must be made on the responsibility of one but on the authority of +many. There is no caprice; the mind of the maker has been +formed for decision by the wisdom of many instructors. It +is the very study of criticism, and the grateful and profitable +study, that gives the justification to work done upon the +strongest personal impulse, and done, finally, in the mental +solitude that cannot be escaped at the last. In another +order, moral education would be best crowned if it proved to have +quick and profound control over the first impulses; its finished +work would be to set the soul in a state of law, delivered from +the delays of self-distrust; not action only, but the desires +would be in an old security, and a wish would come to light +already justified. This would be the second—if it +were not the only—liberty. Even so an intellectual +education might assuredly confer freedom upon first and solitary +thoughts, and confidence and composure upon the sallies of +impetuous courage. In a word, it should make a studious +anthologist quite sure about genius. And all who have +bestowed, or helped in bestowing, the liberating education have +given their student the authority to be free. Personal and +singular the choice in such a book must be, not without +right.</p> +<p>Claiming and disclaiming so much, the gatherers may follow one +another to harvest, and glean in the same fields in different +seasons, for the repetition of the work can never be altogether a +repetition. The general consent of criticism does not stand +still; and moreover, a mere accident <a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>has until now left a poet of genius +of the past here and there to neglect or obscurity. This is +not very likely to befall again; the time has come when there is +little or nothing left to discover or rediscover in the sixteenth +century or the seventeenth; we know that there does not lurk +another Crashaw contemned, or another Henry Vaughan disregarded, +or another George Herbert misplaced. There is now something +like finality of knowledge at least; and therefore not a little +error in the past is ready to be repaired. This is the +result of time. Of the slow actions and reactions of +critical taste there might be something to say, but nothing +important. No loyal anthologist perhaps will consent to +acknowledge these tides; he will hardly do his work well unless +he believe it to be stable and perfect; nor, by the way, will he +judge worthily in the name of others unless he be resolved to +judge intrepidly for himself.</p> +<p>Inasmuch as even the best of all poems are the best upon +innumerable degrees, the size of most anthologies has gone far to +decide what degrees are to be gathered in and what left +without. The best might make a very small volume, and be +indeed the best, or a very large volume, and be still indeed the +best. But my labour has been to do somewhat +differently—to gather nothing that did not overpass a +certain boundary-line of genius. Gray’s <i>Elegy</i>, +for instance, would rightly be placed at the head of everything +below that mark. It is, in fact, so near to the work of +genius as to be most directly, closely, and immediately rebuked +by genius; it meets genius at close quarters and <a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span>almost +deserves that Shakespeare himself should defeat it. +Mediocrity said its own true word in the <i>Elegy</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Full many a flower is born to blush +unseen,<br /> +And waste its sweetness on the desert air.’</p> +<p>But greatness had said its own word also in a sonnet:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The summer flower is to the summer +sweet<br /> +Though to itself it only live and die.’</p> +<p>The reproof here is too sure; not always does it touch so +quick, but it is not seldom manifest, and it makes exclusion a +simple task. Inclusion, on the other hand, cannot be so +completely fulfilled. The impossibility of taking in poems +of great length, however purely lyrical, is a mechanical barrier, +even on the plan of the present volume; in the case of +Spenser’s <i>Prothalamion</i>, the unmanageably +autobiographical and local passage makes it inappropriate; some +exquisite things of Landor’s are lyrics in blank verse, and +the necessary rule against blank verse shuts them out. No +extracts have been made from any poem, but in a very few +instances a stanza or a passage has been dropped out. No +poem has been put in for the sake of a single perfectly fine +passage; it would be too much to say that no poem has been put in +for the sake of two splendid passages or so. The Scottish +ballad poetry is represented by examples that are to my mind +finer than anything left out; still, it is but represented; and +as the song of this multitude of unknown poets overflows by its +quantity a collection of lyrics of genius, so does <a +name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span>severally the +song of Wordsworth, Crashaw, and Shelley. It has been +necessary, in considering traditional songs of evidently mingled +authorship, to reject some one invaluable stanza or +burden—the original and ancient surviving matter of a +spoilt song—because it was necessary to reject the sequel +that has cumbered it since some sentimentalist took it for his +own. An example, which makes the heart ache, is that burden +of keen and remote poetry:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie +broom,<br /> + The broom of Cowdenknowes!’</p> +<p>Perhaps some hand will gather all such precious fragments as +these together one day, freed from what is alien in the work of +the restorer. It is inexplicable that a generation resolved +to forbid the restoration of ancient buildings should approve the +eighteenth century restoration of ancient poems; nay, the +architectural ‘restorer’ is immeasurably the more +respectful. In order to give us again the ancient +fragments, it is happily not necessary to break up the composite +songs which, since the time of Burns, have gained a national +love. Let them be, but let the old verses be also; and let +them have, for those who desire it, the solitariness of their +state of ruin. Even in the cases—and they are not +few—where Burns is proved to have given beauty and music to +the ancient fragment itself, his work upon the old stanza is +immeasurably finer than his work in his own new stanzas +following, and it would be less than impiety to part the two.</p> +<p><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. x</span>I have +obeyed a profound conviction which I have reason to hope will be +more commended in the future than perhaps it can be now, in +leaving aside a multitude of composite songs—anachronisms, +and worse than mere anachronisms, as I think them to be, for they +patch wild feeling with sentiment of the sentimentalist. +There are some exceptions. The one fine stanza of a song +which both Sir Walter Scott and Burns restored is given with the +restorations of both, those restorations being severally +beautiful; and the burden, ‘Hame, hame, hame,’ is +printed with the Jacobite song that carries it; this song seems +so mingled and various in date and origin that no apology is +needed for placing it amongst the bundle of Scottish ballads of +days before the Jacobites. <i>Sir Patrick Spens</i> is +treated here as an ancient song. It is to be noted that the +modern, or comparatively modern, additions to old songs full of +quantitative metre—‘Hame, hame, hame,’ is one +of these—full of long notes, rests, and interlinear pauses, +are almost always written in anapæsts. The later +writer has slipped away from the fine, various, and subtle metre +of the older. Assuredly the popularity of the metre which, +for want of a term suiting the English rules of verse, must be +called anapæstic, has done more than any other thing to +vulgarise the national sense of rhythm and to silence the finer +rhythms. Anapæsts came quite suddenly into English +poetry and brought coarseness, glibness, volubility, dapper and +fatuous effects. A master may use it well, but as a popular +measure it has been disastrous. I <a +name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xi</span>would be +bound to find the modern stanzas in an old song by this very +habit of anapæsts and this very misunderstanding of the +long words and interlinear pauses of the older stanzas. +This, for instance, is the old metre:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad +I be!’</p> +<p>and this the lamentable anapæstic line (from the same +song):</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Yet the sun through the mirk seems to +promise to me—.’</p> +<p>It has been difficult to refuse myself the delight of +including <i>A Divine Love</i> of Carew, but it seemed too bold +to leave out four stanzas of a poem of seven, and the last four +are of the poorest argument. This passage at least shall +speak for the first three:</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘Thou +didst appear<br /> + A glorious mystery, so dark, so clear,<br /> + As Nature did +intend<br /> +All should confess, but none might comprehend.’</p> +<p>From <i>Christ’s Victory in Heaven</i> of Giles Fletcher +(out of reach for its length) it is a happiness to extract here +at least the passage upon ‘Justice,’ who looks +‘as the eagle</p> +<p +class="poetry"> that +hath so oft compared<br /> +Her eye with heaven’s’;</p> +<p>from Marlowe’s poem, also unmanageable, that in which +Love ran to the priestess</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And laid his childish head upon her +breast’;</p> +<p><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xii</span>with +that which tells how Night,</p> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘deep-drenched +in misty Acheron,<br /> +Heaved up her head, and half the world upon<br /> +Breathed darkness forth’;</p> +<p>from Robert Greene two lines of a lovely passage:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Cupid abroad was lated in the night,<br +/> +His wings were wet with ranging in the rain’;</p> +<p>from Ben Jonson’s <i>Hue and Cry</i> (not throughout +fine) the stanza:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Beauties, have ye seen a toy,<br /> +Called Love, a little boy,<br /> +Almost naked, wanton, blind;<br /> +Cruel now, and then as kind?<br /> +If he be amongst ye, say;<br /> +He is Venus’ run-away’;</p> +<p>from Francis Davison:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Her angry eyes are great with +tears’;</p> +<p>from George Wither:</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘I +can go rest<br /> + On her sweet breast<br /> +That is the pride of Cynthia’s train’;</p> +<p>from Cowley:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Return, return, gay planet of mine +east’!</p> +<p>The poems in which these are cannot make part of the volume, +but the citation of the fragments is a relieving act of love.</p> +<p>At the very beginning, Skelton’s song to ‘Mistress +Margery Wentworth’ had almost taken a place; but its charm +is hardly fine enough. If it is necessary to answer the +inevitable <a name="pagexiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiii</span>question in regard to Byron, let me say that in +another Anthology, a secondary Anthology, the one in which +Gray’s <i>Elegy</i> would have an honourable place, some +more of Byron’s lyrics would certainly be found; and except +this there is no apology. If the last stanza of the +‘Dying Gladiator’ passage, or the last stanza on the +cascade rainbow at Terni,</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Love watching madness with unalterable +mien,’</p> +<p>had been separate poems instead of parts of <i>Childe +Harold</i>, they would have been amongst the poems that are here +collected in no spirit of arrogance, or of caprice, of diffidence +or doubt.</p> +<p>The volume closes some time before the middle of the century +and the death of Wordsworth.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. M</p> +<h2><a name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xv</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ANONYMOUS.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE FIRST +CAROL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552–1618).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">VERSES BEFORE +DEATH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>EDMUND SPENSER (1553–1599).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">EASTER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page2">2</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FRESH +SPRING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page2">2</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LIKE AS A +SHIP</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">EPITHALAMION</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOHN LYLY (1554?–1606).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +SPRING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554–1586).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TRUE +LOVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +MOON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">KISS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SWEET +JUDGE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SLEEP</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WAT’RED WAS +MY WINE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS LODGE (1556–1625).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ROSALYND’S +MADRIGAL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">ROSALINE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE SOLITARY +SHEPHERD’S SONG</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ANONYMOUS.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">I SAW MY LADY +WEEP</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>GEORGE PEELE (1558?–1597).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FAREWELL TO +ARMS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagexvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xvi</span>ROBERT GREENE (1560?–1592).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FAWNIA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SEPHESTIA’S +SONG TO HER CHILD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1562–1593).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE PASSIONATE +SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SAMUEL DANIEL (1562–1619).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SLEEP</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">MY SPOTLESS +LOVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563–1631).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SINCE +THERE’S NO HELP</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOSHUA SYLVESTER (1563–1618).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WERE I AS +BASE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564–1616).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">POOR SOUL, THE +CENTRE OF MY SINFUL EARTH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">O ME! WHAT EYES +HATH LOVE PUT IN MY HEAD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SHALL I COMPARE +THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WHEN IN THE +CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THAT TIME OF YEAR +THOU MAY’ST IN ME BEHOLD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HOW LIKE A WINTER +HATH MY ABSENCE BEEN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">BEING YOUR SLAVE, +WHAT SHOULD I DO BUT TEND</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WHEN IN DISGRACE +WITH FORTUNE AND MEN’S EYES</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THEY THAT HAVE +POWER TO HURT, AND WILL DO</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FAREWELL! THOU +ART TOO DEAR FOR MY POSSESSING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WHEN TO THE +SESSIONS OF SWEET SILENT THOUGHT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">DID NOT THE +HEAVENLY RHETORIC OF THINE EYE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE FORWARD +VIOLET THUS DID I CHIDE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">O LEST THE WORLD +SHOULD TASK YOU TO RECITE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LET ME NOT TO THE +MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HOW OFT, WHEN +THOU, MY MUSIC, MUSIC PLAY’ST</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FULL MANY A +GLORIOUS MORNING HAVE I SEEN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE EXPENSE OF +SPIRIT IN A WASTE OF SHAME</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FANCY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">FAIRIES</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">COME +AWAY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><a name="pagexvii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xvii</span><span class="GutSmall">FULL FATHOM +FIVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">DIRGE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ANONYMOUS.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TOM O’ +BEDLAM</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS CAMPION (<i>circa</i> +1567–1620).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">KIND ARE HER +ANSWERS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LAURA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HER SACRED +BOWER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FOLLOW</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WHEN THOU MUST +HOME</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WESTERN +WIND</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">FOLLOW YOUR +SAINT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">CHERRY-RIPE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS NASH (1567–1601?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SPRING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOHN DONNE (1573–1631).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THIS HAPPY +DREAM</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">DEATH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page54">54</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HYMN TO GOD THE +FATHER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +FUNERAL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>RICHARD BARNEFIELD (1574?—?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +NIGHTINGALE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>BEN JONSON (1574–1637).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">CHARIS’ +TRIUMPH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">JEALOUSY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">EPITAPH ON +ELIZABETH L. H.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HYMN TO +DIANA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON MY FIRST +DAUGHTER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ECHO’S +LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">AN EPITAPH ON +SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH’S +CHAPEL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagexviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xviii</span>JOHN FLETCHER +(1579–1625).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">INVOCATION TO +SLEEP, FROM VALENTINIAN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +BACCHUS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOHN WEBSTER (—?–1625).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG FROM THE +DUCHESS OF MALFI</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG FROM THE +DEVIL’S LAW-CASE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">IN EARTH, DIRGE +FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN +(1585–1649).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SLEEP, +SILENCE’ CHILD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE +NIGHTINGALE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">MADRIGAL +I</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">MADRIGAL +II</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>BEAUMONT <span class="smcap">and</span> +FLETCHER (1586–1616)—(1579–1625).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">I DIED +TRUE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586–1616).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE TOMBS IN +WESTMINSTER ABBEY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON (1587–1642).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO CYNTHIA, ON +CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>NATHANIEL FIELD (1587–1638).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">MATIN +SONG</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>GEORGE WITHER (1588–1667).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SLEEP, BABY, +SLEEP!</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS CAREW (1589–1639).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO MY INCONSTANT +MISTRESS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">AN HYMENEAL +DIALOGUE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">INGRATEFUL BEAUTY +THREATENED</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagexix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xix</span>THOMAS DEKKER (—1638?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">LULLABY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SWEET +CONTENT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS HEYWOOD (—1649?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">GOOD-MORROW</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ROBERT HERRICK (1591–1674?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +DIANEME</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +MEADOWS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +BLOSSOMS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +DAFFODILS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +VIOLETS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +PRIMROSES</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO DAISIES, NOT +TO SHUT SO SOON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE VIRGINS, +TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">DRESS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">IN +SILKS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">CORINNA’S +GOING A-MAYING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">GRACE FOR A +CHILD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">BEN +JONSON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>GEORGE HERBERT (1593–1632).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HOLY +BAPTISM</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">VIRTUE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">UNKINDNESS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page90">90</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LOVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +PULLEY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +COLLAR</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page92">92</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LIFE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">MISERY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JAMES SHIRLEY (1596–1666).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">EQUALITY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ANONYMOUS (<i>circa</i> 1603).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">LULLABY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT (1605–1668).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">MORNING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page99">99</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagexx"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xx</span>EDMUND WALLER (1605–1687).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +ROSE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page99">99</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS RANDOLPH (1606–1634?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HIS +MISTRESS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>CHARLES BEST (—?).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A SONNET OF THE +MOON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOHN MILTON (1608–1674).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HYMN ON +CHRIST’S NATIVITY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">L’ALLEGRO</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">IL +PENSEROSO</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">LYCIDAS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON HIS +BLINDNESS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON HIS DECEASED +WIFE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON +SHAKESPEARE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG ON MAY +MORNING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">INVOCATION TO +SABRINA, FROM COMUS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">INVOCATION TO +ECHO, FROM COMUS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE ATTENDANT +SPIRIT, FROM COMUS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JAMES GRAHAM, <span class="smcap">Marquis of +Montrose</span> (1612–1650).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE VIGIL OF +DEATH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>RICHARD CRASHAW (1615?–1652).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON A PRAYER-BOOK +SENT TO MRS. M. R.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page131">131</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE +MORNING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LOVE’S +HOROSCOPE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page137">137</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON MR. G. +HERBERT’S BOOK</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WISHES TO HIS +SUPPOSED MISTRESS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">QUEM VIDISTIS +PASTORES, ETC.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page144">144</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">MUSIC’S +DUEL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page149">149</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE FLAMING +HEART</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618–1667).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE DEATH OF +MR. CRASHAW</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HYMN TO THE +LIGHT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>RICHARD LOVELACE (1618–1658).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO LUCASTA ON +GOING TO THE WARS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page163">163</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +AMARANTHA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><a name="pagexxi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxi</span><span +class="GutSmall">LUCASTA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO ALTHEA, FROM +PRISON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A GUILTLESS LADY +IMPRISONED: AFTER PENANCED</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page167">167</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +ROSE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ANDREW MARVELL (1620–1678).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A HORATIAN ODE +UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page169">169</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE PICTURE OF T. +C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE NYMPH +COMPLAINING OF DEATH OF HER FAWN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page174">174</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE DEFINITION OF +LOVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page178">178</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +GARDEN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page179">179</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>HENRY VAUGHAN (1621–1695).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +DAWNING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page182">182</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">CHILDHOOD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page183">183</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">CORRUPTION</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page185">185</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +NIGHT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page186">186</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +ECLIPSE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +RETREAT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE WORLD OF +LIGHT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page189">189</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SCOTTISH BALLADS.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HELEN OF +KIRCONNELL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page191">191</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE WIFE OF +USHER’S WELL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page192">192</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE DOWIE DENS OF +YARROW</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SWEET WILLIAM AND +MAY MARGARET</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page197">197</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SIR PATRICK +SPENS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page199">199</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HAME, HAME, +HAME</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page203">203</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>BORDER BALLAD.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A LYKE-WAKE +DIRGE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page204">204</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOHN DRYDEN (1631–1700).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>APHRA BEHN (1640–1689).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SONG, FROM +ABDELAZAR</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOSEPH ADDISON (1672–1719).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HYMN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><a name="pagexxii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxii</span>ALEXANDER POPE +(1688–1744).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ELEGY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page210">210</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>WILLIAM COWPER (1731–1800).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LINES ON +RECEIVING HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page213">213</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD (1743–1825).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LIFE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>WILLIAM BLAKE (1757–1828).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE LAND OF +DREAMS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +PIPER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page218">218</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HOLY +THURSDAY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page219">219</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +TIGER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE +MUSES</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LOVE’S +SECRET</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ROBERT BURNS (1759–1796).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO A +MOUSE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page222">222</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +FAREWELL</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page224">224</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770–1850).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WHY ART THOU +SILENT?</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THOUGHTS OF A +BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">IT IS A BEAUTEOUS +EVENING, CALM AND FREE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE EXTINCTION +OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">O FRIEND! I KNOW +NOT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SURPRISED BY +JOY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO TOUSSAINT +L’OUVERTURE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WITH SHIPS THE +SEA WAS SPRINKLED</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +WORLD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">UPON WESTMINSTER +BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WHEN I HAVE BORNE +IN MEMORY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THREE YEARS SHE +GREW</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page231">231</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +DAFFODILS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE SOLITARY +REAPER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page233">233</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ELEGIAC +STANZAS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page234">234</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO H. +C.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">’TIS SAID +THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page238">238</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><a name="pagexxiii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxiii</span><span class="GutSmall">THE PET +LAMB</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page240">240</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">STEPPING +WESTWARD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page243">243</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE CHILDLESS +FATHER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page244">244</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE ON +INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page245">245</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771–1832).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">PROUD +MAISEE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page252">252</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A WEARY LOT IS +THINE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page252">252</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE MAID OF +NEIDPATH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page253">253</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772–1834).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">KUBLA +KHAN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page254">254</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">YOUTH AND +AGE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page256">256</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE RIME OF THE +ANCIENT MARINER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page258">258</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775–1864).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ROSE +AYLMER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page281">281</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">EPITAPH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page282">282</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">CHILD OF A +DAY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page282">282</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>THOMAS CAMPBELL (1767–1844).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span +class="GutSmall">HOHENLINDEN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page282">282</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">EARL +MARCH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page283">283</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>CHARLES LAMB (1775–1835).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HESTER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page284">284</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1784–1842).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A WET SHEET AND A +FLOWING SEA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page285">285</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON +(1788–1823).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE ISLES OF +GREECE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page286">286</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792–1822).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">HELLAS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page290">290</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">WILD WITH +WEEPING</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page291">291</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE +NIGHT</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page291">291</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO A +SKYLARK</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page293">293</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO THE +MOON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page297">297</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +QUESTION</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page297">297</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><a name="pagexxiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xxiv</span><span class="GutSmall">THE WANING +MOON</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page298">298</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE TO THE WEST +WIND</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page299">299</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">RARELY, RARELY +COMEST THOU</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page301">301</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE INVITATION, +TO JANE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page303">303</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE +RECOLLECTION</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page305">305</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE TO +HEAVEN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page308">308</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LIFE OF +LIFE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page310">310</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">AUTUMN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page311">311</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">STANZAS WRITTEN +IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page312">312</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">DIRGE FOR THE +YEAR</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page313">313</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">A WIDOW +BIRD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page314">314</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE TWO +SPIRITS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page314">314</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>JOHN KEATS (1795–1821).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LA BELLE DAME +SANS MERCI</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page316">316</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ON FIRST LOOKING +INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page318">318</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">TO +SLEEP</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page319">319</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">THE GENTLE +SOUTH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page319">319</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">LAST +SONNET</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page320">320</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE TO A +NIGHTINGALE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page320">320</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE ON A GRECIAN +URN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page323">323</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE TO +AUTUMN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page325">325</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE TO +PSYCHE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page326">326</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">ODE TO +MELANCHOLY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page328">328</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p>HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796–1849).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent"><span class="GutSmall">SHE IS NOT +FAIR</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page329">329</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>NOTES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page331">331</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>ANONYMOUS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">13TH CENTURY</span></h2> +<h3>THE FIRST CAROL</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Summer</span> is y-comen in!<br /> + Loud sing cuckoo!<br /> + Groweth seed and bloweth mead,<br /> + And springeth the wood new.<br /> + Sing cuckoo! +cuckoo!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ewe bleateth after lamb,<br +/> + Loweth cow after calf;<br /> +Bullock starteth, buck verteth;<br /> + Merry sing cuckoo!<br /> + Cuckoo! +cuckoo!<br /> + Nor cease thou ever now.<br /> + Sing cuckoo now!<br /> + Sing cuckoo!</p> +<h2>SIR WALTER RALEIGH<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1552–1618</span></h2> +<h3>VERSES BEFORE DEATH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Even</span> such is time, +that takes in trust<br /> + Our youth, our joys, our all we have,<br /> +And pays us but with earth and dust;<br /> + Who, in the dark and silent grave,<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>When we have +wandered all our ways,<br /> +Shuts up the story of our days;<br /> +But from this earth, this grave, this dust,<br /> +My God shall raise me up, I trust!</p> +<h2>EDMUND SPENSER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1553–1599</span></h2> +<h3>EASTER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Most</span> glorious Lord +of life! that on this day<br /> + Didst make thy triumph over death and sin;<br /> +And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away<br /> + Captivity then captive, us to win:<br /> +This glorious day, dear Lord, with joy begin,<br /> + And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die,<br /> +Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin,<br /> + May live for ever in felicity!</p> +<p class="poetry">And that thy love we weighing worthily,<br /> + May likewise love thee for the same again;<br /> +And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,<br /> + With love may one another entertain.<br /> +So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought;<br /> +Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.</p> +<h3>FRESH SPRING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fresh</span> Spring, the +herald of love’s mighty king,<br /> + In whose coat-armour richly are displayed<br /> +All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring<br /> + In goodly colours gloriously arrayed:<br /> +<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>Go to my +love, where she is careless laid,<br /> + Yet in her winter bower not well awake;<br /> +Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed,<br /> + Unless she do him by the forelock take;</p> +<p class="poetry">Bid her therefore herself soon ready make,<br +/> + To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;<br /> +Where every one that misseth there her make<br /> + Shall be by him amerced with penance due.<br /> +Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime,<br /> + For none can call again the passed time.</p> +<h3>LIKE AS A SHIP</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Like</span> as a ship, that +through the ocean wide,<br /> + By conduct of some star doth make her way,<br /> +When, as a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide,<br /> + Out of her course doth wander far astray!<br /> +So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray<br /> + Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,<br /> +Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,<br /> + Through hidden perils round about me placed;</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet hope I well that, when this storm is +past,<br /> + My Helice, the loadstar of my life,<br /> +Will shine again, and look on me at last,<br /> + With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief:<br /> +Till then I wander, careful, comfortless,<br /> +In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness.</p> +<h3>EPITHALAMION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> learned sisters, +which have oftentimes<br /> +Been to me aiding, others to adorn,<br /> +Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes,<br /> +That even the greatest did not greatly scorn<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>To hear +their names sung in your simple lays,<br /> +But joyed in their praise;<br /> +And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn,<br /> +Which death, or love, or fortune’s wreck did raise,<br /> +Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn,<br /> +And teach the woods and waters to lament<br /> +Your doleful dreariment:<br /> +Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside;<br /> +And, having all your heads with garlands crowned,<br /> +Help me mine own love’s praises to resound;<br /> +Ne let the same of any be envied:<br /> +So Orpheus did for his own bride!<br /> +So I unto myself alone will sing;<br /> +The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Early, before the world’s light-giving +lamp<br /> +His golden beam upon the hills doth spread,<br /> +Having dispersed the night’s uncheerful damp,<br /> +Do ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-head,<br /> +Go to the bower of my beloved love,<br /> +My truest turtle dove;<br /> +Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,<br /> +And long since ready forth his mask to move,<br /> +With his bright tead that names with many a flake,<br /> +And many a bachelor to wait on him,<br /> +In their fresh garments trim.<br /> +Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight,<br /> +For lo! the wished day is come at last,<br /> +That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past,<br /> +Pay to her usury of long delight:<br /> +And, whilst she doth her dight,<br /> +Do ye to her of joy and solace sing,<br /> +That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear<br /> +Both of the rivers and the forests green,<br /> +And of the sea that neighbours to her near:<br /> +All with gay garlands goodly well beseen.<br /> +And let them also with them bring in hand<br /> +Another gay garland,<br /> +For my fair love, of lilies and of roses,<br /> +Bound truelove wise, with a blue silk riband.<br /> +And let them make great store of bridal posies,<br /> +And let them eke bring store of other flowers,<br /> +To deck the bridal bowers.<br /> +And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,<br /> +For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong,<br /> +Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,<br /> +And diapred like the discoloured mead.<br /> +Which done, do at her chamber door await,<br /> +For she will waken straight;<br /> +The whiles do ye this song unto her sing,<br /> +The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed<br +/> +The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,<br /> +And greedy pikes which use therein to feed<br /> +(Those trouts and pikes all others do excel);<br /> +And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake,<br /> +Where none do fishes take;<br /> +Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light,<br /> +And in his waters, which your mirror make,<br /> +Behold your faces as the crystal bright,<br /> +That when you come whereas my love doth lie,<br /> +No blemish she may spy.<br /> +And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the door,<br /> +That on the hoary mountain used to tower;<br /> +And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour,<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>With your +steel darts do chase from coming near;<br /> +Be also present here,<br /> +To help to deck her, and to help to sing,<br /> +That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time:<br /> +The Rosy Morn long since left Tithon’s bed,<br /> +All ready to her silver coach to climb;<br /> +And Phœbus ’gins to show his glorious head.<br /> +Hark! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays<br /> +And carol of love’s praise.<br /> +The merry Lark her matins sings aloft;<br /> +The Thrush replies; the Mavis descant plays:<br /> +The Ouzel shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;<br /> +So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,<br /> +To this day’s merriment.<br /> +Ah! my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long,<br /> +When meeter were that ye should now awake,<br /> +T’ await the coming of your joyous make,<br /> +And hearken to the birds’ love-learned song,<br /> +The dewy leaves among?<br /> +For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,<br /> +That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">My love is now awake out of her dreams,<br /> +And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were<br /> +With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams<br /> +More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.<br /> +Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,<br /> +Help quickly her to dight!<br /> +But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot,<br /> +In Jove’s sweet paradise, of Day and Night;<br /> +Which do the seasons of the year allot,<br /> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>And all, +that ever in this world is fair,<br /> +Do make and still repair:<br /> +And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,<br /> +The which do still adorn her beauty’s pride,<br /> +Help to adorn my beautifullest bride:<br /> +And, as ye her array, still throw between<br /> +Some graces to be seen;<br /> +And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,<br /> +The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now is my love all ready forth to come:<br /> +Let all the virgins therefore well await:<br /> +And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom,<br /> +Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight.<br /> +Set all your things in seemly good array,<br /> +Fit for so joyful day:<br /> +The joyfullest day that ever Sun did see.<br /> +Fair Sun! show forth thy favourable ray,<br /> +And let thy life-full heat not fervent be,<br /> +For fear of burning her sunshiny face,<br /> +Her beauty to disgrace.<br /> +O fairest Phœbus! father of the Muse!<br /> +If ever I did honour thee aright,<br /> +Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,<br /> +Do not thy servant’s simple boon refuse;<br /> +But let this day, let this one day, be mine;<br /> +Let all the rest be thine.<br /> +Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,<br /> +That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hark! how the minstrels ’gin to shrill +aloud<br /> +Their merry Music that resounds from far,<br /> +The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd,<br /> +That well agree withouten breach or jar.<br /> +<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>But, most of +all, the damsels do delight<br /> +When they their timbrels smite,<br /> +And thereunto do dance and carol sweet,<br /> +That all the senses they do ravish quite;<br /> +The whiles the boys run up and down the street,<br /> +Crying aloud with strong confused noise,<br /> +As if it were one voice,<br /> +Hymen! iö Hymen! Hymen, they do shout;<br /> +That even to the heavens their shouting shrill<br /> +Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;<br /> +To which the people standing all about,<br /> +As in approvance, do thereto applaud,<br /> +And loud advance her laud;<br /> +And evermore they Hymen, Hymen! sing,<br /> +That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,<br +/> +Like Phœbe, from her chamber of the East,<br /> +Arising forth to run her mighty race,<br /> +Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.<br /> +So well it her beseems, that ye would ween<br /> +Some angel she had been.<br /> +Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire,<br /> +Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,<br /> +Do like a golden mantle her attire;<br /> +And, being crowned with a garland green,<br /> +Seem like some maiden Queen.<br /> +Her modest eyes, abashed to behold<br /> +So many gazers as on her do stare,<br /> +Upon the lowly ground affixed are;<br /> +Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,<br /> +But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,<br /> +So far from being proud.<br /> +<a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>Nathless, do +ye still loud her praises sing,<br /> +That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tell me, ye merchants’ daughters, did ye +see<br /> +So fair a creature in your town before;<br /> +So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,<br /> +Adorned with beauty’s grace and virtue’s store?<br /> +Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright,<br /> +Her forehead ivory white,<br /> +Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied,<br /> +Her lips like cherries charming men to bite,<br /> +Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,<br /> +Her paps like lilies budded,<br /> +Her snowy neck like to a marble tower;<br /> +And all her body like a palace fair,<br /> +Ascending up, with many a stately stair,<br /> +To honour’s seat and chastity’s sweet bower.<br /> +Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze,<br /> +Upon her so to gaze,<br /> +Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,<br /> +To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring?</p> +<p class="poetry">But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,<br /> +The inward beauty of her lively spright,<br /> +Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,<br /> +Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,<br /> +And stand astonished like to those which read<br /> +Medusa’s mazeful head.<br /> +There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity,<br /> +Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood,<br /> +Regard of honour, and mild modesty;<br /> +There virtue reigns as Queen in royal throne,<br /> +And giveth laws alone,<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>The which +the base affections do obey,<br /> +And yield their services unto her will;<br /> +Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may<br /> +Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill.<br /> +Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures<br /> +And unrevealed pleasures,<br /> +Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing,<br /> +That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Open the temple gates unto my love,<br /> +Open them wide that she may enter in,<br /> +And all the posts adorn as doth behove,<br /> +And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,<br /> +For to receive this Saint with honour due,<br /> +That cometh in to you.<br /> +With trembling steps, and humble reverence,<br /> +She cometh in before th’ Almighty’s view;<br /> +Of her ye virgins learn obedience,<br /> +When so ye come into those holy places,<br /> +To humble your proud faces:<br /> +Bring her up to th’ high altar, that she may<br /> +The sacred ceremonies there partake,<br /> +The which do endless matrimony make;<br /> +And let the roaring organs loudly play<br /> +The praises of the Lord in lively notes;<br /> +The whiles, with hollow throats,<br /> +The choristers the joyous anthem sing,<br /> +That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,<br +/> +Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,<br /> +And blesseth her with his two happy hands,<br /> +How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>And the +pure snow with goodly vermeil stain,<br /> +Lake crimson dyed in grain:<br /> +That even th’ Angels, which continually<br /> +About the sacred altar do remain,<br /> +Forget their service and about her fly,<br /> +Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,<br /> +The more they on it stare.<br /> +But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,<br /> +Are governed with goodly modesty,<br /> +That suffers not one look to glance awry,<br /> +Which may let in a little thought unsound.<br /> +Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,<br /> +The pledge of all our band?<br /> +Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluja sing,<br /> +That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now all is done: bring home the Bride again;<br +/> +Bring home the triumph of our victory:<br /> +Bring home with you the glory of her gain,<br /> +With joyance bring her and with jollity.<br /> +Never had man more joyful day than this,<br /> +Whom heaven would heap with bliss.<br /> +Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;<br /> +This day for ever to me holy is.<br /> +Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,<br /> +Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful!<br /> +Pour out to all that wull,<br /> +And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine,<br /> +That they may sweat, and drunken be withal.<br /> +Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal,<br /> +And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine;<br /> +And let the Graces dance unto the rest,<br /> +For they can do it best:<br /> +<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>The whiles +the maidens do their carol sing,<br /> +To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,<br +/> +And leave your wonted labours for this day:<br /> +This day is holy; do ye write it down,<br /> +That ye for ever it remember may.<br /> +This day the sun is in his chiefest height,<br /> +With Barnaby the bright,<br /> +From whence declining daily by degrees,<br /> +He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,<br /> +When once the Crab behind his back he sees.<br /> +But for this time it ill ordained was,<br /> +To choose the longest day in all the year,<br /> +And shortest night, when longest fitter were:<br /> +Yet never day so long, but late would pass.<br /> +Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away,<br /> +And bonfires make all day;<br /> +And dance about them, and about them sing,<br /> +That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! when will this long weary day have end,<br +/> +And lend me leave to come unto my love?<br /> +How slowly do the hours their numbers spend;<br /> +How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!<br /> +Haste thee, O fairest Planet, to thy home,<br /> +Within the Western foam:<br /> +Thy tired steeds long since have need of rest.<br /> +Long though it be, at last I see it gloom,<br /> +And the bright evening-star with golden crest<br /> +Appear out of the East,<br /> +Fair child of beauty! glorious lamp of love!<br /> +That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead,<br /> +And guidest lovers through the night’s sad dread,<br /> +<a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>How +cheerfully thou lookest from above,<br /> +And seem’st to laugh atween thy twinkling light,<br /> +As joying in the sight<br /> +Of these glad many, which for joy do sing,<br /> +That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now cease, ye damsels, your delights +forepast;<br /> +Enough it is that all the day was yours:<br /> +Now day is done, and night is nighing fast,<br /> +Now bring the Bride into the bridal bowers.<br /> +The night is come; now soon her disarray,<br /> +And in her bed her lay;<br /> +Lay her in lilies and in violets,<br /> +And silken curtains over her display,<br /> +And odoured sheets, and arras coverlets.<br /> +Behold how goodly my fair love does lie,<br /> +In proud humility!<br /> +Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took<br /> +In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass,<br /> +’Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was,<br /> +With bathing in the Acidalian brook.<br /> +Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone,<br /> +And leave my love alone,<br /> +And leave likewise your former lay to sing:<br /> +The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now welcome, night! thou night so long +expected,<br /> +That long day’s labour dost at last defray,<br /> +And all my cares, which cruel Love collected,<br /> +Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye:<br /> +Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,<br /> +That no man may us see;<br /> +And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,<br /> +From fear of peril and foul horror free.<br /> +<a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>Let no +false treason seek us to entrap,<br /> +Nor any dread disquiet once annoy<br /> +The safety of our joy;<br /> +But let the night be calm, and quietsome,<br /> +Without tempestuous storms or sad affray:<br /> +Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay,<br /> +When he begot the great Tirynthian groom:<br /> +Or like as when he with thy self did lie<br /> +And begot Majesty.<br /> +And let the maids and young men cease to sing;<br /> +Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let no lamenting cries nor doleful tears<br /> +Be heard all night within, nor yet without;<br /> +Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden fears,<br /> +Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt.<br /> +Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights,<br /> +Make sudden sad affrights;<br /> +Ne let house-fires, nor lightning’s helpless harms,<br /> +Ne let the Pouke, nor other evil sprights,<br /> +Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,<br /> +Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not,<br /> +Fray us with things that be not:<br /> +Let not the shriek-owl nor the stork be heard,<br /> +Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells;<br /> +Nor damned ghosts, called up with mighty spells,<br /> +Nor grisly vultures, make us once afeard:<br /> +Ne let the unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking<br /> +Make us to wish their choking!<br /> +Let none of these their dreary accents sing;<br /> +Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">But let still Silence true night-watches +keep,<br /> +That sacred Peace may in assurance reign,<br /> +<a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>And timely +Sleep, when it is time to sleep,<br /> +May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain;<br /> +The whiles an hundred little winged loves,<br /> +Like divers-feathered doves,<br /> +Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,<br /> +And in the secret dark, that none reproves,<br /> +Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread<br /> +To filch away sweet snatches of delight,<br /> +Concealed through covert night.<br /> +Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will!<br /> +For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toys,<br /> +Thinks more upon her paradise of joys,<br /> +Then what ye do, albeit good or ill!<br /> +All night therefore attend your merry play,<br /> +For it will soon be day:<br /> +Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing;<br /> +Ne will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who is the same, which at my window peeps,<br +/> +Or whose is that fair face that shines so bright?<br /> +Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps,<br /> +But walks about high heaven all the night?<br /> +O! fairest goddess, do thou not envy<br /> +My love with me to spy:<br /> +For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,<br /> +And for a fleece of wool, which privily<br /> +The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,<br /> +His pleasures with thee wrought!<br /> +Therefore to us be favourable now;<br /> +And sith of women’s labours thou hast charge,<br /> +And generation goodly dost enlarge,<br /> +Incline thy will to effect our wishful vow,<br /> +And the chaste womb inform with timely seed,<br /> +That may our comfort breed:<br /> +<a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>Till which +we cease our hopeful hap to sing;<br /> +Ne let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thou, great Juno! which with awful might<br +/> +The laws of wedlock still dost patronize,<br /> +And the religion of the faith first plight<br /> +With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;<br /> +And eke for comfort often called art<br /> +Of women in their smart;<br /> +Eternally bind thou this lovely band,<br /> +And all thy blessings unto us impart.<br /> +And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand<br /> +The bridal bower and genial bed remain,<br /> +Without blemish or stain;<br /> +And the sweet pleasures of their love’s delight<br /> +With secret aid dost succour and supply,<br /> +Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny;<br /> +Send us the timely fruit of this same night.<br /> +And thou, fair Hebe! and thou, Hymen free!<br /> +Grant that it may so be.<br /> +Till which we cease your further praise to sing;<br /> +Ne any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ye high heavens, the Temple of the Gods,<br +/> +In which a thousand torches flaming bright<br /> +Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods<br /> +In dreadful darkness lend desired light;<br /> +And all ye powers which in the same remain,<br /> +More than we men can feign!<br /> +Pour out your blessing on us plenteously,<br /> +And happy influence upon us rain,<br /> +That we may raise a large posterity,<br /> +Which from the earth, which they may long possess<br /> +With lasting happiness,<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>Up to your +haughty palaces may mount;<br /> +And, for the guerdon of their glorious merit,<br /> +May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,<br /> +Of blessed saints for to increase the count.<br /> +So let us rest, sweet Love, in hope of this,<br /> +And cease till then our timely joys to sing:<br /> +The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Song</i>! <i>made in lieu of many +ornaments</i>,<br /> +<i>With which my Love should duly have been decked</i>.<br /> +<i>Which cutting off through hasty accidents</i>,<br /> +<i>Ye would not stay your due time to expect</i>,<br /> +<i>But promised both to recompense</i>;<br /> +<i>Be unto her a goodly ornament</i>,<br /> +<i>And for short time an endless monument</i>.</p> +<h2>JOHN LYLY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1554(?)–1606</span></h2> +<h3>THE SPRING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> bird so sings, +yet does so wail?<br /> +O, ’tis the ravished nightingale!<br /> +‘Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu,’ she cries,<br /> +And still her woes at midnight rise.<br /> +Brave prick-song! who is’t now we hear?<br /> +None but the lark so shrill and clear;<br /> +Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings,<br /> +The morn not waking till she sings.<br /> +Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat<br /> +Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note;<br /> +Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing!<br /> +Cuckoo to welcome in the spring,<br /> +Cuckoo to welcome in the spring!</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>SIR +PHILIP SIDNEY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1554–1586</span></h2> +<h3>TRUE LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> true-love hath my +heart, and I have his,<br /> +By just exchange one for the other given:<br /> +I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,<br /> +There never was a better bargain driven:<br /> +His heart in me keeps him and me in one,<br /> +My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:<br /> +He loves my heart, for once it was his own,<br /> +I cherish his because in me it bides:<br /> +His heart his wound received from my sight;<br /> +My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;<br /> +For as from me on him his hurt did light,<br /> +So still methought in me his hurt did smart:<br /> + Both, equal hurt, in this change sought our +bliss.<br /> + My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.</p> +<h3>THE MOON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> how sad steps, +O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!<br /> +How silently, and with how wan a face!<br /> +What, may it be that e’en in heavenly place<br /> +That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!<br /> +Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes<br /> +Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case;<br /> +I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace,<br /> +To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Then, +e’en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,<br /> +Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?<br /> +Are beauties there as proud as here they be?<br /> +Do they above love to be loved, and yet<br /> + Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?<br +/> + Do they call virtue, there, ungratefulness?</p> +<h3>KISS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> still a boy and +oft a wanton is,<br /> +Schooled only by his mother’s tender eye;<br /> +What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss,<br /> +When for so soft a rod dear play he try?<br /> +And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss<br /> +In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie,<br /> +Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat, for only this.—<br /> +Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I!<br /> +But no ’scuse serves; she makes her wrath appear<br /> +In Beauty’s throne; see now, who dares come near<br /> +Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain!<br /> +O heavenly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face<br /> +Anger invests with such a lovely grace,<br /> +That Anger’s self I needs must kiss again.</p> +<h3>SWEET JUDGE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Alas</span>! whence comes +this change of looks? If I<br /> +Have changed desert, let mine own conscience be<br /> +A still-felt plague to self-condemning me,<br /> +Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eye;<br /> +But if all faith, like spotless ermine, lie<br /> +Safe in my soul, which only doth to thee,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>As his +sole object of felicity,<br /> +With wings of love in air of wonder fly,<br /> +O ease your hand, treat not so hard your slave;<br /> +In justice, pains come not till faults do call:<br /> +Or if I needs, sweet Judge, must torments have,<br /> +Use something else to chasten me withal<br /> + Than those blest eyes, where all my hopes do +dwell:<br /> + No doom should make one’s heaven become his +hell.</p> +<h3>SLEEP</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, Sleep! O +Sleep, the certain knot of peace,<br /> +The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,<br /> +The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,<br /> +The indifferent judge between the high and low;<br /> +With shield of proof shield me from out the prease<br /> +Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:<br /> +O make in me those civil wars to cease;<br /> +I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.<br /> +Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,<br /> +A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,<br /> +A rosy garland and a weary head:<br /> +And if these things, as being thine in right,<br /> + Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me<br /> + Livelier than elsewhere Stella’s image +see.</p> +<h3>WAT’RED WAS MY WINE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Late</span> tired with woe, +even ready for to pine,<br /> +With rage of love, I called my love unkind;<br /> +She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine,<br /> +Sweet said that I true love in her should find.<br /> +<a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>I joyed; +but straight thus wat’red was my wine,<br /> +That love she did, but loved a love not blind;<br /> +Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline<br /> +From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind:<br /> +And therefore, by her love’s authority,<br /> +Wiled me these tempests of vain love to fly,<br /> +And anchor fast myself on virtue’s shore.<br /> +Alas, if this the only metal be<br /> +Of love new-coined to help my beggary,<br /> +Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.</p> +<h2>THOMAS LODGE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1556–1625</span></h2> +<h3>ROSALYND’S MADRIGAL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> in my bosom, +like a bee,<br /> + Doth suck his +sweet;<br /> +Now with his wings he plays with me,<br /> + Now with his +feet.<br /> + Within mines eyes he makes his nest,<br /> + His bed amidst my tender breast;<br /> + My kisses are his daily feast,<br /> + And yet he robs me of my rest:<br /> + Ah! wanton, will +ye?</p> +<p class="poetry">And if I sleep, then percheth he<br /> + With pretty +flight,<br /> +And makes his pillow of my knee<br /> + The livelong +night.<br /> + Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;<br /> + He music plays if so I sing:<br /> + He lends me every lovely thing,<br /> + Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:<br /> + Whist, wanton, +will ye?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>Else I with roses every day<br /> + Will whip you +hence,<br /> +And bind you, when you long to play,<br /> + For your +offence;<br /> + I’ll shut my eyes to keep you in,<br /> + I’ll make you fast it for your sin,<br /> + I’ll count your power not worth a pin:<br /> + Alas! what hereby shall I win,<br /> + If he gainsay +me?</p> +<p class="poetry">What if I beat the wanton boy<br /> + With many a +rod?<br /> +He will repay me with annoy,<br /> + Because a +god.<br /> + Then sit thou safely on my knee,<br /> + And let thy bower my bosom be;<br /> + Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee!<br /> + O Cupid! so thou pity me,<br /> + Spare not, but +play thee!</p> +<h3>ROSALINE</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Like</span> to the clear in highest sphere<br /> + Where all imperial glory shines,<br /> + Of selfsame colour is her hair<br /> + Whether unfolded, or in twines:<br /> + Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /> + Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,<br /> + Resembling heaven by every wink;<br /> + The gods do fear whenas they glow,<br /> + And I do tremble when I think—<br /> + Heigh ho, would she were mine!<br +/> + <a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud<br /> + That beautifies Aurora’s face,<br /> + Or like the silver crimson shroud<br /> + That Phœbus’ smiling looks doth +grace;<br /> + Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /> + Her lips are like two budded roses<br /> + Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,<br /> + Within which bounds she balm encloses<br /> + Apt to entice a deity:<br /> + Heigh ho, would she were mine!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Her neck is like a stately +tower<br /> + Where Love himself imprisoned lies,<br /> + To watch for glances every hour<br /> + From her divine and sacred eyes:<br /> + Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /> + Her paps are centres of delight,<br /> + Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,<br /> + Where Nature moulds the dew of light<br /> + To feed perfection with the same:<br /> + Heigh ho, would she were mine!</p> +<p class="poetry"> With orient pearl, with ruby +red,<br /> + With marble white, with sapphire blue<br /> + Her body every way is fed,<br /> + Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:<br /> + Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!<br /> + Nature herself her shape admires;<br /> + The gods are wounded in her sight;<br /> + And Love forsakes his heavenly fires<br /> + And at her eyes his brand doth light:<br /> + Heigh ho, would she were mine!</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page24"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 24</span>Then muse not, Nymphs, though I +bemoan<br /> + The absence of fair Rosaline,<br /> + Since for a fair there’s fairer none,<br /> + Nor for her virtues so divine:<br /> + Heigh ho, fair Rosaline;<br /> +Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!</p> +<h3>THE SOLITARY SHEPHERD’S SONG</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">shady</span> vale, O fair +enriched meads,<br /> + O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising +mountains;<br /> +O painted flowers, green herbs where Flora treads,<br /> + Refreshed by wanton winds and watery fountains!</p> +<p class="poetry">O all ye winged choristers of wood,<br /> + That perched aloft, your former pains report;<br /> +And straight again recount with pleasant mood<br /> + Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort!</p> +<p class="poetry">O all you creatures whosoever thrive<br /> + On mother earth, in seas, by air, by fire;<br /> +More blest are you than I here under sun!<br /> + Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive<br /> +In you; I perish under Beauty’s ire,<br /> + Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is +won.</p> +<h2>ANONYMOUS</h2> +<h3>I SAW MY LADY WEEP</h3> +<p class="poetry"> I <span +class="smcap">saw</span> my Lady weep,<br /> +And Sorrow proud to be advanced so<br /> +In those fair eyes where all perfections keep.<br /> + Her face was full of woe,<br /> +But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts<br /> +Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>Sorrow was +there made fair,<br /> +And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing;<br /> +Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare:<br /> + She made her sighs to sing,<br /> +And all things with so sweet a sadness move<br /> +As made my heart at once both grieve and love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O fairer +than aught else<br /> +The world can show, leave off in time to grieve!<br /> +Enough, enough: your joyful look excels:<br /> + Tears kill the heart, believe.<br +/> +O strive not to be excellent in woe,<br /> +Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow.</p> +<h2>GEORGE PEELE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1558(?)–1597</span></h2> +<h3>FAREWELL TO ARMS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">His</span> golden locks +time hath to silver turned;<br /> + O time too swift! O swiftness never +ceasing!<br /> +His youth ’gainst age, and age at time, hath spurned,<br /> + But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing:<br +/> +Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;<br /> +Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green.</p> +<p class="poetry">His helmet now shall make an hive for bees,<br +/> + And lovers’ sonnets turn to holy psalms;<br /> +A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,<br /> + And feed on prayers, that are old age’s +alms:<br /> +But though from court to cottage he depart,<br /> +His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>And when he saddest sits in homely cell,<br /> + He’ll teach his swains this carol for a +song,—<br /> +‘Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,<br /> + Cursed be the souls that think her any +wrong!’<br /> +Goddess, allow this aged man his right<br /> +To be your beadsman now that was your knight.</p> +<h2>ROBERT GREENE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1560(?)–1592</span></h2> +<h3>FAWNIA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, were she pitiful +as she is fair,<br /> + Or but as mild as she is seeming so,<br /> +Then were my hopes greater than my despair,<br /> + Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe!<br /> +Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,<br /> + That seems to melt even with the mildest touch,<br +/> +Then knew I where to seat me in a land<br /> + Under wide heavens, but yet I know not such.<br /> +So as she shows, she seems the budding rose,<br /> + Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower,<br /> +Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,<br /> + Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower;<br +/> +Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn,<br /> +She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, when she sings, all music else be still,<br +/> + For none must be compared to her note;<br /> +Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill,<br /> + Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling +throat.<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>Ah, when +she riseth from her blissful bed,<br /> + She comforts all the world, as doth the sun,<br /> +And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled;<br +/> + When she is set, the gladsome day is done.<br /> +O glorious sun, imagine me thy west,<br /> +Shine in mine arms, and set thou in my breast!</p> +<h3>SEPHESTIA’S SONG TO HER CHILD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Weep</span> not, my wanton, +smile upon my knee,<br /> +When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee.<br /> + Mother’s wag, pretty boy,<br +/> + Father’s sorrow, +father’s joy;<br /> + When thy father first did see<br +/> + Such a boy by him and me,<br /> + He was glad, I was woe,<br /> + Fortune changed made him so,<br /> + When he left his pretty boy<br /> + Last his sorrow, first his +joy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /> +When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.<br /> + Streaming tears that never +stint,<br /> + Like pearl drops from a flint,<br +/> + Fell by course from his eyes,<br +/> + That one another’s place +supplies;<br /> + Thus he grieved in every part,<br +/> + Tears of blood fell from his +heart,<br /> + When he left his pretty boy,<br /> + Father’s sorrow, +father’s joy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /> +When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.<br /> + The wanton smiled, father wept,<br +/> + Mother cried, baby leapt;<br /> + <a name="page28"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 28</span>More he crowed, more we cried,<br /> + Nature could not sorrow hide:<br +/> + He must go, he must kiss<br /> + Child and mother, baby bless,<br +/> + For he left his pretty boy,<br /> + Father’s sorrow, +father’s joy.<br /> +Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,<br /> +When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.</p> +<h2>CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1562–1593</span></h2> +<h3>THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span> live with me +and be my Love,<br /> +And we will all the pleasures prove<br /> +That hills and valleys, dale and field,<br /> +And all the craggy mountains yield.</p> +<p class="poetry">There will we sit upon the rocks<br /> +And see the shepherds feed their flocks,<br /> +By shallow rivers, to whose falls<br /> +Melodious birds sing madrigals.</p> +<p class="poetry">There will I make thee beds of roses<br /> +And a thousand fragrant posies,<br /> +A cap of flowers, and a kirtle<br /> +Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.</p> +<p class="poetry">A gown made of the finest wool,<br /> +Which from our pretty lambs we pull,<br /> +Fair lined slippers for the cold,<br /> +With buckles of the purest gold.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>A belt of straw and ivy buds<br /> +With coral clasps and amber studs:<br /> +And if these pleasures may thee move,<br /> +Come live with me and be my Love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy silver dishes for thy meat<br /> +As precious as the gods do eat,<br /> +Shall on an ivory table be<br /> +Prepared each day for thee and me.</p> +<p class="poetry">The shepherd swains shall dance and sing<br /> +For thy delight each May-morning;<br /> +If these delights thy mind may move,<br /> +Then live with me and be my Love.</p> +<h2>SAMUEL DANIEL<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1562–1619</span></h2> +<h3>SLEEP</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Care-charmer</span> Sleep, +son of the sable Night,<br /> +Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,<br /> +Relieve my languish, and restore the light;<br /> +With dark forgetting of my care return.<br /> +And let the day be time enough to mourn<br /> +The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth:<br /> +Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,<br /> +Without the torment of the night’s untruth.<br /> +Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,<br /> +To model forth the passions of the morrow;<br /> +Never let rising Sun approve you liars,<br /> +To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:<br /> + Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,<br /> + And never wake to feel the day’s disdain.</p> +<h3><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>MY +SPOTLESS LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> spotless love +hovers with purest wings<br /> +About the temple of the proudest frame,<br /> +Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,<br /> +Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.<br /> +My ambitious thoughts, confined in her face,<br /> +Affect no honour but what she can give;<br /> +My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;<br /> +I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.<br /> +For she that can my heart imparadise,<br /> +Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is,<br /> +My fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes,<br /> +Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss!<br /> + All my life’s sweet consists in her alone;<br +/> + So much I love the most Unloving One.</p> +<h2>MICHAEL DRAYTON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1563–1631</span></h2> +<h3>SINCE THERE’S NO HELP</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Since</span> there’s +no help, come let us kiss and part,—<br /> +Nay I have done, you get no more of me;<br /> +And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,<br /> +That thus so cleanly I myself can free;<br /> +Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,<br /> +And when we meet at any time again,<br /> +Be it not seen in either of our brows,<br /> +That we one jot of former love retain.<br /> +<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>Now at the +last gasp of love’s latest breath,<br /> +When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,<br /> +When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,<br /> +And innocence is closing up his eyes,<br /> + —Now if thou would’st, when all have +given him over,<br /> + From death to life thou might’st him yet +recover!</p> +<h2>JOSHUA SYLVESTER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1563–1618</span></h2> +<h3>WERE I AS BASE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Were</span> I as base as is +the lowly plain,<br /> +And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,<br /> +Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain<br /> +Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.<br /> +Were I as high as heaven above the plain,<br /> +And you, my Love, as humble and as low<br /> +As are the deepest bottoms of the main,<br /> +Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go.<br /> +Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,<br /> +My love should shine on you like to the sun,<br /> +And look upon you with ten thousand eyes<br /> +Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were done.<br /> + Wheresoe’er I am, below, or else above you,<br +/> + Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love +you.</p> +<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1564–1616</span></h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Poor</span> Soul, the +centre of my sinful earth,<br /> +[Foiled by] those rebel powers that thee array,<br /> +Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,<br /> +Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?<br /> +Why so large cost, having so short a lease,<br /> +Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?<br /> +Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,<br /> +Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?<br /> +Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,<br /> +And let that pine to aggravate thy store;<br /> +Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;<br /> +Within be fed, without be rich no more:—<br /> + So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,<br +/> + And death once dead, there’s no more dying +then.</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">me</span>! what eyes hath +Love put in my head<br /> +Which have no correspondence with true sight;<br /> +Or if they have, where is my judgment fled<br /> +That censures falsely what they see aright?<br /> +If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,<br /> +What means the world to say it is not so?<br /> +If it be not, then love doth well denote<br /> +Love’s eye is not so true as all men’s: No,<br /> +How can it? O how can love’s eye be true,<br /> +That is so vexed with watching and with tears?<br /> +No marvel then though I mistake my view:<br /> +The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.<br /> + <a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me +blind,<br /> + Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should +find!</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Shall</span> I compare thee +to a summer’s day?<br /> +Thou art more lovely and more temperate:<br /> +Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,<br /> +And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:<br /> +Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,<br /> +And often is his gold complexion dimmed;<br /> +And every fair from fair sometime declines,<br /> +By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed.<br /> +But thy eternal summer shall not fade<br /> +Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;<br /> +Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,<br /> +When in eternal lines to time thou growest:—<br /> + So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,<br /> + So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> in the +chronicle of wasted time<br /> +I see descriptions of the fairest wights,<br /> +And beauty making beautiful old rhyme<br /> +In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;<br /> +Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best<br /> +Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,<br /> +I see their antique pen would have exprest<br /> +Ev’n such a beauty as you master now,<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>So all +their praises are but prophecies<br /> +Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;<br /> +And for they looked but with divining eyes,<br /> +They had not skill enough your worth to sing:<br /> + For we, which now behold these present days,<br /> + Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">That</span> time of year +thou may’st in me behold<br /> +When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang<br /> +Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,<br /> +Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang:<br /> +In me thou see’st the twilight of such day<br /> +As after sunset fadeth in the west,<br /> +Which by and by black night doth take away,<br /> +Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest:<br /> +In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire<br /> +That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,<br /> +As the death-bed whereon it must expire,<br /> +Consumed with that which it was nourished by:<br /> + This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love +more strong,<br /> + To love that well which thou must leave ere +long.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> like a winter +hath my absence been<br /> +From thee the pleasure of the fleeting year!<br /> +What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,<br /> +What old December’s bareness everywhere!<br /> +<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>And yet +this time removed was summer’s time:<br /> +The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,<br /> +Bearing the wanton burden of the prime<br /> +Like widowed wombs after their lord’s decease:<br /> +Yet this abundant issue seemed to me<br /> +But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit;<br /> +For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,<br /> +And, thou away, the very birds are mute;<br /> + Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,<br +/> + That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s +near.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Being</span> your slave, +what should I do but tend<br /> +Upon the hours and times of your desire?<br /> +I have no precious time at all to spend<br /> +Nor services to do, till you require:<br /> +Nor dare I chide the world-without-end-hour<br /> +Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,<br /> +Nor think the bitterness of absence sour<br /> +When you have bid your servant once adieu:<br /> +Nor dare I question with my jealous thought<br /> +Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,<br /> +But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought<br /> +Save, where you are how happy you make those;—<br /> + So true a fool is love, that in your will<br /> + Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> in disgrace +with fortune and men’s eyes<br /> +I all alone beweep my outcast state,<br /> +And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,<br /> +And look upon myself and curse my fate;<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>Wishing me +like to one more rich in hope,<br /> +Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,<br /> +Desiring this man’s heart, and that man’s scope,<br +/> +With what I most enjoy contented least;<br /> +Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,<br /> +Haply I think on Thee—and then my state,<br /> +Like to the lark at break of day arising<br /> +From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate;<br /> + For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings<br +/> + That then I scorn to change my state with kings.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> that have power +to hurt, and will do none,<br /> +That do not do the thing they most do show,<br /> +Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,<br /> +Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,—<br /> +They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,<br /> +And husband nature’s riches from expense;<br /> +They are the lords and owners of their faces,<br /> +Others, but stewards of their excellence.<br /> +The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,<br /> +Though to itself it only live and die;<br /> +But if that flower with base infection meet,<br /> +The basest weed outbraves his dignity:<br /> + For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;<br +/> + Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span><span class="smcap">Farewell</span>! thou art too dear +for my possessing,<br /> +And like enough thou know’st thy estimate:<br /> +The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;<br /> +My bonds in thee are all determinate.<br /> +For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?<br /> +And for that riches where is my deserving?<br /> +The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,<br /> +And so my patent back again is swerving.<br /> +Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,<br /> +Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;<br /> +So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,<br /> +Comes home again, on better judgment making.<br /> + Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;<br /> + In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> to the sessions +of sweet silent thought<br /> +I summon up remembrance of things past,<br /> +I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,<br /> +And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste;<br /> +Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,<br /> +For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,<br /> +And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancelled woe,<br /> +And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.<br /> +Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,<br /> +And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er<br /> +<a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>The sad +account of fore-bemoanèd moan,<br /> +Which I new pay as if not paid before:<br /> + But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,<br /> + All losses are restored, and sorrows end.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Did</span> not the heavenly +rhetoric of thine eye<br /> +’Gainst whom the world could not hold argument,<br /> +Persuade my heart to this false perjury?<br /> +Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.<br /> +A woman I forswore; but I will prove,<br /> +Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:<br /> +My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;<br /> +Thy grace being gained cures all disgrace in me.<br /> +My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is;<br /> +Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine,<br /> +Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is:<br /> +If broken, then it is no fault of mine.<br /> + If by me broke, what fool is not so wise<br /> + To break an oath, to win a paradise?</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> forward violet +thus did I chide:<br /> +Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,<br /> +If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride<br /> +Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells<br /> +In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.<br /> +The lily I condemned for thy hand,<br /> +And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair:<br /> +The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,<br /> +One blushing shame, another white despair;<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>A third, +nor red nor white, had stol’n of both<br /> +And to his robbery had annexed thy breath;<br /> +But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth<br /> +A vengeful canker eat him up to death.<br /> + More flowers I noted, yet I none could see<br /> + But sweet or colour it had stol’n from +thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, <span class="smcap">lest</span> the world +should task you to recite<br /> +What merit lived in me, that you should love<br /> +After my death, dear love, forget me quite,<br /> +For you in me can nothing worthy prove;<br /> +Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,<br /> +To do more for me than mine own desert,<br /> +And hang more praise upon deceased I<br /> +Than niggard truth would willingly impart:<br /> +O, lest your true love may seem false in this,<br /> +That you for love speak well of me untrue,<br /> +My name be buried where my body is,<br /> +And live no more to shame nor me nor you.<br /> + For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,<br /> + And so should you, to love things nothing worth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> me not to the +marriage of true minds<br /> +Admit impediments. Love is not love<br /> +Which alters when it alteration finds,<br /> +Or bends with the remover to remove:<br /> +O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark<br /> +That looks on tempests and is never shaken;<br /> +It is the star to every wandering bark,<br /> +Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.<br /> +<a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and +cheeks<br /> +Within his bending sickle’s compass come;<br /> +Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,<br /> +But bears it out even to the edge of doom.<br /> + If this be error and upon me proved,<br /> + I never writ, nor no man ever loved.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> oft, when thou, +my music, music play’st,<br /> +Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds<br /> +With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st<br /> +The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,<br /> +Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap<br /> +To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,<br /> +Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,<br /> +At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!<br /> +To be so tickled, they would change their state<br /> +And situation with those dancing chips,<br /> +O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,<br /> +Making dead wood more blest than living lips.<br /> + Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,<br /> + Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Full</span> many a glorious +morning have I seen<br /> +Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,<br /> +Kissing with golden face the meadows green,<br /> +Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;<br /> +Anon permit the basest clouds to ride<br /> +With ugly rack on his celestial face,<br /> +And from the forlorn world his visage hide,<br /> +Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>Even so my +sun one early morn did shine<br /> +With all-triumphant splendour on my brow,<br /> +But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;<br /> +The region cloud hath masked him from me now.<br /> + Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth:<br /> + Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun +staineth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> expense of +spirit in a waste of shame<br /> +Is lust in action; and till action, lust<br /> +Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,<br /> +Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,<br /> +Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,<br /> +Past reason hunted, and no sooner had<br /> +Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait<br /> +On purpose laid to make the taker mad;<br /> +Mad in pursuit and in possession so;<br /> +Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;<br /> +A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;<br /> +Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.<br /> + All this the world well knows; yet none knows +well<br /> + To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.</p> +<h3>FANCY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tell</span> me where is +Fancy bred,<br /> +Or in the heart, or in the head?<br /> +How begot, how nourished?<br /> + Reply, reply.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is engendered in the eyes;<br /> +With gazing fed; and Fancy dies<br /> +In the cradle where it lies:<br /> +Let us all ring Fancy’s knell;<br /> +I’ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.<br /> + Ding, dong, bell.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>UNDER +THE GREENWOOD TREE</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Under</span> the greenwood tree<br /> + Who loves to lie with me,<br /> + And tune his merry note<br /> + Unto the sweet bird’s +throat—<br /> +Come hither, come hither, come hither!<br /> + + +Here shall he see<br /> + + +No enemy<br /> +But winter and rough weather.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Who doth +ambition shun<br /> + And loves to live i’ the +sun,<br /> + Seeking the food he eats<br /> + And pleased with what he +gets—<br /> +Come hither, come hither, come hither!<br /> + + +Here shall he see<br /> + + +No enemy<br /> +But winter and rough weather.</p> +<h3>FAIRIES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span> unto these +yellow sands,<br /> + And then take hands:<br /> +Courtsied when you have, and kissed,<br /> + The wild waves whist,<br /> +Foot it featly here and there;<br /> +And sweet Sprites the burthen bear.<br /> + Hark, hark!<br /> + Bow-bow.<br /> + The watch-dogs bark:<br /> + Bow-wow.<br /> + Hark, hark! I hear<br /> +The strain of strutting chanticleer<br /> + Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!</p> +<h3><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>COME +AWAY</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Come</span> away, come away, Death,<br /> +And in sad cypres let me be laid;<br /> + Fly away, fly away, breath;<br /> +I am slain by a fair cruel maid.<br /> +My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,<br /> + O prepare it!<br /> +My part of death, no one so true<br /> + Did share it.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Not a flower, not a flower +sweet<br /> +On my black coffin let there be strown;<br /> + Not a friend, not a friend greet<br /> +My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;<br /> +A thousand, thousand sighs to save,<br /> + Lay me, O where<br /> +Sad true lover ne’er may find my grave<br /> + To weep there.</p> +<h3>FULL FATHOM FIVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Full</span> fathom five thy +father lies;<br /> + Of his bones are coral made;<br /> +Those are pearls that were his eyes:<br /> + Nothing of him that doth fade,<br /> +But doth suffer a sea-change<br /> +Into something rich and strange.<br /> +Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:<br /> + Hark! now I hear them,—<br /> + Ding, dong, bell.</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>DIRGE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fear</span> no more the +heat o’ the sun<br /> + Nor the furious winter’s rages;<br /> +Thou thy worldly task hast done,<br /> + Home art gone and ta’en thy wages:<br /> +Golden lads and girls all must,<br /> +As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fear no more the frown o’ the great,<br +/> + Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;<br /> +Care no more to clothe and eat;<br /> + To thee the reed is as the oak:<br /> +The sceptre, learning, physic, must<br /> +All follow this, and come to dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fear no more the lightning-flash<br /> + Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;<br /> +Fear not slander, censure rash;<br /> + Thou hast finished joy and moan:<br /> +All lovers young, all lovers must<br /> +Consign to thee, and come to dust.</p> +<h3>SONG</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Take</span>, O take those +lips away<br /> +That so sweetly were forsworn,<br /> +And those eyes, the break of day,<br /> +Lights that do mislead the morn:<br /> +But my kisses bring again,<br /> + Bring again—<br /> +Seals of love, but sealed in vain,<br /> + Sealed in vain!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>Hide, O hide those hills of snow,<br /> + Which thy frozen bosom bears,<br /> +On whose tops the pinks that grow<br /> + Are of those that April wears.<br /> +But first set my poor heart free<br /> +Bound in those icy chains by thee.</p> +<h3>SONG</h3> +<p class="poetry">How should I your true love know<br /> + From another one?<br /> +By his cockle hat and staff<br /> + And his sandal shoon.</p> +<p class="poetry">He is dead and gone, lady,<br /> + He is dead and gone;<br /> +And at his head a green grass turf<br /> + And at his heels a stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">White his shroud as mountain snow,<br /> + Larded with sweet showers,<br /> +Which bewept to the grave did go,<br /> + With true love showers.</p> +<h2>ANONYMOUS</h2> +<h3>TOM O’ BEDLAM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> morn’s my +constant mistress,<br /> + And the lovely owl my marrow;<br /> + The naming drake,<br /> + And the night-crow, make<br /> + Me music to my sorrow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>I know more than Apollo;<br /> + For oft when he lies sleeping,<br /> + I behold the stars<br /> + At mortal wars,<br /> + And the rounded welkin weeping.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moon embraces her shepherd,<br /> + And the Queen of Love her warrior;<br /> + While the first does horn<br /> + The stars of the morn,<br /> + And the next the heavenly farrier.</p> +<p class="poetry">With a heart of furious fancies,<br /> + Whereof I am commander:<br /> + With a burning spear,<br /> + And a horse of air,<br /> + To the wilderness I wander;</p> +<p class="poetry">With a Knight of ghosts and shadows,<br /> + I summoned am to Tourney:<br /> + Ten leagues beyond<br /> + The wide world’s end;<br /> + Methinks it is no journey.</p> +<h2>THOMAS CAMPION<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>Circ.</i></span><span class="GutSmall"> +1567–1620</span></h2> +<h3>KIND ARE HER ANSWERS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Kind</span> are her +answers,<br /> +But her performance keeps no day;<br /> +Breaks time, as dancers<br /> +From their own music when they stray.<br /> +All her free favours and smooth words<br /> +Wing my hopes in vain.<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>O, did +ever voice so sweet but only feign?<br /> + Can true love yield such delay,<br /> + Converting joy to pain?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Lost is our freedom<br /> + When we submit to women so:<br /> + Why do we need ’em<br /> + When, in their best, they work our woe?<br /> + There is no wisdom<br /> + Can alter ends by fate prefixt.<br /> +O, why is the good of man with evil mixt?<br /> + Never were days yet called two<br /> + But one night went betwixt.</p> +<h3>LAURA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rose-cheeked</span> Laura, +come;<br /> +Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s<br /> +Silent music, either other<br /> + Sweetly gracing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lovely forms do flow<br /> +From concent divinely framed;<br /> +Heaven is music, and thy beauty’s<br /> + Birth is heavenly.</p> +<p class="poetry">These dull notes we sing<br /> +Discords need for helps to grace them,<br /> +Only beauty purely loving<br /> + Knows no discord.</p> +<p class="poetry">But still moves delight,<br /> +Like clear springs renewed by flowing,<br /> +Ever perfect, ever in them-<br /> + Selves eternal.</p> +<h3><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>HER +BACKED BOWER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> she her sacred +bower adorns<br /> + The rivers clearly flow,<br /> +The groves and meadows swell with flowers,<br /> + The winds all gently blow.<br /> +Her sun-like beauty shines so fair,<br /> + Her spring can never fade.<br /> +Who then can blame the life that strives<br /> + To harbour in her shade?</p> +<p class="poetry">Her grace I sought, her love I wooed;<br /> + Her love though I obtain,<br /> +No time, no toil, no vow, no faith<br /> + Her wished grace can gain.<br /> +Yet truth can tell my heart is hers<br /> + And her will I adore;<br /> +And from that love when I depart<br /> + Let heaven view me no more!</p> +<p class="poetry">Her roses with my prayers shall spring;<br /> + And when her trees I praise,<br /> +Their boughs shall blossom, mellow fruit<br /> + Shall straw her pleasant ways.<br /> +The words of hearty zeal have power<br /> + High wonders to effect;<br /> +O, why should then her princely ear<br /> + My words or zeal neglect?</p> +<p class="poetry">If she my faith misdeems, or worth,<br /> + Woe worth my hapless fate!<br /> +For though time can my truth reveal,<br /> + That time will come too late.<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>And who +can glory in the worth<br /> + That cannot yield him grace?<br /> +Content in everything is not,<br /> + Nor joy in every place.</p> +<p class="poetry">But from her Bower of Joy since I<br /> + Must now excluded be,<br /> +And she will not relieve my cares,<br /> + Which none can help but she;<br /> +My comfort in her love shall dwell,<br /> + Her love lodge in my breast,<br /> +And though not in her bower, yet I<br /> + Shall in her temple rest.</p> +<h3>FOLLOW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Follow</span> thy fair sun, +unhappy shadow,<br /> + Though thou be black as night,<br /> + And she made all of light;<br /> +Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!</p> +<p class="poetry">Follow her whose light thy light depriveth;<br +/> + Though here thou live disgraced<br /> + And she in heaven is placed;<br /> +Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Follow those pure beams whose beauty burneth<br +/> + That so have scorched thee<br /> + As thou still black must be,<br /> +Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Follow her while yet her glory shineth;<br /> + There comes a luckless night<br /> + That will dim all her light;<br /> +And this the black unhappy shade divineth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>Follow still since so thy fates ordained;<br /> + The sun must have his shade,<br /> + Till both at once do fade;<br /> +The sun still proved, the shadow still disdained.</p> +<h3>WHEN THOU MUST HOME</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> thou must home +to shades of underground,<br /> + And there arrived, a new admired guest,<br /> +The beauteous spirits do engird thee round,<br /> + White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest,<br /> +To hear the stories of thy finished love,<br /> + From that smooth tongue whose music hell can +move;<br /> +Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights,<br /> + Of masks and revels which sweet youth did make,<br +/> +Of tourneys and great challenges of knights,<br /> + And all these triumphs for thy beauties’ +sake:<br /> +When thou hast told these honours done to thee,<br /> +Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.</p> +<h3>WESTERN WIND</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> peaceful western +wind<br /> + The winter storms hath tamed,<br /> +And nature in each kind<br /> + The kind heat hath inflamed:<br /> +The forward buds so sweetly breathe<br /> + Out of their earthly bowers,<br /> +That heav’n, which views their pomp beneath,<br /> + Would fain be decked with flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry">See how the morning smiles<br /> + On her bright eastern hill,<br /> +And with soft steps beguiles<br /> + Them that lie slumbering still!<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>The +music-loving birds are come<br /> + From cliffs and rocks unknown,<br /> +To see the trees and briars bloom<br /> + That late were overflown.</p> +<p class="poetry">What Saturn did destroy,<br /> + Love’s Queen revives again;<br /> +And now her naked boy<br /> + Doth in the fields remain,<br /> +Where he such pleasing change doth view<br /> + In every living thing,<br /> +As if the world were born anew<br /> + To gratify the Spring.</p> +<p class="poetry">If all things life present,<br /> + Why die my comforts then?<br /> +Why suffers my content?<br /> + Am I the worst of men?<br /> +O beauty, be not thou accus’d<br /> + Too justly in this case!<br /> +Unkindly if true love be used,<br /> + ’Twill yield thee little grace.</p> +<h3>FOLLOW YOUR SAINT</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Follow</span> your saint, follow with accents +sweet!<br /> + Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet!<br /> + There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,<br /> +And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love;<br /> + But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,<br /> +Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne’er return +again.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page52"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 52</span>All that I sang still to her praise +did tend,<br /> + Still she was first, still she my songs did end;<br +/> + Yet she my love and music both doth fly,<br /> +The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy.<br /> + Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight!<br /> +It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her +delight.</p> +<h3>CHERRY-RIPE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is a garden in +her face<br /> + Where roses and white lilies blow;<br /> +A heavenly paradise is that place,<br /> + Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;<br /> +There cherries grow that none may buy,<br /> +Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Those cherries fairly do enclose<br /> + Of orient pearl a double row,<br /> +Which when her lovely laughter shows,<br /> + They look like rosebuds filled with snow:<br /> +Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,<br /> +Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her eyes like angels watch them still;<br /> + Her brows like bended bows do stand,<br /> +Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill<br /> + All that approach with eye or hand<br /> +These sacred cherries to come nigh,<br /> +Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>THOMAS +NASH<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1567–1601</span></h2> +<h3>SPRING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Spring</span>, the sweet +Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;<br /> +Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;<br /> +Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,<br /> +Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.</p> +<p class="poetry">The palm and may make country-houses gay,<br /> +Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,<br /> +And hear we aye birds tune this merry lay,<br /> +Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.</p> +<p class="poetry">The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our +feet,<br /> +Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit;<br /> +In every street these tunes our ears do greet,<br /> +Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, tu-witta-woo.<br /> + Spring, the +sweet Spring!</p> +<h2>JOHN DONNE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1573–1631</span></h2> +<h3>THIS HAPPY DREAM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> love, for +nothing less than thee<br /> +Would I have broke this happy dream;<br /> + It was a theme<br /> +For reason, much too strong for fantasy.<br /> +Therefore thou wak’dst me wisely; yet<br /> +My dream thou brok’st not but continu’dst it:<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Thou art +so true, that thoughts of thee suffice<br /> +To make dreams truth, and fables histories;<br /> +Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it best<br /> +Not to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">As lightning or a taper’s light,<br /> +Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me.<br /> + Yet I thought thee<br /> +(For thou lov’st truth) an angel at first sight;<br /> +But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,<br /> +And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,<br /> +When thou knew’st what I dreamt, then thou knew’st +when<br /> +Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then;<br /> +I must confess, it could not choose but be<br /> +Profane to think thee anything but thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Coming and staying showed thee thee,<br /> +But rising makes me doubt, that now<br /> + Thou art not thou.<br /> +That love is weak, where fear’s as strong as he;<br /> +’Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,<br /> +If mixture it of fear, shame, honour, have.<br /> +Perchance as torches, which must ready be,<br /> +Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me;<br /> +Thou cam’st to kindle, goest to come: then I<br /> +Will dream that hope again, but else would die.</p> +<h3>DEATH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Death</span>, be not proud, +though some have called thee<br /> +Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;<br /> +For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow<br /> +Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>From rest and sleep which but thy picture be,<br /> +Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;<br /> +And soonest our best men with thee do go,<br /> +Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou ’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, +and desperate men,<br /> +And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,<br /> +And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,<br /> +And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou +then?</p> +<p class="poetry">One short sleep past, we wake eternally,<br /> +And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.</p> +<h3>HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wilt</span> Thou forgive +that sin where I begun,<br /> + Which was my sin, though it were done before?<br /> +Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,<br /> + And do run still, though still I do deplore?<br /> +When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;<br /> + For I have +more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won<br +/> + Others to sin, and made my sins their door?<br /> +Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun<br /> + A year or two and wallowed in a score?<br /> +When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;<br /> + For I have +more.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve +spun<br /> + My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;<br /> +But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son<br /> + Shall shine, as He shines now and heretofore.<br /> +And having done that, Thou hast done;<br /> + I fear no +more.</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>THE +FUNERAL</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Whoever</span> comes to shroud me, do not harm<br +/> + + +Nor question much<br /> + That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;<br /> + The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,<br /> + + +For ’tis my outward soul,<br /> + Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone,<br /> + + +Will leave this to control<br /> +And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But if the sinewy thread my +brain lets fall<br /> + + +Through every part,<br /> + Can tie those parts and make me one of all;<br /> + The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and +art<br /> + + +Have from a better brain,<br /> + Can better do’t; except she meant that I<br /> + + +By this should know my pain,<br /> +As prisoners are manacled when they’re condemned to +die.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Whate’er she meant +by’t, bury it with me;<br /> + + +For since I am<br /> + Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry<br /> + If into others’ hands these relics came.<br /> + + +As ’twas humility<br /> + To afford to it all that a soul can do,<br /> + + +So ’twas some bravery<br /> +That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.</p> +<h2><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>RICHARD BARNEFIELD<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1574(?)–(?)</span></h2> +<h3>THE NIGHTINGALE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> it fell upon a +day<br /> +In the merry month of May,<br /> +Sitting in a pleasant shade<br /> +Which a grove of myrtles made,<br /> +Beasts did leap and birds did sing,<br /> +Trees did grow and plants did spring;<br /> +Everything did banish moan<br /> +Save the Nightingale alone.<br /> +She, poor bird, as all forlorn,<br /> +Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,<br /> +And there sung the dolefull’st ditty<br /> +That to hear it was great pity.<br /> +Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;<br /> +Teru, teru, by and by:<br /> +That to hear her so complain<br /> +Scarce I could from tears refrain;<br /> +For her griefs so lively shown<br /> +Made me think upon mine own.<br /> +—Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,<br /> +None takes pity on thy pain:<br /> +Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,<br /> +Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;<br /> +King Pandion, he is dead,<br /> +All thy friends are lapped in lead:<br /> +All thy fellow birds do sing<br /> +Careless of thy sorrowing:<br /> +Even so, poor bird, like thee<br /> +None alive will pity me.</p> +<h2><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>BEN +JONSON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1574–1637</span></h2> +<h3>CHARIS’ TRIUMPH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">See</span> the chariot at +hand here of Love,<br /> + Wherein my lady rideth!<br /> +Each that draws is a swan or a dove,<br /> + And well the car Love guideth.<br /> +As she goes all hearts do duty<br /> + + +Unto her beauty;<br /> +And enamoured do wish, so they might<br /> + + +But enjoy such a sight,<br /> +That they still were to run by her side,<br /> +Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do but look on her eyes, they do light<br /> + All that love’s world compriseth!<br /> +Do but look on her, she is bright<br /> + As love’s star when it riseth!<br /> +Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother<br /> + + +Than words that soothe her!<br /> +And from her arched brows, such a grace<br /> + + +Sheds itself through the face,<br /> +As alone there triumphs to the life<br /> +All the gain, all the good of the elements’ strife.</p> +<p class="poetry">Have you seen but a bright lily grow<br /> + Before rude hands have touched it?<br /> +Have you marked but the fall of the snow<br /> + Before the soil hath smutched it?<br /> +Have you felt the wool of the beaver,<br /> + + +Or swan’s down ever?<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>Or have +smelled o’ the bud o’ the brier?<br /> + + +Or the nard in the fire?<br /> +Or have tasted the bag of the bee?<br /> +O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!</p> +<h3>JEALOUSY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wretched</span> and foolish +jealousy,<br /> +How cam’st thou thus to enter me?<br /> + I ne’er +was of thy kind:<br /> +Nor have I yet the narrow mind<br /> + To vent that +poor desire,<br /> +That others should not warm them at my fire:<br /> + I wish the sun +should shine<br /> +On all men’s fruits and flowers as well as mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">But under the disguise of love,<br /> +Thou say’st thou only cam’st to prove<br /> + What my +affections were.<br /> +Think’st thou that love is helped by fear?<br /> + Go, get thee +quickly forth,<br /> +Love’s sickness and his noted want of worth,<br /> + Seek doubting +men to please.<br /> +I ne’er will owe my health to a disease.</p> +<h3>EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wouldst</span> thou hear +what many say<br /> +In a little?—reader, stay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Underneath this stone doth lie<br /> +As much beauty as could die;<br /> +Which in life did harbour give<br /> +To more virtue than doth live.<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>If at all +she had a fault,<br /> +Leave it buried in this vault.<br /> +One name was Elizabeth,<br /> +The other, let it sleep with death:<br /> +Fitter where it died to tell<br /> +Than that it lived at all. Farewell!</p> +<h3>HYMN TO DIANA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Queen</span> and Huntress, +chaste and fair,<br /> + Now the sun is laid to sleep,<br /> +Seated in thy silver chair<br /> + State in wonted manner keep:<br /> + Hesperus entreats thy light,<br /> + Goddess excellently bright!</p> +<p class="poetry">Earth, let not thy envious shade<br /> + Dare itself to interpose;<br /> +Cynthia’s shining orb was made<br /> + Heaven to clear when day did close:<br /> + Bless us then with wished +sight,<br /> + Goddess excellently bright!</p> +<p class="poetry">Lay thy bow of pearl apart,<br /> + And thy crystal-shining quiver;<br /> +Give unto the flying hart<br /> + Space to breathe, how short soever:<br /> + Thou that mak’st a day of +night,<br /> + Goddess excellently bright!</p> +<h3>ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> lies to each +her parent’s ruth,<br /> +Mary, the daughter of their youth:<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Yet all +heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due,<br /> +It makes the father less to rue.<br /> +At six months’ end she parted hence<br /> +With safety of her innocence;<br /> +Whose soul Heaven’s Queen (whose name she bears),<br /> +In comfort of her mother’s tears,<br /> +Hath placed among her virgin train:<br /> +Where, while that severed doth remain,<br /> +This grave partakes the fleshly birth,<br /> +Which cover lightly, gentle earth.</p> +<h3>ECHO’S LAMENT FOB NARCISSUS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Slow</span>, slow, fresh +fount, keep time with my salt tears;<br /> + Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;<br /> +List to the heavy part the music bears;<br /> + Woe weeps out her division when she sings.<br /> + + +Droop herbs and flowers;<br /> + + +Fall grief in showers,<br /> + + +Our beauties are not ours;<br /> + + +O, I could still,<br /> +Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,<br /> + + +Drop, drop, drop, drop,<br /> +Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.</p> +<h3>AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN +ELIZABETH’S CHAPEL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Weep</span> with me, all +you that read<br /> + This little story;<br /> +And know, for whom a tear you shed<br /> + Death’s self is sorry.<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>It was a +child that so did thrive<br /> + In grace and feature,<br /> +As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive<br /> + Which owned the creature.<br /> +Years he numbered scarce thirteen<br /> + When fates turned cruel,<br /> +Yet three filled zodiacs had he been<br /> + The stage’s jewel;<br /> +And did act (what now we moan)<br /> + Old men so duly,<br /> +Ah, sooth, the Parcae thought him one—<br /> + He played so truly.<br /> +So by error to his fate<br /> + They all consented,<br /> +But viewing him since, alas, too late<br /> + They have repented;<br /> +And have sought, to give new birth,<br /> + In baths to steep him;<br /> +But being much too good for earth,<br /> + Heaven vows to keep him.</p> +<h2>JOHN FLETCHER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1579–1625</span></h2> +<h3>INVOCATION TO SLEEP, FROM VALENTINIAN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Care-charming</span> Sleep, +thou easer of all woes,<br /> +Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose<br /> +On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud<br /> +In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud<br /> +Or painful to his slumbers;—easy, sweet,<br /> +And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,<br /> +Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain<br /> +Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;<br /> +<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>Into this +prince gently, oh, gently slide<br /> +And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!</p> +<h3>TO BACCHUS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">God Lyæus</span>, +ever young,<br /> +Ever honoured, ever sung;<br /> +Stained with blood of lusty grapes<br /> +In a thousand lusty shapes;<br /> +Dance upon the mazer’s brim,<br /> +In the crimson liquor swim;<br /> +From thy plenteous hand divine,<br /> +Let a river run with wine:<br /> + God of Youth, let this day here<br /> + Enter neither care nor fear.</p> +<h2>JOHN WEBSTER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">(?)–1625</span></h2> +<h3>SONG FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hark</span>, now everything +is still,<br /> +The screech-owl and the whistler shrill<br /> +Call upon our dame aloud,<br /> +And bid her quickly don her shroud:</p> +<p class="poetry">Much you had of land and rent,<br /> +Your length in clay’s now competent;<br /> +A long war disturbed your mind,<br /> +Here your perfect peace is signed.<br /> +Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping?<br /> +Sin their conception, their birth weeping,<br /> +Their life a general mist of error,<br /> +Their death a hideous storm of terror.<br /> +Strew your hair with powders sweet,<br /> +Don clean linen, bathe your feet,<br /> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>And (the +foul fiend more to check)<br /> +A crucifix let bless your neck;<br /> +’Tis now full tide ’tween night and day;<br /> +End your groan and come away.</p> +<h3>SONG FROM THE DEVIL’S LAW-CASE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">All</span> the flowers of +the spring<br /> +Meet to perfume our burying;<br /> +These have but their growing prime,<br /> +And man does flourish but his time.<br /> +Survey our progress from our birth;<br /> +We’re set, we grow, we turn to earth,<br /> +Courts adieu, and all delights,<br /> +All bewitching appetites!<br /> +Sweetest breath and clearest eye,<br /> +Like perfumes, go out and die;<br /> +And consequently this is done<br /> +As shadows wait upon the sun.<br /> +Vain the ambition of kings<br /> +Who seek by trophies and dead things<br /> +To leave a living name behind,<br /> +And weave but nets to catch the wind.</p> +<h3>IN EARTH, DIRGE FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Call</span> for the +robin-redbreast and the wren,<br /> +Since o’er shady groves they hover,<br /> +And with leaves and flowers do cover<br /> +The friendless bodies of unburied men.<br /> +Call unto his funeral dole<br /> +The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole<br /> +To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm<br /> +And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm;<br /> +But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,<br /> +For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.</p> +<h2><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1585–1649</span></h2> +<h3>SONG</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Phœbus</span>, +arise!<br /> +And paint the sable skies<br /> +With azure, white, and red:<br /> +Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed<br /> +That she thy càreer may with roses spread:<br /> +The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:<br /> +Make an eternal Spring!<br /> +Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;<br /> +Spread forth thy golden hair<br /> +In larger locks than thou wast wont before,<br /> +And emperor-like decore<br /> +With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:<br /> +Chase hence the ugly night<br /> +Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is that happy morn,<br /> +That day, long-wished day<br /> +Of all my life so dark<br /> +(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn<br /> +And fates not hope betray),<br /> +Which, purely white, deserves<br /> +An everlasting diamond should it mark.<br /> +This is the morn should bring unto this grove<br /> +My Love, to hear and recompense my love.<br /> +Fair king, who all preserves,<br /> +But show thy blushing beams,<br /> +And thou two sweeter eyes<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>Shalt see +than those which by Peneus’ streams<br /> +Did once thy heart surprise.<br /> +Nay, suns, which shine as clear<br /> +As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear.<br /> +Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:<br /> +If that ye winds would hear<br /> +A voice surpassing far Amphion’s lyre,<br /> +Your stormy chiding stay;<br /> +Let Zephyr only breathe,<br /> +And with her tresses play,<br /> +Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.<br /> +—The winds all silent are,<br /> +And Phœbus in his chair<br /> +Ensaffroning sea and air<br /> +Makes vanish every star:<br /> +Night like a drunkard reels<br /> +Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:<br /> +The fields with flowers are decked in every hue,<br /> +The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;<br /> +Here is the pleasant place—<br /> +And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!</p> +<h3>SLEEP, SILENCE’ CHILD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sleep</span>, +Silence’ child, sweet father of soft rest,<br /> +Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,<br /> +Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,<br /> +Sole comforter of minds with grief oppressed;<br /> +Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things<br /> +Lie slumb’ring, with forgetfulness possessed,<br /> +And yet o’er me to spread thy drowsy wings<br /> +Thou sparest, alas! who cannot be thy guest.<br /> +Since I am thine, O come, but with that face<br /> +To inward light which thou art wont to show;<br /> +<a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>With +feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;<br /> +Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,<br /> + Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath:<br +/> + I long to kiss the image of my death.</p> +<h3>TO THE NIGHTINGALE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> chorister, who +from these shadows sends,<br /> +Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,<br /> +Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,<br /> +Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:<br /> +If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,<br /> +Who ne’er, not in a dream, did taste delight,<br /> +May thee importune who like care pretends,<br /> +And seems to joy in woe, in woe’s despite;<br /> +Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,<br /> +And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,<br /> +Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky<br /> +Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains?<br /> + The bird, as if my question did her move,<br /> + With trembling wings sobbed forth, ‘I +love! I love!’</p> +<h3>MADRIGAL I</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Like</span> the Idalian queen,<br /> + Her hair about her eyne,<br /> +With neck and breast’s ripe apples to be seen,<br /> + At first glance of the morn,<br /> +In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flowers<br /> + Which of her blood were born,<br /> +I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours.<br /> +The graces naked danced about the place,<br /> + The winds and trees amazed<br /> + With silence on her gazed;<br /> +<a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>The +flowers did smile, like those upon her face,<br /> +And as their aspen stalks those fingers band,<br /> + That she might read my case<br /> +A hyacinth I wished me in her hand.</p> +<h3>MADRIGAL II</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> beauty and the life<br /> +Of life’s and beauty’s fairest paragon,<br /> +O tears! O grief! hung at a feeble thread<br /> +To which pale Atropos had set her knife;<br /> + The soul with many a groan<br /> + Had left each outward part,<br /> +And now did take its last leave of the heart;<br /> +Nought else did want, save death, even to be dead;<br /> +When the afflicted band about her bed,<br /> +Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes,<br /> +Cried, ‘Ah! and can death enter paradise?’</p> +<h2>BEAUMONT <span class="smcap">and</span> FLETCHER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1586–1616 </span><span +class="GutSmall"><span class="smcap">and</span></span><span +class="GutSmall"> 1579–1625</span></h2> +<h3>I DIED TRUE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lay</span> a garland on my +hearse<br /> + Of the dismal yew;<br /> +Maidens willow branches bear;<br /> + Say, I die true.</p> +<p class="poetry">My love was false, but I was firm<br /> + From my hour of birth.<br /> +Upon my buried body lie<br /> + Lightly, gentle earth.</p> +<h2><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>FRANCIS BEAUMONT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1586–1616</span></h2> +<h3>ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mortality</span>, behold +and fear!<br /> +What a change of flesh is here!<br /> +Think how many royal bones<br /> +Sleep within these heaps of stones;<br /> +Here they lie, had realms and lands,<br /> +Who now want strength to stir their hands;<br /> +Where from their pulpits sealed with dust<br /> +They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’<br /> +Here’s an acre sown indeed<br /> +With the richest royallest seed<br /> +That the earth did e’er suck in<br /> +Since the first man died for sin:<br /> +Here the bones of birth have cried,<br /> +‘Though gods they were, as men they died!’<br /> +Here are sands, ignoble things,<br /> +Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:<br /> +Here’s a world of pomp and state<br /> +Buried in dust, once dead by fate.</p> +<h2>SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1587–1642</span></h2> +<h3>TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Do</span> not conceal those +radiant eyes,<br /> +The starlight of serenest skies;<br /> +Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,<br /> +They turn to chaos’ endless night!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Do not conceal those tresses fair,<br /> +The silken snares of thy curled hair<br /> +Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,<br /> +The curious silk-worm work no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do not conceal those breasts of thine,<br /> +More snow-white than the Apennine;<br /> +Lest, if there be like cold and frost,<br /> +The lily be for ever lost.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do not conceal that fragrant scent,<br /> +Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent<br /> +Perfumes; lest, it being supprest,<br /> +No spices grow in all the rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,<br /> +Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;<br /> +Lest, music hearing no such thing,<br /> +The nightingale forget to sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse,<br /> +Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;<br /> +Lest that the seas cease to bring forth<br /> +Gems which from thee have all thy worth.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do not conceal no beauty, grace,<br /> +That’s either in thy mind or face;<br /> +Lest virtue overcome by vice<br /> +Make men believe no Paradise.</p> +<h2><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>NATHANIEL FIELD<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1587–1638</span></h2> +<h3>MATIN SONG</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rise</span>, Lady Mistress, +rise!<br /> + The night hath tedious been;<br /> +No sleep hath fallen into mine eyes<br /> + Nor slumbers made me sin.<br /> +Is not she a saint then, say,<br /> +Thoughts of whom keep sin away?</p> +<p class="poetry">Rise, Madam! rise and give me light,<br /> + Whom darkness still will cover,<br /> +And ignorance, darker than night,<br /> + Till thou smile on thy lover.<br /> +All want day till thy beauty rise;<br /> +For the grey morn breaks from thine eyes.</p> +<h2>GEORGE WITHER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1588–1667</span></h2> +<h3>SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sleep</span>, baby, sleep! +what ails my dear,<br /> + What ails my darling thus to cry?<br /> +Be still, my child, and lend thine ear,<br /> + To hear me sing thy lullaby.<br /> +My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?<br /> + What thing to thee can mischief do?<br /> +Thy God is now thy father dear,<br /> + His holy Spouse thy mother too.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though thy conception was in sin,<br /> + A sacred bathing thou hast had;<br /> +And though thy birth unclean hath been,<br /> + A blameless babe thou now art made.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">While thus thy lullaby I sing,<br /> + For thee great blessings ripening be;<br /> +Thine Eldest Brother is a king,<br /> + And hath a kingdom bought for thee.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear;<br /> + For whosoever thee offends<br /> +By thy protector threaten’d are,<br /> + And God and angels are thy friends.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">When God with us was dwelling here,<br /> + In little babes He took delight;<br /> +Such innocents as thou, my dear,<br /> + Are ever precious in His sight.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>A little infant once was He;<br /> + And strength in weakness then was laid<br /> +Upon His Virgin Mother’s knee,<br /> + That power to thee might be convey’d.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">In this thy frailty and thy need<br /> + He friends and helpers doth prepare,<br /> +Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed,<br /> + For of thy weal they tender are.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">The King of kings, when He was born,<br /> + Had not so much for outward ease;<br /> +By Him such dressings were not worn,<br /> + Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Within a manger lodged thy Lord,<br /> + Where oxen lay and asses fed:<br /> +Warm rooms we do to thee afford,<br /> + An easy cradle or a bed.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wants that He did then sustain<br /> + Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;<br /> +And by His torments and His pain<br /> + Thy rest and ease secured be.<br /> +My baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>Thou hast, yet more, to perfect this,<br /> + A promise and an earnest got<br /> +Of gaining everlasting bliss,<br /> + Though thou, my babe, perceiv’st it not.<br /> +Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;<br /> +Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> +<h2>THOMAS CAREW<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1589–1639</span></h2> +<h3>SONG</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ask</span> me no more where +Jove bestows,<br /> +When June is past, the fading rose;<br /> +For in your beauties, orient deep,<br /> +These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ask me no more whither do stray<br /> +The golden atoms of the day;<br /> +For in pure love heaven did prepare<br /> +Those powders to enrich your hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ask me no more whither doth haste<br /> +The nightingale when May is past;<br /> +For in your sweet dividing throat<br /> +She winters, and keeps warm her note.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ask me no more if east or west<br /> +The phœnix builds her spicy nest;<br /> +For unto you at last she flies,<br /> +And in your fragrant bosom dies!</p> +<h3><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>TO MY +INCONSTANT MISTRESS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> thou, poor +Excommunicate<br /> + From all the joys of Love, shalt see<br /> +The full reward and glorious fate<br /> + Which my strong faith shall purchase me,<br /> + Then curse thine own Inconstancy.</p> +<p class="poetry">A fairer hand than thine shall cure<br /> + That heart which thy false oaths did wound;<br /> +And to my soul a soul more pure<br /> + Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,<br +/> + And both with equal glory crowned.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain<br /> + To Love, as I did once to thee:<br /> +When all thy tears shall be as vain<br /> + As mine were then: for thou shalt be<br /> + Damned for thy false Apostacy.</p> +<h3>AN HYMENEAL DIALOGUE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>Groom</i>.—<span +class="smcap">Tell</span> me, my Love, since Hymen tied<br /> + The holy knot, hast thou not felt<br /> +A new-infused spirit slide<br /> + Into thy breast, whilst mine did melt?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Bride</i>.—First tell me, Sweet, whose +words were those?<br /> + For though your voice the air did break,<br /> +Yet did my soul the sense compose,<br /> + And through your lips my heart did speak.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span><i>Groom</i>.—Then I perceive, when from the +flame<br /> + Of love my scorched soul did retire,<br /> +Your frozen heart in that place came,<br /> + And sweetly melted in that fire.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Bride</i>.—’Tis true, for when +that mutual change<br /> + Of souls was made, with equal gain,<br /> +I straight might feel diffused a strange<br /> + But gentle heat through every vein.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Bride</i>.—Thy bosom then I’ll +make my nest,<br /> + Since there my willing soul doth perch.<br /> +<i>Groom</i>.—And for my heart, in thy chaste breast,<br /> + I’ll make an everlasting search.</p> +<p class="poetry">O blest disunion, that doth so<br /> + Our bodies from our souls divide;<br /> +As two to one, and one four grow,<br /> + Each by contraction multiplied.</p> +<h3>INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Know</span>, Celia (since +thou art so proud),<br /> + ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown!<br /> +Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd<br /> + Of common beauties lived unknown,<br /> +Had not my verse exhaled thy name,<br /> +And with it imped the wings of fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">That killing power is none of thine;<br /> + I gave it to thy voice and eyes;<br /> +Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine;<br /> + Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies;<br /> +Then dart not from thy borrowed sphere<br /> +Lightning on him that fixed thee there.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>Tempt me with such affrights no more,<br /> + Lest what I made I uncreate!<br /> +Let fools thy mystic forms adore;<br /> + I’ll know thee in thy mortal state.<br /> +Wise poets, that wrapped the truth in tales,<br /> +Knew her themselves through all her veils.</p> +<h2>THOMAS DEKKER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>Circa</i></span><span class="GutSmall"> +1570–1641</span></h2> +<h3>LULLABY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Golden</span> slumbers kiss +your eyes,<br /> +Smiles awake you when you rise.<br /> +Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,<br /> +And I will sing a lullaby.<br /> +Bock them, rock a lullaby.</p> +<p class="poetry">Care is heavy, therefore sleep you,<br /> +You are care, and care must keep you.<br /> +Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,<br /> +And I will sing a lullaby.<br /> +Rock them, rock a lullaby.</p> +<h3>SWEET CONTENT</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Art</span> thou poor, yet +hast thou golden slumbers?<br /> + O sweet +content!<br /> +Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?<br /> + O punishment!<br +/> +Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed<br /> +To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?<br /> +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>O sweet +content! O sweet, O sweet content!<br /> + Work apace, apace, apace, apace;<br /> + Honest labour bears a lovely face;<br /> + Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!</p> +<p class="poetry">Canst drink the waters of the crisped +spring?<br /> + O sweet content!<br /> +Swimm’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own +tears?<br /> + O punishment!<br /> +Then he that patiently want’s burden bears<br /> +No burden bears, but is a king, a king!<br /> +O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!<br /> + Work apace, apace, apace, apace;<br /> + Honest labour bears a lovely face;<br /> + Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!</p> +<h2>THOMAS HEYWOOD<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">—1649?</span></h2> +<h3>GOOD-MORROW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Pack</span>, clouds, away, +and welcome day,<br /> + With night we banish sorrow;<br /> +Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft<br /> + To give my Love good-morrow!<br /> +Wings from the wind to please her mind,<br /> + Notes from the lark I’ll borrow;<br /> +Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,<br /> + To give my Love good-morrow;<br /> + To give my Love good-morrow,<br /> + Notes from them both I’ll borrow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast,<br /> + Sing, birds, in every furrow;<br /> +And from each hill, let music shrill<br /> + Give my fair Love good-morrow!<br /> +Blackbird and thrush in every bush,<br /> + Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!<br /> +You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,<br /> + Sing my fair Love good-morrow;<br /> + To give my Love good-morrow<br /> + Sing, birds, in every furrow!</p> +<h2>ROBERT HERRICK<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1591–1674</span></h2> +<h3>TO DIANEME</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, be not proud +of those two eyes<br /> +Which star-like sparkle in their skies;<br /> +Nor be you proud, that you can see<br /> +All hearts your captives; yours yet free.<br /> +Be you not proud of that rich hair<br /> +Which wantons with the love-sick air;<br /> +Whenas that ruby which you wear,<br /> +Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,<br /> +Will last to be a precious stone<br /> +When all your world of beauty’s gone.</p> +<h3>TO MEADOWS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> have been fresh +and green,<br /> + Ye have been filled with flowers;<br /> +And ye the walks have been<br /> + Where maids have spent their hours.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>Ye have beheld how they<br /> + With wicker arks did come<br /> +To kiss and bear away<br /> + The richer cowslips home.</p> +<p class="poetry">You’ve heard them sweetly sing,<br /> + And seen them in a round,<br /> +Each virgin, like a Spring,<br /> + With honeysuckles crowned.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now we see none here<br /> + Whose silvery feet did tread,<br /> +And with dishevelled hair<br /> + Adorned this smoother mead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like unthrifts, having spent<br /> + Your stock, and needy grown,<br /> +You’re left here to lament<br /> + Your poor estates alone.</p> +<h3>TO BLOSSOMS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> pledges of a +fruitful tree,<br /> + Why do ye fall so fast?<br /> + Your date is not so past,<br /> +But you may stay yet here awhile<br /> + To blush and gently smile,<br /> + And go at last.</p> +<p class="poetry">What, were ye born to be<br /> + An hour or half’s delight,<br /> + And so to bid good-night?<br /> +’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth<br /> + Merely to show your worth,<br /> + And lose you quite!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>But you are lovely leaves, where we<br /> + May read how soon things have<br /> + Their end, though ne’er so brave:<br /> +And after they have shown their pride<br /> + Like you, awhile, they glide<br /> + Into the grave.</p> +<h3>TO DAFFODILS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Daffodils, we +weep to see<br /> + You haste away so soon:<br /> +As yet the early-rising Sun<br /> + Has not attained his noon.<br /> + Stay, stay,<br +/> + Until the hasting day<br /> + Has run<br /> + But to the even-song;<br /> +And, having prayed together, we<br /> + Will go with you along.</p> +<p class="poetry">We have short time to stay, as you,<br /> + We have as short a Spring;<br /> +As quick a growth to meet decay<br /> + As you, or any thing.<br /> + We die,<br /> + As your hours do, and dry<br /> + Away,<br /> + Like to the Summer’s rain,<br /> +Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,<br /> + Ne’er to be found again.</p> +<h3><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>TO +VIOLETS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Welcome</span>, Maids of +Honour!<br /> + You do bring<br /> + In the Spring,<br /> +And wait upon her.</p> +<p class="poetry">She has Virgins many,<br /> + Fresh and fair;<br /> + Yet you are<br /> +More sweet than any.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye are the Maiden Posies,<br /> + And so graced<br /> + To be placed<br /> +’Fore damask roses.</p> +<p class="poetry">But, though thus respected,<br /> + By and by<br /> + Ye do lie,<br /> +Poor girls, neglected.</p> +<h3>TO PRIMROSES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> do ye weep, +sweet babes? can tears<br /> + + +Speak grief in you,<br /> + + +Who were but born<br /> + Just as the modest morn<br /> + Teemed her refreshing dew?<br /> + Alas, you have not known that shower<br /> + + +That mars a flower;<br /> + + +Nor felt th’ unkind<br /> + Breath of a blasting wind;<br /> + Nor are ye worn with years;<br /> + <a +name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>Or warped as +we,<br /> + Who think it strange to see<br /> +Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,<br /> +To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make +known<br /> + + +The reason, why<br /> + + +Ye droop and weep;<br /> + Is it for want of sleep?<br /> + Or childish lullaby?<br /> + Or that ye have not seen as yet<br /> + + +The violet?<br /> + + +Or brought a kiss<br /> + From that sweetheart to this?<br +/> + No, no, this sorrow shown<br /> + + +By your tears shed,<br /> + Would have this lecture read,<br +/> +That things of greatest, so of meanest, worth,<br /> +Conceived with care are, and with tears brought forth.</p> +<h3>TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Shut</span> not so soon; +the dull-eyed night<br /> + Hath not as yet begun<br /> +To make a seizure on the light,<br /> + Or to seal up the sun.</p> +<p class="poetry">No marigolds yet closed are,<br /> + No shadows great appear;<br /> +Nor doth the early shepherd’s star<br /> + Shine like a spangle here.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>Stay but till my Julia close<br /> + Her life-begetting eye,<br /> +And let the whole world then dispose<br /> + Itself to live or die.</p> +<h3>TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Gather</span> ye rose-buds +while ye may,<br /> + Old Time is still a-flying:<br /> +And this same flower that smiles to-day<br /> + To-morrow will be dying.</p> +<p class="poetry">The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,<br /> + The higher he’s a-getting,<br /> +The sooner will his race be run,<br /> + And nearer he’s to setting.</p> +<p class="poetry">That age is best which is the first,<br /> + When youth and blood are warmer;<br /> +But being spent, the worse, and worst<br /> + Times still succeed the former.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then be not coy, but use your time;<br /> + And while ye may, go marry:<br /> +For having lost but once your prime,<br /> + You may for ever tarry.</p> +<h3>DRESS</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">sweet</span> disorder in +the dress<br /> +Kindles in clothes a wantonness:—<br /> +A lawn about the shoulders thrown<br /> +Into a fine distraction,—<br /> +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>An erring +lace, which here and there<br /> +Enthrals the crimson stomacher,—<br /> +A cuff neglectful, and thereby<br /> +Ribbands to flow confusedly,—<br /> +A winning wave, deserving note,<br /> +In the tempestuous petticoat,—<br /> +A careless shoe-string, in whose tie<br /> +I see a wild civility,—<br /> +Do more bewitch me, than when art<br /> +Is too precise in every part.</p> +<h3>IN SILKS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whenas</span> in silks my +Julia goes,<br /> +Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows<br /> +That liquefaction of her clothes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Next, when I cast mine eyes and see<br /> +That brave vibration each way free;<br /> +O how that glittering taketh me!</p> +<h3>CORINNA’S GOING A-MAYING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Get</span> up, get up for +shame! The blooming morn<br /> +Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.<br /> + See how Aurora throws her fair<br +/> + Fresh-quilted colours through the +air!<br /> + Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and +see<br /> + The dew bespangling herb and +tree.<br /> +Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east,<br /> +Above an hour since; yet you not drest—<br /> + Nay! not so much as out of bed,<br +/> + When all the birds have matins +said,<br /> + <a name="page86"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 86</span>And sung their thankful hymns: +’tis sin,<br /> + Nay, profanation, to keep +in—<br /> +Whenas a thousand virgins on this day<br /> +Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen<br +/> +To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and green,<br /> + And sweet as Flora. Take no +care<br /> + For jewels for your gown or +hair:<br /> + Fear not; the leaves will strew<br +/> + Gems in abundance upon you:<br /> +Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,<br /> +Against you come, some orient pearls unwept:<br /> + Come, and receive them while the +light<br /> + Hangs on the dew-locks of the +night:<br /> + And Titan on the eastern hill<br +/> + Retires himself, or else stands +still<br /> +Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:<br +/> +Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, my Corinna, come! and coming, mark<br /> +How each field turns a street, each street a park<br /> + Made green, and trimmed with +trees: see how<br /> + Devotion gives each house a +bough<br /> + Or branch: each porch, each door, +ere this,<br /> + An ark, a tabernacle is,<br /> +Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,<br /> +As if here were those cooler shades of love.<br /> + Can such delights be in the +street<br /> + And open fields, and we not +see’t?<br /> + Come, we’ll abroad: and +let’s obey<br /> + The proclamation made for May:<br +/> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>And sin no +more, as we have done, by staying:<br /> +But, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s not a budding boy or girl, this +day,<br /> +But is got up, and gone to bring in May.<br /> + A deal of youth, ere this, is +come<br /> + Back, and with white-thorn laden +home.<br /> + Some have despatched their cakes +and cream,<br /> + Before that we have left to +dream:<br /> +And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth<br /> +And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:<br /> + Many a green-gown has been +given;<br /> + Many a kiss, both odd and even:<br +/> + Many a glance, too, has been +sent<br /> + From out the eye, Love’s +firmament:<br /> +Many a jest told of the keys betraying<br /> +This night, and locks picked:—Yet we’re not +a-Maying.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come! let us go, while we are in our prime,<br +/> +And take the harmless folly of the time!<br /> + We shall grow old apace, and +die<br /> + Before we know our liberty.<br /> + Our life is short; and our days +run<br /> + As fast away as does the sun:<br +/> +And as a vapour, or a drop of rain<br /> +Once lost, can ne’er be found again;<br /> + So when or you or I are made<br /> + A fable, song, or fleeting +shade,<br /> + All love, all liking, all +delight<br /> + Lies drowned with us in endless +night.<br /> +Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,<br /> +Come, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying.</p> +<h3><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>GRACE +FOR A CHILD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span>, a little +child, I stand,<br /> +Heaving up my either hand:<br /> +Cold as paddocks though they be,<br /> +Here I lift them up to Thee,<br /> +For a benison to fall<br /> +On our meat and on our all. Amen.</p> +<h3>BEN JONSON</h3> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Ah</span>, Ben!<br /> + Say how, or +when,<br /> + Shall we thy +guests<br /> + Meet at those lyric feasts<br /> + Made at the +Sun,<br /> + The Dog, the Triple Tun?<br /> + Where we such clusters had<br /> + As made us nobly wild, not mad;<br /> + And yet each verse of thine<br /> +Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> My +Ben!<br /> + Or come again<br +/> + Or send to us<br +/> + Thy wit’s great +over-plus;<br /> + But teach us +yet<br /> + Wisely to husband it,<br /> + Lest we that talent spend:<br /> + And having once brought to an end<br /> + That precious stock, the store<br +/> +Of such a wit, the world should have no more.</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>GEORGE +HERBERT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1593–1632</span></h2> +<h3>HOLY BAPTISM</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Since</span>, Lord, to Thee<br /> + A narrow way and little gate<br /> +Is all the passage, on my infancy<br /> + Thou didst lay hold, and antedate<br /> + My faith in me.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O, let me +still<br /> + Write Thee ‘great God,’ and me ‘a +child’;<br /> +Let me be soft and supple to Thy will,<br /> + Small to myself, to others mild,<br /> + Behither ill.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Although by +stealth<br /> + My flesh get on; yet let her sister,<br /> +My soul, bid nothing but preserve her wealth:<br /> + The growth of flesh is but a blister;<br /> + Childhood is health.</p> +<h3>VIRTUE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span> day, so cool, +so calm, so bright,<br /> +The bridal of the earth and sky,<br /> +The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,<br /> + For thou must +die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,<br /> +Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,<br /> +Thy root is ever in its grave,<br /> + And thou must +die.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,<br /> +A box where sweets compacted lie,<br /> +My music shows ye have your closes,<br /> + And all must +die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Only a sweet and virtuous soul,<br /> +Like seasoned timber, never gives;<br /> +But though the whole world turn to coal,<br /> + Then chiefly +lives.</p> +<h3>UNKINDNESS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lord</span>, make me coy +and tender to offend:<br /> +In friendship, first I think if that agree<br /> + + +Which I intend<br /> + Unto my friend’s intent and end;<br /> +I would not use a friend as I use Thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">If any touch my friend or his good name,<br /> +It is my honour and my love-to free<br /> + + +His blasted fame<br /> + From the least spot or thought of blame;<br /> +I could not use a friend as I use Thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">My friend may spit upon my curious floor;<br /> +Would he have gold? I lend it instantly;<br /> + + +But let the poor,<br /> + And Thee within them, starve at door;<br /> +I cannot use a friend as I use Thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">When that my friend pretendeth to a place,<br +/> +I quit my interest, and leave it free;<br /> + + +But when Thy grace<br /> + Sues for my heart, I Thee displace;<br /> +Nor would I use a friend as I use Thee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>Yet can a friend what Thou hast done fulfil?<br /> +O, write in brass, ‘My God upon a tree<br /> + + +His blood did spill,<br /> + Only to purchase my good-will’;<br /> +Yet use I not my foes as I use Thee.</p> +<h3>LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> bade me +welcome; yet my soul drew back,<br /> + + +Guilty of dust and sin.<br /> +But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack<br /> + + +From my first entrance in,<br /> +Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning<br /> + + +If I lacked anything.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A guest,’ I answered, +‘worthy to be here’:<br /> + + +Love said, ‘You shall be he.’<br /> +‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear!<br /> + + +I cannot look on thee.’<br /> +Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,<br /> + + +‘Who made the eyes but I?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let +my shame<br /> + + +Go where it doth deserve.’<br /> +‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the +blame?<br /> + + +‘My dear, then I will serve.’<br /> +‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my +meat.’<br /> + + +So I did sit and eat.</p> +<h3>THE PULLEY</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">When</span> God at first made man,<br /> +Having a glass of blessings standing by,<br /> +‘Let us,’ said He, ‘pour on him all we can;<br +/> +Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,<br /> + Contract into a span.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>So strength +first made a way,<br /> +Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour pleasure;<br /> +When almost all was out, God made a stay,<br /> +Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,<br /> + Rest in the bottom lay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘For +if I should,’ said He,<br /> +‘Bestow this jewel also on My creature,<br /> +He would adore My gifts instead of Me,<br /> +And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:<br /> + So both should losers be.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ‘Yet +let him keep the rest,<br /> +But keep them with repining restlessness;<br /> +Let him be rich and weary, that at least,<br /> +If goodness lead him not, yet weariness<br /> + May toss him to My +breast.’</p> +<h3>THE COLLAR</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">struck</span> the board, +and cried, ‘No more;<br /> + I will +abroad.<br /> + What, shall I ever sigh and pine?<br /> +My lines and life are free; free as the road,<br /> +Loose as the wind, as large as store.<br /> + Shall I be still +in suit?<br /> +Have I no harvest but a thorn<br /> +To let me blood, and not restore<br /> +What I have lost with cordial fruit?<br /> + Sure there was +wine<br /> +Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn<br /> +Before my tears did drown it;<br /> +<a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>Is the +year only lost to me?<br /> +Have I no bays to crown it,<br /> +No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted,<br /> + All wasted?<br +/> +Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,<br /> + And thou hast +hands.<br /> +Recover all thy sigh-blown age<br /> +On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute<br /> +Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage,<br /> + Thy rope of +sands,<br /> +Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee<br /> +Good cable, to enforce and draw,<br /> + And be thy +law,<br /> +While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.<br /> + Away! take +heed;<br /> + I will +abroad.<br /> +Call in thy death’s-head there, tie-up thy fears;<br /> + He that +forbears<br /> +To suit and serve his need<br /> + Deserves his +load.’<br /> +But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild<br /> + At every +word,<br /> +Methought I heard one calling, ‘Child’;<br /> + And I replied, +‘My Lord.’</p> +<h3>LIFE</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">made</span> a posy while +the day ran by:<br /> +Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie<br /> + My life within this band;<br /> +But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they<br /> +By noon most cunningly did steal away,<br /> + And withered in my hand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>My hand was next to them, and then my heart;<br /> +I took, without more thinking, in good part<br /> + Time’s gentle admonition;<br /> +Who did so sweetly Death’s sad taste convey,<br /> +Making my mind to smell my fatal day,<br /> + Yet sugaring the suspicion.</p> +<p class="poetry">Farewell, dear flowers; sweetly your time ye +spent,<br /> +Fit while ye lived for smell or ornament,<br /> + And after death for cures.<br /> +I follow straight, without complaints or grief,<br /> +Since if my scent be good, I care not if<br /> + It be as short as yours.</p> +<h3>MISERY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lord</span>, let the angels +praise Thy name:<br /> + Man is a foolish thing, a foolish thing;<br /> +Folly and sin play all his game;<br /> + His house still burns, and yet he still doth +sing—<br /> + + +Man is but grass,<br /> + He knows +it—‘Fill the glass.’</p> +<p class="poetry">How canst Thou brook his foolishness?<br /> + Why, he’ll not lose a cup of drink for +Thee:<br /> +Bid him but temper his excess,<br /> + Not he: he knows where he can better be—<br /> + + +As he will swear—<br /> + Than to serve +Thee in fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">What strange pollutions doth he wed,<br /> + And make his own! as if none knew but he.<br /> +<a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>No man +shall beat into his head<br /> + That Thou within his curtains drawn canst see:<br /> + + +‘They are of cloth<br /> + Where never yet +came moth.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The best of men, turn but Thy hand<br /> + For one poor minute, stumble at a pin;<br /> +They would not have their actions scanned,<br /> + Nor any sorrow tell them that they sin,<br /> + + +Though it be small,<br /> + And measure not +the fall.</p> +<p class="poetry">They quarrel Thee, and would give over<br /> + The bargain made to serve Thee; but Thy love<br /> +Holds them unto it, and doth cover<br /> + Their follies with the wings of Thy mild Dove,<br /> + + +Not suffering those<br /> + Who would, to be +Thy foes.</p> +<p class="poetry">My God, man cannot praise Thy name:<br /> + Thou art all brightness, perfect purity;<br /> +The sun holds down his head for shame,<br /> + Dead with eclipses, when we speak of Thee:<br /> + + +How shall infection<br /> + Presume on Thy +perfection?</p> +<p class="poetry">As dirty hands foul all they touch,<br /> + And those things most which are most pure and +fine,<br /> +So our clay-hearts, even when we crouch<br /> + To sing Thy praises, make them less divine:<br /> + + +Yet either this<br /> + Or none Thy +portion is.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>Man cannot serve Thee: let him go<br /> + And serve the swine—there, that is his +delight:<br /> +He doth not like this virtue, no;<br /> + Give him his dirt to wallow in all night:<br /> + + +‘These preachers make<br /> + His head to +shoot and ache.’</p> +<p class="poetry">O foolish man! where are thine eyes?<br /> + How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares!<br /> +Thou pull’st the rug, and wilt not rise,<br /> + No, not to purchase the whole pack of stars:<br /> + + +‘There let them shine;<br /> + Thou must go +sleep or dine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The bird that sees a dainty bower<br /> + Made in the tree, where she was wont to sit,<br /> +Wonders and sings, but not His power<br /> + Who made the arbour; this exceeds her wit.<br /> + + +But man doth know<br /> + The Spring +whence all things flow:</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet, as though he knew it not,<br /> + His knowledge winks, and lets his humours reign;<br +/> +They make his life a constant blot,<br /> + And all the blood of God to run in vain.<br /> + + +Ah, wretch! what verse<br /> + Can thy strange +ways rehearse?</p> +<p class="poetry">Indeed, at first man was a treasure,<br /> + A box of jewels, shop of rarities,<br /> +A ring whose posy was ‘my pleasure’;<br /> + He was a garden in a Paradise;<br /> + + +Glory and grace<br /> + Did crown his +heart and face.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>But sin hath fooled him; now he is<br /> + A lump of flesh, without a foot or wing<br /> +To raise him to a glimpse of bliss;<br /> + A sick-tossed vessel, dashing on each thing,<br /> + + +Nay, his own shelf:<br /> + My God, I mean +myself.</p> +<h2>JAMES SHIRLEY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1596–1666</span></h2> +<h3>EQUALITY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> glories of our +blood and state<br /> + Are shadows, not substantial things;<br /> +There is no armour against fate;<br /> + Death lays his icy hand on kings:<br /> + Sceptre and +Crown<br /> + Must tumble +down,<br /> +And in the dust be equal made<br /> +With the poor crooked scythe and spade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some men with swords may reap the field,<br /> + And plant fresh laurels where they kill:<br /> +But their strong nerves at last must yield;<br /> + They tame but one another still:<br /> + Early or late<br +/> + They stoop to +fate,<br /> +And must give up their murmuring breath<br /> +When they, pale captives, creep to death.</p> +<p class="poetry">The garlands wither on your brow;<br /> + Then boast no more your mighty deeds;<br /> +Upon Death’s purple altar now<br /> + See where the victor-victim bleeds:<br /> + <a +name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>Your heads +must come<br /> + To the cold +tomb;<br /> +Only the actions of the just<br /> +Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.</p> +<h2>ANONYMOUS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>Circa</i></span><span class="GutSmall"> +1603</span></h2> +<h3>LULLABY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Weep</span> you no more, +sad fountains;<br /> + What need you flow so fast?<br /> +Look how the snowy mountains<br /> + Heaven’s sun doth gently +waste.<br /> + But my sun’s heavenly eyes<br /> + View not your +weeping,<br /> + That now lies +sleeping<br /> + Softly, now softly lies<br /> + + +Sleeping.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleep is a reconciling,<br /> + A rest that peace begets;<br /> +Doth not the sun rise smiling<br /> + When fair at eve he sets?<br /> + Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes,<br /> + Melt not in +weeping,<br /> + While she lies +sleeping<br /> + Softly, now softly lies<br /> + + +Sleeping.</p> +<h2><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>SIR +WILLIAM DAVENANT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1605–1668</span></h2> +<h3>MORNING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> lark now leaves +his watery nest,<br /> + And climbing shakes his dewy wings,<br /> +He takes your window for the east,<br /> + And to implore your light, he sings;<br /> +Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,<br /> +Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">The merchant bows unto the seaman’s +star,<br /> + The ploughman from the sun his season takes;<br /> +But still the lover wonders what they are,<br /> + Who look for day before his mistress wakes;<br /> +Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn!<br /> +Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.</p> +<h2>EDMUND WALLER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1605–1687</span></h2> +<h3>THE ROSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"> Go, lovely +rose!<br /> +Tell her that wastes her time and me,<br /> + That now she knows,<br /> +When I resemble her to thee,<br /> +How sweet and fair she seems to be.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>Tell her +that’s young<br /> +And shuns to have her graces spied,<br /> + That hadst thou sprung<br /> +In deserts, where no men abide,<br /> +Thou must have uncommended died.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Small is +the worth<br /> +Of beauty from the light retired;<br /> + Bid her come forth,<br /> +Suffer herself to be desired,<br /> +And not blush so to be admired.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then die! +that she<br /> +The common fate of all things rare<br /> + May read in thee:<br /> +How small a part of time they share<br /> +That are so wondrous sweet and fair!</p> +<h2>THOMAS RANDOLPH<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1606–1634?</span></h2> +<h3>HIS MISTRESS</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">have</span> a mistress, +for perfections rare<br /> +In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.<br /> +Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;<br /> +Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;<br /> +And wheresoe’er my fancy would begin,<br /> +Still her perfection lets religion in.<br /> +We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours<br /> +As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers.<br /> +I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,<br /> +And come unto my courtship as my prayer.</p> +<h2><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>CHARLES BEST<br /> +<span class="smcap">17th century</span></h2> +<h3>A SONNET OF THE MOON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Look</span> how the pale +Queen of the silent night<br /> + Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,<br /> +And he, as long as she is in his sight,<br /> + With his full tide is ready her to honour:</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the silver waggon of the Moon<br /> + Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,<br /> +The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,<br /> + And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">So you that are the sovereign of my heart,<br +/> + Have all my joys attending on your will,<br /> +My joys low ebbing when you do depart,<br /> + When you return, their tide my heart doth fill.</p> +<p class="poetry">So as you come, and as you do depart,<br /> +Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.</p> +<h2>JOHN MILTON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1608–1674</span></h2> +<h3>HYMN ON CHRIST’S NATIVITY</h3> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">It</span> was the winter wild<br /> + While the +heaven-born Child<br /> + All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;<br /> + Nature in awe to +Him<br /> + Had doffed her +gaudy trim,<br /> + <a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>With her great Master so to sympathise:<br /> +It was no season then for her<br /> +To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Only +with speeches fair<br /> + She woos the +gentle air<br /> + To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;<br /> + And on her naked +shame,<br /> + Pollute with +sinful blame,<br /> + The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;<br /> +Confounded, that her Maker’s eyes<br /> +Should look so near upon her foul deformities.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +He, her fears to cease,<br /> + Sent down the +meek-eyed Peace;<br /> + She, crowned with olive green, came softly +sliding<br /> + Down through the +turning sphere,<br /> + His ready +harbinger,<br /> + With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;<br /> +And waving wide her myrtle wand,<br /> +She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> No +war, or battle’s sound<br /> + Was heard the +world around:<br /> + The idle spear and shield were high uphung;<br /> + The hooked +chariot stood<br /> + Unstained with +hostile blood;<br /> + The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;<br /> +And kings sat still with awful eye,<br /> +As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +peaceful was the night<br /> + Wherein the +Prince of Light<br /> + <a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>His reign of peace upon the earth began:<br /> + The winds, with +wonder whist,<br /> + Smoothly the +waters kist,<br /> + Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,<br /> +Who now hath quite forgot to rave,<br /> +While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +stars, with deep amaze,<br /> + Stand fixed in +steadfast gaze,<br /> + Bending one way their precious influence;<br /> + And will not +take their flight<br /> + For all the +morning light,<br /> + Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;<br /> +But in their glimmering orbs did glow,<br /> +Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +though the shady gloom<br /> + Had given day +her room,<br /> + The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,<br /> + And hid his head +for shame,<br /> + As his inferior +flame<br /> + The new-enlightened world no more should need;<br /> +He saw a greater Sun appear<br /> +Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +shepherds on the lawn,<br /> + Or ere the point +of dawn,<br /> + Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;<br /> + Full little +thought they than<br /> + That the mighty +Pan<br /> + Was kindly come to live with them below;<br /> +Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,<br /> +Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>When such +music sweet<br /> + Their hearts and +ears did greet<br /> + As never was by mortal fingers strook—<br /> + Divinely-warbled +voice<br /> + Answering the +stringed noise,<br /> + As all their souls in blissful rapture took;<br /> +The air, such pleasure loth to lose,<br /> +With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Nature, +that heard such sound<br /> + Beneath the +hollow round<br /> + Of Cynthia’s seat the airy region +thrilling,<br /> + Now was almost +won<br /> + To think her +part was done,<br /> + And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;<br +/> +She knew such harmony alone<br /> +Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> At +last surrounds their sight<br /> + A globe of +circular light,<br /> + That with long beams the shamefaced night +arrayed;<br /> + The helmed +Cherubim<br /> + And sworded +Seraphim<br /> + Are seen in glittering ranks with wings +displayed,<br /> +Harping in loud and solemn quire,<br /> +With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s new-born Heir.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Such +music (as ’tis said)<br /> + Before was never +made<br /> + But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,<br /> + While the +Creator great<br /> + His +constellations set,<br /> + <a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;<br /> +And cast the dark foundations deep,<br /> +And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Ring +out, ye crystal spheres!<br /> + Once bless our +human ears,<br /> + If ye have power to touch our senses so;<br /> + And let your +silver chime<br /> + Move in +melodious time;<br /> + And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ +blow;<br /> +And with your ninefold harmony<br /> +Make up full consort to the angelic symphony.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> For +if such holy song<br /> + Enwrap our fancy +long,<br /> + Time will run back and fetch the age of gold;<br /> + And speckled +Vanity<br /> + Will sicken soon +and die,<br /> + And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;<br /> +And Hell itself will pass away,<br /> +And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Yea, +Truth and Justice then<br /> + Will down return +to men,<br /> + Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,<br /> + Mercy will sit +between<br /> + Throned in +celestial sheen,<br /> + With radiant feet the tissued clouds down +steering;<br /> +And Heaven, as at some festival,<br /> +Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +wisest Fate says No;<br /> + This must not +yet be so;<br /> + The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy<br /> + <a +name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>That on the +bitter cross<br /> + Must redeem our +loss;<br /> + So both Himself and us to glorify:<br /> +Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,<br /> +The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,</p> +<p +class="poetry"> With +such a horrid clang<br /> + As on Mount +Sinai rang,<br /> + While the red fire and smouldering clouds +out-brake:<br /> + The aged Earth +aghast<br /> + With terror of +that blast<br /> + Shall from the surface to the centre shake,<br /> +When, at the world’s last session,<br /> +The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +then at last our bliss<br /> + Full and perfect +is,<br /> + But now begins; for from this happy day<br /> + The old Dragon +under ground,<br /> + In straiter +limits bound,<br /> + Not half so far casts his usurped sway;<br /> +And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,<br /> +Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +Oracles are dumb;<br /> + No voice or +hideous hum<br /> + Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.<br +/> + Apollo from his +shrine<br /> + Can no more +divine,<br /> + With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:<br +/> +No nightly trance or breathed spell<br /> +Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>The lonely +mountains o’er<br /> + And the +resounding shore<br /> + A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;<br /> + From haunted +spring and dale<br /> + Edged with +poplar pale,<br /> + The parting Genius is with sighing sent;<br /> +With flower-inwoven tresses torn<br /> +The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +consecrated earth<br /> + And on the holy +hearth<br /> + The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;<br +/> + In urns, and +altars round,<br /> + A drear and +dying sound<br /> + Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;<br /> +And the chill marble seems to sweat,<br /> +While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Peor +and Baalim<br /> + Forsake their +temples dim,<br /> + With that twice-battered god of Palestine;<br /> + And mooned +Ashtaroth,<br /> + Heaven’s +queen and mother both,<br /> + Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine;<br +/> +The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn:<br /> +In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> And +sullen Moloch, fled,<br /> + Hath left in +shadows dread<br /> + His burning idol all of blackest hue;<br /> + In vain with +cymbals’ ring<br /> + They call the +grisly king,<br /> + <a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>In dismal dance about the furnace blue;<br /> +The brutish gods of Nile as fast,<br /> +Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Nor +is Osiris seen<br /> + In Memphian +grove or green,<br /> + Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud:<br +/> + Nor can he be at +rest<br /> + Within his +sacred chest;<br /> + Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;<br /> +In vain with timbrelled anthems dark<br /> +The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> He +feels from Juda’s land<br /> + The dreaded +Infant’s hand;<br /> + The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;<br /> + Nor all the gods +beside<br /> + Longer dare +abide,<br /> + Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:<br /> +Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,<br /> +Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> So, +when the sun in bed,<br /> + Curtained with +cloudy red,<br /> + Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,<br /> + The flocking +shadows pale<br /> + Troop to the +infernal jail,<br /> + Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;<br +/> +And the yellow-skirted fays<br /> +Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> But +see! the Virgin blest<br /> + Hath laid her +Babe to rest;<br /> + <a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:<br +/> + Heaven’s +youngest-teemed star<br /> + Hath fixed her +polished car,<br /> + Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending:<br +/> +And all about the courtly stable<br /> +Bright-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable.</p> +<h3>L’ALLEGRO</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hence</span>, loathed +Melancholy,<br /> + Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born<br /> +In Stygian cave forlorn,<br /> + ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights +unholy!<br /> +Find out some uncouth cell<br /> + Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings<br +/> +And the night-raven sings;<br /> + There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks<br /> +As ragged as thy locks,<br /> + In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But come, thou goddess fair +and free,<br /> +In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,<br /> +And by men, heart-easing Mirth,<br /> +Whom lovely Venus at a birth<br /> +With two sister Graces more<br /> +To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;<br /> +Or whether (as some sager sing)<br /> +The frolic wind that breathes the spring,<br /> +Zephyr, with Aurora playing,<br /> +As he met her once a-Maying—<br /> +There on beds of violets blue<br /> +And fresh-blown roses washed in dew<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>Filled +her with thee, a daughter fair,<br /> +So buxom, blithe, and debonair.<br /> + Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee<br /> +Jest, and youthful jollity,<br /> +Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,<br /> +Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,<br /> +Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,<br /> +And love to live in dimple sleek;<br /> +Sport that wrinkled Care derides,<br /> +And Laughter holding both his sides:—<br /> +Come, and trip it as you go<br /> +On the light fantastic toe;<br /> +And in thy right hand lead with thee<br /> +The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;<br /> +And if I give thee honour due,<br /> +Mirth, admit me of thy crew,<br /> +To live with her, and live with thee<br /> +In unreproved pleasures free;<br /> +To hear the lark begin his flight<br /> +And singing startle the dull night<br /> +From his watch-tower in the skies,<br /> +Till the dappled dawn doth rise;<br /> +Then to come, in spite of sorrow,<br /> +And at my window bid good-morrow<br /> +Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,<br /> +Or the twisted eglantine:<br /> +While the cock with lively din<br /> +Scatters the rear of darkness thin,<br /> +And to the stack, or the barn-door,<br /> +Stoutly struts his dames before:<br /> +Oft listening how the hounds and horn<br /> +Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,<br /> +From the side of some hoar hill,<br /> +Through the high wood echoing shrill:<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Sometime +walking, not unseen,<br /> +By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,<br /> +Right against the eastern gate<br /> +Where the great Sun begins his state<br /> +Robed in flames and amber light,<br /> +The clouds in thousand liveries dight;<br /> +While the ploughman, near at hand,<br /> +Whistles o’er the furrowed land,<br /> +And the milkmaid singeth blithe,<br /> +And the mower whets his scythe,<br /> +And every shepherd tells his tale<br /> +Under the hawthorn in the dale.<br /> + Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures<br /> +Whilst the landscape round it measures;<br /> +Russet lawns, and fallows gray,<br /> +Where the nibbling flocks do stray;<br /> +Mountains, on whose barren breast<br /> +The labouring clouds do often rest;<br /> +Meadows trim with daisies pied,<br /> +Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;<br /> +Towers and battlements it sees<br /> +Bosomed high in tufted trees,<br /> +Where perhaps some Beauty lies,<br /> +The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.<br /> + Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes<br /> +From betwixt two aged oaks,<br /> +Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,<br /> +Are at their savoury dinner set<br /> +Of herbs, and other country messes,<br /> +Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;<br /> +And then in haste her bower she leaves,<br /> +With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;<br /> +Or, if the earlier season lead,<br /> +To the tanned haycock in the mead.<br /> + <a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>Sometimes with secure delight<br /> +The upland hamlets will invite,<br /> +When the merry bells ring round,<br /> +And the jocund rebecks sound<br /> +To many a youth and many a maid,<br /> +Dancing in the chequered shade;<br /> +And young and old come forth to play<br /> +On a sunshine holiday,<br /> +Till the live-long day-light fail:<br /> +Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,<br /> +With stories told of many a feat,<br /> +How Faery Mab the junkets eat:—<br /> +She was pinched and pulled, she said;<br /> +And he by Friar’s lantern led;<br /> +Tells how the grudging Goblin sweat<br /> +To earn his cream-bowl duly set,<br /> +When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,<br /> +His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn<br /> +That ten day-labourers could not end;<br /> +Then lies him down the lubber fiend,<br /> +And, stretched out all the chimney’s length,<br /> +Basks at the fire his hairy strength;<br /> +And crop-full out of doors he flings,<br /> +Ere the first cock his matin rings.<br /> + Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,<br /> +By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.<br /> + Towered cities please us then<br /> +And the busy hum of men,<br /> +Where throngs of knights and barons bold,<br /> +In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,<br /> +With store of ladies, whose bright eyes<br /> +Rain influence, and judge the prize<br /> +Of wit or arms, while both contend<br /> +To win her grace, whom all commend.<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>There +let Hymen oft appear<br /> +In saffron robe, with taper clear,<br /> +And pomp, and feast, and revelry,<br /> +With mask, and antique pageantry;<br /> +Such sights as youthful poets dream<br /> +On summer eves by haunted stream.<br /> +Then to the well-trod stage anon,<br /> +If Jonson’s learned sock be on,<br /> +Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child,<br /> +Warble his native wood-notes wild.<br /> + And ever against eating cares<br /> +Lap me in soft Lydian airs<br /> +Married to immortal verse,<br /> +Such as the meeting soul may pierce<br /> +In notes, with many a winding bout<br /> +Of linked sweetness long drawn out,<br /> +With wanton heed and giddy cunning,<br /> +The melting voice through mazes running,<br /> +Untwisting all the chains that tie<br /> +The hidden soul of harmony;<br /> +That Orpheus’ self may heave his head<br /> +From golden slumber, on a bed<br /> +Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear<br /> +Such strains as would have won the ear<br /> +Of Pluto, to have quite set free<br /> +His half-regained Eurydice.<br /> + These delights if thou canst give,<br /> +Mirth, with thee I mean to live.</p> +<h3>IL PENSEROSO</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hence</span>, vain deluding +Joys,<br /> + The brood of Folly without father bred!<br /> +<a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>How +little you bestead<br /> + Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!<br /> +Dwell in some idle brain,<br /> + And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess<br /> +As thick and numberless<br /> + As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,<br /> +Or likest hovering dreams,<br /> + The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But hail, thou goddess sage +and holy,<br /> +Hail, divinest Melancholy!<br /> +Whose saintly visage is too bright<br /> +To hit the sense of human sight,<br /> +And therefore to our weaker view<br /> +O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue;<br /> +Black, but such as in esteem<br /> +Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem,<br /> +Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove<br /> +To set her beauty’s praise above<br /> +The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:<br /> +Yet thou art higher far descended:<br /> +Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore,<br /> +To solitary Saturn bore;<br /> +His daughter she; in Saturn’s reign<br /> +Such mixture was not held a stain:<br /> +Oft in glimmering bowers and glades<br /> +He met her, and in secret shades<br /> +Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,<br /> +While yet there was no fear of Jove.<br /> + Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,<br /> +Sober, steadfast, and demure,<br /> +All in a robe of darkest grain<br /> +Flowing with majestic train<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>And +sable stole of Cipres lawn<br /> +Over thy decent shoulders drawn:<br /> +Come, but keep thy wonted state,<br /> +With even step and musing gait,<br /> +And looks commercing with the skies,<br /> +Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:<br /> +There, held in holy passion still,<br /> +Forget thyself to marble, till<br /> +With a sad leaden downward cast<br /> +Thou fix them on the earth as fast:<br /> +And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,<br /> +Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,<br /> +And hears the Muses in a ring<br /> +Aye round about Jove’s altar sing:<br /> +And add to these retired Leisure<br /> +That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:—<br /> +But first and chiefest, with thee bring<br /> +Him that yon soars on golden wing,<br /> +Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,<br /> +The cherub Contemplation;<br /> +And the mute Silence hist along,<br /> +’Less Philomel will deign a song<br /> +In her sweetest, saddest plight,<br /> +Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,<br /> +While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke<br /> +Gently o’er the accustomed oak.<br /> + Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of +folly,<br /> +Most musical, most melancholy!<br /> +Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among,<br /> +I woo to hear thy even-song;<br /> +And missing thee, I walk unseen<br /> +On the dry smooth-shaven green,<br /> +To behold the wandering Moon<br /> +Riding near her highest noon,<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>Like one +that had been led astray<br /> +Through the heaven’s wide pathless way,<br /> +And oft, as if her head she bowed,<br /> +Stooping through a fleecy cloud.<br /> + Oft on a plat of rising ground<br /> +I hear the far-off curfew sound<br /> +Over some wide-watered shore,<br /> +Swinging slow with sullen roar;<br /> +Or, if the air will not permit,<br /> +Some still, removed place will fit,<br /> +Where glowing embers through the room<br /> +Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;<br /> +Far from all resort of mirth,<br /> +Save the cricket on the hearth,<br /> +Or the bellman’s drowsy charm<br /> +To bless the doors from nightly harm.<br /> + Or let my lamp at midnight hour<br /> +Be seen in some high lonely tower,<br /> +Where I may oft out-watch the Bear<br /> +With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere<br /> +The spirit of Plato, to unfold<br /> +What worlds or what vast regions hold<br /> +The immortal mind, that hath forsook<br /> +Her mansion in this fleshly nook:<br /> +And of those demons that are found<br /> +In fire, air, flood, or under ground,<br /> +Whose power hath a true consent<br /> +With planet, or with element.<br /> +Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy<br /> +In sceptered pall come sweeping by,<br /> +Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line,<br /> +Or the tale of Troy divine;<br /> +Or what (though rare) of later age<br /> +Ennobled hath the buskined stage.<br /> + <a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>But, O sad Virgin, that thy power<br /> +Might raise Musaeus from his bower,<br /> +Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing<br /> +Such notes as, warbled to the string,<br /> +Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek<br /> +And made Hell grant what Love did seek!<br /> +Or call up him that left half-told<br /> +The story of Cambuscan bold,<br /> +Of Camball, and of Algarsife,<br /> +And who had Canace to wife<br /> +That owned the virtuous ring and glass;<br /> +And of the wondrous horse of brass<br /> +On which the Tartar king did ride:<br /> +And if aught else great bards beside<br /> +In sage and solemn tunes have sung<br /> +Of tourneys and of trophies hung,<br /> +Of forests and enchantments drear,<br /> +Where more is meant than meets the ear.<br /> + Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,<br /> +Till civil-suited Morn appear,<br /> +Not tricked and frounced as she was wont<br /> +With the Attic Boy to hunt,<br /> +But kercheft in a comely cloud<br /> +While rocking winds are piping loud,<br /> +Or ushered with a shower still,<br /> +When the gust hath blown his fill,<br /> +Ending on the rustling leaves<br /> +With minute drops from off the eaves.<br /> +And when the sun begins to fling<br /> +His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring<br /> +To arched walks of twilight groves,<br /> +And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,<br /> +Of pine, or monumental oak,<br /> +Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,<br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Was +never heard the nymphs to daunt,<br /> +Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.<br /> +There in close covert by some brook,<br /> +Where no profaner eye may look,<br /> +Hide me from day’s garish eye,<br /> +While the bee with honeyed thigh,<br /> +That at her flowery work doth sing,<br /> +And the waters murmuring,<br /> +With such consort as they keep<br /> +Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep;<br /> +And let some strange mysterious dream<br /> +Wave at his wings in airy stream<br /> +Of lively portraiture displayed,<br /> +Softly on my eyelids laid:<br /> +And, as I wake, sweet music breathe<br /> +Above, about, or underneath,<br /> +Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,<br /> +Or the unseen Genius of the wood.<br /> + But let my due feet never fail<br /> +To walk the studious cloister’s pale,<br /> +And love the high-embowed roof,<br /> +With antique pillars massy proof,<br /> +And storied windows richly dight<br /> +Casting a dim religious light.<br /> +There let the pealing organ blow<br /> +To the full-voiced quire below<br /> +In service high and anthems clear,<br /> +As may with sweetness, through mine ear,<br /> +Dissolve me into ecstasies,<br /> +And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.<br /> + And may at last my weary age<br /> +Find out the peaceful hermitage,<br /> +The hairy gown and mossy cell<br /> +Where I may sit and rightly spell<br /> +<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Of every +star that heaven doth shew,<br /> +And every herb that sips the dew;<br /> +Till old experience do attain<br /> +To something like prophetic strain.<br /> + These pleasures, Melancholy, give,<br /> +And I with thee will choose to live.</p> +<h3>LYCIDAS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Elegy on a Friend drowned in the +Irish Channel</i>, 1637</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yet</span> once more, O ye +laurels, and once more<br /> +Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,<br /> +I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,<br /> +And with forced fingers rude<br /> +Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.<br /> +Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear<br /> +Compels me to disturb your season due:<br /> +For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,<br /> +Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.<br /> +Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew<br /> +Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.<br /> +He must not float upon his watery bier<br /> +Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,<br /> +Without the meed of some melodious tear.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Begin, then, Sisters of the +sacred well<br /> +That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;<br /> +Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.<br /> +Hence withdenial vain and coy excuse:<br /> +So may some gentle Muse<br /> +With lucky words favour my destined urn;<br /> +And, as he passes, turn<br /> +And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page120"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 120</span>For we were nursed upon the +self-same hill,<br /> +Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:<br /> +Together both, ere the high lawns appeared<br /> +Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,<br /> +We drove a-field, and both together heard<br /> +What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,<br /> +Battening our nocks with the fresh dews of night,<br /> +Oft till the star that rose at evening bright<br /> +Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel.<br +/> +Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,<br /> +Tempered to the oaten flute,<br /> +Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel<br /> +From the glad sound would not be absent long;<br /> +And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But, oh! the heavy change, +now thou art gone,<br /> +Now thou art gone and never must return!<br /> +Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves<br /> +With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,<br /> +And all their echoes, mourn:<br /> +The willows and the hazel copses green<br /> +Shall now no more be seen<br /> +Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.<br /> +As killing as the canker to the rose,<br /> +Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,<br /> +Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear<br /> +When first the white-thorn blows;<br /> +Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Where were ye, Nymphs, when +the remorseless deep<br /> +Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas?<br /> +For neither were ye playing on the steep<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>Where +your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,<br /> +Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,<br /> +Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:<br /> +Ay me! I fondly dream—<br /> +Had ye been there . . . For what could that have done?<br +/> +What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,<br /> +The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,<br /> +Whom universal nature did lament,<br /> +When by the rout that made the hideous roar<br /> +His gory visage down the stream was sent,<br /> +Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?</p> +<p class="poetry"> Alas! what boots it with +incessant care<br /> +To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade,<br /> +And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?<br /> +Were it not better done, as others use,<br /> +To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,<br /> +Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair?<br /> +Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise<br /> +(That last infirmity of noble mind)<br /> +To scorn delights, and live laborious days;<br /> +But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,<br /> +And think to burst out into sudden blaze,<br /> +Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,<br /> +And slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the +praise,’<br /> +Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;<br /> +‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,<br /> +Nor in the glistering foil<br /> +Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:<br /> +But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes<br /> +And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;<br /> +As he pronounces lastly on each deed,<br /> +Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page122"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 122</span>O fountain Arethuse, and thou +honoured flood,<br /> +Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,<br /> +That strain I heard was of a higher mood.<br /> +But now my oat proceeds,<br /> +And listens to the herald of the sea<br /> +That came in Neptune’s plea.<br /> +He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,<br /> +What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?<br /> +And questioned every gust of rugged wings<br /> +That blows from off each beaked promontory.<br /> +They knew not of his story;<br /> +And sage Hippotades their answer brings,<br /> +That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;<br /> +The air was calm, and on the level brine<br /> +Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.<br /> +It was that fatal and perfidious bark<br /> +Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,<br /> +That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Next Camus, reverend sire, +went footing slow,<br /> +His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge<br /> +Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge<br /> +Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.<br /> +‘Ah! who hath reft,’ quoth he, ‘my dearest +pledge?’<br /> +Last came, and last did go<br /> +The Pilot of the Galilean lake;<br /> +Two massy keys he bore of metals twain<br /> +(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);<br /> +He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:<br /> +‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,<br /> +Enow of such, as for their bellies’ sake<br /> +Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!<br /> +Of other care they little reckoning make<br /> +Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,<br /> +<a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>And +shove away the worthy bidden guest.<br /> +Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold<br /> +A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least<br /> +That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!<br /> +What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;<br +/> +And when they list, their lean and flashy songs<br /> +Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;<br /> +The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,<br /> +But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,<br /> +Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:<br /> +Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw<br /> +Daily devours apace, and nothing said:<br /> +But that two-handed engine at the door<br /> +Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’</p> +<p class="poetry"> Return, Alpheus; the dread +voice is past<br /> +That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,<br /> +And call the vales, and bid them hither cast<br /> +Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.<br /> +Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use<br /> +Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks<br /> +On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;<br /> +Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes<br /> +That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers<br /> +And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.<br /> +Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,<br /> +The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,<br /> +The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,<br /> +The glowing violet,<br /> +The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,<br /> +With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,<br /> +And every flower that sad embroidery wears:<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>Bid +amaranthus all his beauty shed,<br /> +And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,<br /> +To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.<br /> +For so to interpose a little ease,<br /> +Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise:—<br /> +Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas<br /> +Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled,<br /> +Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,<br /> +Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,<br /> +Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;<br /> +Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,<br /> +Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,<br /> +Where the great Vision of the guarded mount<br /> +Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold;<br /> +Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:<br /> +And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Weep no more, woeful +shepherds, weep no more,<br /> +For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,<br /> +Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor:<br /> +So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,<br /> +And yet anon repairs his drooping head<br /> +And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore<br /> +Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:<br /> +So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high<br /> +Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves;<br /> +Where, other groves and other streams along,<br /> +With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,<br /> +And hears the unexpressive nuptial song<br /> +In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.<br /> +There entertain him all the Saints above,<br /> +In solemn troops, and sweet societies,<br /> +That sing, and singing in their glory move,<br /> +And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Now, +Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;<br /> +Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,<br /> +In thy large recompense, and shalt be good<br /> +To all that wander in that perilous flood.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus sang the uncouth swain +to the oaks and rills,<br /> +While the still morn went out with sandals grey;<br /> +He touched the tender stops of various quills,<br /> +With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:<br /> +And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,<br /> +And now was dropt into the western bay:<br /> +At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:<br /> +To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.</p> +<h3>ON HIS BLINDNESS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I consider how +my light is spent<br /> + Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,<br /> + And that one talent which is death to hide<br /> +Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent<br /> +To serve therewith my Maker, and present<br /> + My true account, lest He returning chide,—<br +/> + Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?<br /> +I fondly ask:—But Patience, to prevent<br /> +That murmur, soon replies: God doth not need<br /> + Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who +best<br /> + Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him +best: His state<br /> +Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed<br /> + And post o’er land and ocean without rest:<br +/> + They also serve who only stand and +wait.</p> +<h3><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>ON +HIS DECEASED WIFE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Methought</span> I saw my +late espoused saint<br /> + Brought to me like Alkestis from the grave,<br /> + Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband +gave,<br /> +Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.<br /> +Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint<br /> + Purification in the Old Law did save,<br /> + And such as yet once more I trust to have<br /> +Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,<br /> +Came vested all in white, pure as her mind;<br /> + Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight<br /> +Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined<br /> + So clear as in no face with more delight.<br /> +But oh! as to embrace me she inclined,<br /> + I waked, she fled, and day brought back my +night.</p> +<h3>ON SHAKESPEARE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> needs my +Shakespeare, for his honoured bones,<br /> +The labour of an age in piled stones?<br /> +Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid<br /> +Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?<br /> +Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,<br /> +What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?<br /> +Thou in our wonder and astonishment<br /> +Hast built thyself a live-long monument.<br /> +For whilst, to shame of slow-endeavouring art<br /> +Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart<br /> +Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book<br /> +Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,<br /> +Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,<br /> +Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;<br /> +And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie,<br /> +That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.</p> +<h3><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>SONG +ON MAY MORNING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the bright +morning star, day’s harbinger,<br /> +Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her<br /> +The flowery May, who from her green lap throws<br /> +The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.<br /> + Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire<br /> + Mirth and youth and young desire!<br /> + Woods and groves are of thy dressing,<br /> + Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.<br /> +Thus we salute thee with our early song,<br /> + And welcome thee and wish thee long.</p> +<h3>INVOCATION TO SABRINA, FROM COMUS</h3> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Sabrina</span> fair!<br /> + Listen, where thou art sitting,<br /> +Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,<br /> + In twisted braids of lilies knitting<br /> +The loose train of thine amber-dripping hair,<br /> +Listen for dear honour’s sake,<br /> +Goddess of the silver lake,<br /> + Listen and +save!<br /> +Listen, and appear to us,<br /> +In name of great Oceanus,<br /> +By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,<br /> +And Tethys’ grave majestic pace;<br /> +By hoary Nereus’ wrinkled look,<br /> +And the Carpathian wizard’s hook;<br /> +By scaly Triton’s winding shell,<br /> +And old soothsaying Glaucus’ spell;<br /> +<a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>By +Leucothea’s lovely hands,<br /> +And her son that rules the strands;<br /> +By Thetis’ tinsel-slippered feet,<br /> +And the songs of sirens sweet;<br /> +By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,<br /> +And fair Ligea’s golden comb,<br /> +Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks<br /> +Sleeking her soft alluring locks;<br /> +By all the nymphs that nightly dance<br /> +Upon thy streams with wily glance;<br /> +Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head<br /> +From thy coral-paven bed,<br /> +And bridle in thy headlong wave,<br /> +Till thou our summons answered have.<br /> + Listen and +save!</p> +<h3>INVOCATION TO ECHO, FROM COMUS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span> Echo, sweetest +Nymph, that liv’st unseen<br /> + Within thine +airy shell<br /> + By slow +Meander’s margent green,<br /> +And in the violet-embroidered vale,<br /> + Where the +love-lorn nightingale<br /> +Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;<br /> +Canst thou not tell me of a single pair<br /> + That likest thy +Narcissus are?<br /> + O, if thou +have<br /> + Hid them in some +flowery cave,<br /> + Tell me but +where,<br /> +Sweet Queen of Parley, daughter of the Sphere!<br /> +So mayest thou be translated to the skies,<br /> +And give resounding grace to all Heaven’s harmonies.</p> +<h3><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>THE +ATTENDANT SPIRIT, FROM COMUS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> the ocean now I +fly,<br /> +And those happy climes that lie<br /> +Where day never shuts his eye,<br /> +Up in the broad fields of the sky.<br /> +There I suck the liquid air,<br /> +All amid the gardens fair<br /> +Of Hesperus, and his daughters three<br /> +That sing about the golden tree.<br /> +Along the crisped shades and bowers<br /> +Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;<br /> +The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours<br /> +Thither all their bounties bring.<br /> +There eternal Summer dwells,<br /> +And west winds with musky wing<br /> +About the cedarn alleys fling<br /> +Nard and cassia’s balmy smells.<br /> +Iris there with humid bow<br /> +Waters the odorous banks, that blow<br /> +Flowers of more mingled hue<br /> +Than her purpled scarf can show,<br /> +And drenches with Elysian dew<br /> +(List, mortals, if your ears be true)<br /> +Beds of hyacinth and roses,<br /> +Where young Adonis oft reposes,<br /> +Waxing well of his deep wound<br /> +In slumber soft, and on the ground<br /> +Sadly sits the Assyrian queen.<br /> +But far above, in spangled sheen,<br /> +Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,<br /> +Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced,<br /> +<a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>After +her wandering labours long,<br /> +Till free consent the gods among<br /> +Make her his eternal bride,<br /> +And from her fair unspotted side<br /> +Two blissful twins are to be born,<br /> +Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now my task is smoothly done:<br /> +I can fly or I can run<br /> +Quickly to the green earth’s end,<br /> +Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,<br /> +And from thence can soar as soon<br /> +To the corners of the moon.<br /> +Mortals that would follow me,<br /> +Love Virtue; she alone is free,<br /> +She can teach ye how to climb<br /> +Higher than the sphery chime;<br /> +Or if feeble Virtue were,<br /> +Heaven itself would stoop to her.</p> +<h2>JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1612–1650</span></h2> +<h3>THE VIGIL OF DEATH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> them bestow on +every airth a limb,<br /> +Then open all my veins, that I may swim<br /> +To thee, my Maker! in that crimson lake.<br /> +Then place my parboiled head upon a stake—<br /> +Scatter my ashes—strew them in the air:<br /> +Lord! since thou know’st where all these atoms are,<br /> +I’m hopeful thou’lt recover once my dust,<br /> +And confident thou’lt raise me with the just.</p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>RICHARD CRASHAW<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1615(?)–1652</span></h2> +<h3>ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lo</span>, here a little +volume, but great book!<br /> +A nest of new-born sweets,<br /> +Whose native pages, ’sdaining<br /> +To be thus folded, and complaining<br /> +Of these ignoble sheets,<br /> +Affect more comely bands,<br /> +Fair one, from thy kind hands,<br /> +And confidently look<br /> +To find the rest<br /> +Of a rich binding in your breast!</p> +<p class="poetry">It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all<br +/> +Heaven’s royal hosts encamped, thus small<br /> +To prove that true schools use to tell,<br /> +A thousand angels in one point can dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is love’s great artillery,<br /> +Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie<br /> +Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence,<br /> +As from a snowy fortress of defence,<br /> +Against your ghostly foe to take your part,<br /> +And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is an armoury of light;<br /> +Let constant use but keep it bright,<br /> + You’ll find it yields<br /> +To holy hands and humble hearts<br /> + More swords and shields<br /> +Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page132"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 132</span>Only be sure<br /> + The hands be pure<br /> +That hold these weapons, and the eyes<br /> +Those of turtles, chaste, and true,<br /> + Wakeful, and wise.<br /> +Here’s a friend shall fight for you;<br /> +Hold but this book before your heart,<br /> +Let prayer alone to play his part.</p> +<p class="poetry">But, O! the heart<br /> +That studies this high art<br /> +Must be a sure housekeeper,<br /> +And yet no sleeper.<br /> +Dear soul, be strong;<br /> +Mercy will come ere long,<br /> +And bring her bosom full of blessings,<br /> +Flowers of never-fading graces,<br /> +To make immortal dressings<br /> +For worthy souls, whose wise embraces<br /> +Store up themselves for Him who is alone<br /> +The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin’s Son.</p> +<p class="poetry">But if the noble Bridegroom when He comes<br /> +Shall find the wandering heart from home,<br /> + Leaving her chaste abode<br /> + To gad abroad,<br /> +Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies<br /> + To take her pleasure, and to play<br /> + And keep the Devil’s holy day;<br /> +To dance in the sunshine of some smiling,<br /> + But beguiling<br /> +<a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>Spheres +of sweet and sugared lies,<br /> + Some slippery pair<br /> + Of false, perhaps, as fair,<br /> +Flattering, but forswearing, eyes;</p> +<p class="poetry">Doubtless some other heart<br /> + Will get the +start<br /> +Meanwhile, and, stepping in before,<br /> +Will take possession of that sacred store<br /> + Of hidden sweets, and holy joys,<br /> +Words which are not heard with ears—<br /> + These tumultuous shops of noise—<br /> + Effectual whispers, whose still voice<br /> +The soul itself more feels than hears;</p> +<p class="poetry">Amorous languishments, luminous trances,<br /> + Sights which are not seen with eyes,<br /> +Spiritual and soul-piercing glances<br /> + Whose pure and subtle lightning flies<br /> +Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire<br /> +And melts it down in sweet desire,<br /> + Yet does not stay<br /> +To ask the window’s leave to pass that way;</p> +<p class="poetry">Delicious deaths, soft exhalations<br /> +Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;<br /> + A thousand unknown rites<br /> + Of joys, and rarefied delights;</p> +<p class="poetry">A hundred thousand goods, glories, and +graces,<br /> + And many a mystic thing,<br /> + Which the divine embraces<br /> +Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring<br /> + For which it is no shame<br /> +That dull mortality must not know a name.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>Of all this store<br /> +Of blessings, and ten thousand more,<br /> + If when He come<br /> +He find the heart from home,<br /> + Doubtless He will unload<br /> +Himself some otherwhere,<br /> + And pour abroad<br /> + His precious sweets,<br /> +On the fair soul whom first He meets.</p> +<p class="poetry">O fair! O fortunate! O rich! +O dear!<br /> + O happy, and thrice happy she,<br /> + Dear silver-breasted dove,<br /> + Whoe’er she be,<br /> + Whose early love<br /> + With winged vows<br /> +Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse,<br /> +And close with His immortal kisses!<br /> + Happy, indeed, who never misses<br /> + To improve that precious hour,<br /> + And every day<br /> + Seize her sweet prey,<br /> + All fresh and fragrant as He rises,<br /> + Dropping, with a balmy shower,<br /> + A delicious dew of spices.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, let the blessful heart hold fast<br /> +Her heavenly armful, she shall taste<br /> +At once ten thousand paradises!<br /> + She shall have power<br /> + To rifle and deflower<br /> +The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,<br /> +Which with a swelling bosom there she meets;<br /> +<a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures<br /> + Of pure inebriating pleasures;<br +/> +Happy proof she shall discover,<br /> + What joy, what bliss,<br /> + How many heavens at once it is,<br +/> +To have a God become her lover!</p> +<h3>TO THE MORNING</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Satisfaction for Sleep</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> succour can I +hope the Muse will send,<br /> +Whose drowsiness hath wronged the Muse’s friend?<br /> +What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,<br /> +Unless the Muse sing my apology?<br /> +O! in that morning of my shame, when I<br /> +Lay folded up in sleep’s captivity;<br /> +How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes,<br /> +Into thy modest veil! how didst thou rise<br /> +Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and didst run<br /> +To draw the curtains and awake the sun!<br /> +Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came,<br /> +And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame<br /> +His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides<br /> +Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides;<br /> +And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take<br /> +My own Apollo, try if I can make<br /> +His Lethe be my Helicon, and see<br /> +If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.<br /> +Hence ’tis my humble fancy finds no wings,<br /> +No nimble raptures, starts to heaven and brings<br /> +Enthusiastic flames, such as can give<br /> +Marrow to my plump genius, make it live<br /> +Dressed in the glorious madness of a muse,<br /> +Whose feet can walk the milky-way, and choose<br /> +<a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span>Her +starry throne; whose holy heats can warm<br /> +The grave, and hold up an exalted arm<br /> +To lift me from my lazy urn, and climb<br /> +Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time,<br /> +And trace eternity. But all is dead,<br /> +All these delicious hopes are buried<br /> +In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,<br /> +Where mercy cannot find them; but, O thou<br /> +Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lie<br /> +So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die;<br /> +Have mercy, then, and when he next doth rise,<br /> +O, meet the angry god, invade his eyes,<br /> +And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss<br /> +Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss.<br /> +So to the treasure of thy pearly dew<br /> +Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true<br /> +My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock<br /> +At the oriental gates, and duly mock<br /> +The early lark’s shrill orisons to be<br /> +An anthem at the day’s nativity.<br /> +And the same rosy-fingered hand of thine,<br /> +That shuts night’s dying eyes, shall open mine.<br /> + But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I<br /> +Was ever known to be thy votary.<br /> +No more my pillow shall thine altar be,<br /> +Nor will I offer any more to thee<br /> +Myself a melting sacrifice; I’m born<br /> +Again a fresh child of the buxom morn,<br /> +Heir of the sun’s first beams; why threat’st thou +so?<br /> +Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,<br /> +Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,<br /> +Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne’er know<br /> +Thy downy finger dwell upon their eyes;<br /> +Shut in their tears, shut out their miseries.</p> +<h3><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>LOVE’S HOROSCOPE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span>, brave +Virtue’s younger brother,<br /> +Erst hath made my heart a mother.<br /> +She consults the anxious spheres,<br /> +To calculate her young son’s years;<br /> +She asks if sad or saving powers<br /> +Gave omen to his infant hours;<br /> +She asks each star that then stood by<br /> +If poor Love shall live or die.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, my heart, is that the way?<br /> +Are these the beams that rule thy day?<br /> +Thou know’st a face in whose each look<br /> +Beauty lays ope Love’s fortune-book,<br /> +On whose fair revolutions wait<br /> +The obsequious motions of Love’s fate.<br /> +Ah, my heart! her eyes and she<br /> +Have taught thee new astrology.<br /> +Howe’er Love’s native hours were set,<br /> +Whatever starry synod met,<br /> +’Tis in the mercy of her eye,<br /> +If poor Love shall live or die.</p> +<p class="poetry">If those sharp rays, putting on<br /> +Points of death, bid Love be gone;<br /> +Though the heavens in council sat<br /> +To crown an uncontrolled fate;<br /> +Though their best aspects twined upon<br /> +The kindest constellation,<br /> +Cast amorous glances on his birth,<br /> +And whispered the confederate earth<br /> +<a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>To pave +his paths with all the good<br /> +That warms the bed of youth and blood:—<br /> +Love has no plea against her eye;<br /> +Beauty frowns, and Love must die.</p> +<p class="poetry">But if her milder influence move,<br /> +And gild the hopes of humble Love;—<br /> +Though heaven’s inauspicious eye<br /> +Lay black on Love’s nativity;<br /> +Though every diamond in Jove’s crown<br /> +Fixed his forehead to a frown;—<br /> +Her eye a strong appeal can give,<br /> +Beauty smiles, and Love shall live.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, if Love shall live, O where,<br /> +But in her eye, or in her ear,<br /> +In her breast, or in her breath,<br /> +Shall I hide poor Love from death?<br /> +For in the life aught else can give,<br /> +Love shall die, although he live.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or, if Love shall die, O where,<br /> +But in her eye, or in her ear,<br /> +In her breath, or in her breast,<br /> +Shall I build his funeral nest?<br /> +While Love shall thus entombed lie,<br /> +Love shall live, although he die!</p> +<h3>ON MR. G. HERBERT’S BOOK</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Entitled</i>, ‘<i>The +Temple of Sacred Poems</i>,’ <i>sent to a +Gentlewoman</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Know</span> you, fair, on +what you look?<br /> +Divinest love lies in this book,<br /> +<a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>Expecting fire from your eyes,<br /> +To kindle this his sacrifice.<br /> +When your hands untie these strings,<br /> +Think you’ve an angel by the wings;<br /> +One that gladly will be nigh<br /> +To wait upon each morning sigh,<br /> +To flutter in the balmy air<br /> +Of your well perfumed prayer.<br /> +These white plumes of his he’ll lend you,<br /> +Which every day to heaven will send you,<br /> +To take acquaintance of the sphere,<br /> +And all the smooth-faced kindred there.<br /> +And though Herbert’s name do owe<br /> +These devotions, fairest, know<br /> +That while I lay them on the shrine<br /> +Of your white hand, they are mine.</p> +<h3>WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whoe’er</span> she +be,<br /> +That not impossible She<br /> + That shall command my heart and me:</p> +<p class="poetry">Where’er she he,<br /> +Locked up from mortal eye<br /> +In shady leaves of destiny:</p> +<p class="poetry">Till that ripe birth<br /> +Of studied Fate stand forth,<br /> +And teach her fair steps tread our earth:</p> +<p class="poetry">Till that divine<br /> +Idea take a shrine<br /> +Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>Meet you her, my Wishes,<br /> +Bespeak her to my blisses,<br /> +And be ye called, my absent kisses.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish her beauty<br /> +That owes not all its duty<br /> +To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Something more than<br /> +Taffata or tissue can,<br /> +Or rampant feather, or rich fan.</p> +<p class="poetry">More than the spoil<br /> +Of shop, or silkworm’s toil,<br /> +Or a bought blush, or a set smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">A face that’s best<br /> +By its own beauty drest,<br /> +And can alone commend the rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">A cheek where youth<br /> +And blood, with pen of truth,<br /> +Write what the reader sweetly rueth.</p> +<p class="poetry">A cheek where grows<br /> +More than a morning rose,<br /> +Which to no box his being owes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lips where all day<br /> +A lover’s kiss may play,<br /> +Yet carry nothing thence away.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +141</span>Looks that oppress<br /> +Their richest tires, but dress<br /> +And clothe their simple nakedness.</p> +<p class="poetry">Eyes that displace<br /> +Their neighbour diamond, and out-face<br /> +That sunshine by their own sweet grace.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tresses that wear<br /> +Jewels, but to declare<br /> +How much themselves more precious are;</p> +<p class="poetry">Whose native ray<br /> +Can tame the wanton day<br /> +Of gems that in their bright shades play.</p> +<p class="poetry">Each ruby there,<br /> +Or pearl that dare appear,<br /> +Be its own blush, be its own tear.</p> +<p class="poetry">A well-tamed heart,<br /> +For whose more noble smart<br /> +Love may be long choosing a dart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Eyes that bestow<br /> +Full quivers on love’s bow,<br /> +Yet pay less arrows than they owe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Smiles that can warm<br /> +The blood, yet teach a charm,<br /> +That chastity shall take no harm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +142</span>Blushes that bin<br /> +The burnish of no sin,<br /> +Nor flames of aught too hot within.</p> +<p class="poetry">Joys that confess,<br /> +Virtue their mistress,<br /> +And have no other head to dress.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fears fond and slight<br /> +As the coy bride’s, when night<br /> +First does the longing lover right.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tears quickly fled,<br /> +And vain, as those are shed<br /> +For a dying maidenhead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soft silken hours,<br /> +Open suns, shady bowers;<br /> +’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.</p> +<p class="poetry">Days that need borrow<br /> +No part of their good-morrow<br /> +From a fore-spent night of sorrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Days that in spite<br /> +Of darkness, by the light<br /> +Of a clear mind, are day all night.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nights, sweet as they,<br /> +Made short by lovers’ play,<br /> +Yet long by the absence of the day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>Life, that dares send<br /> +A challenge to his end,<br /> +And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sydneian showers<br /> +Of sweet discourse, whose powers<br /> +Can crown old winter’s head with flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whate’er delight<br /> +Can make day’s forehead bright,<br /> +Or give down to the wings of night.</p> +<p class="poetry">In her whole frame,<br /> +Have Nature all the name,<br /> +Art and ornament the shame.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her flattery,<br /> +Picture and poesy,<br /> +Her counsel her own virtue be.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish her store<br /> +Of worth may leave her poor<br /> +Of wishes; and I wish—no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, if Time knows<br /> +That Her, whose radiant brows<br /> +Weave them a garland of my vows;</p> +<p class="poetry">Her whose just bays<br /> +My future hopes can raise,<br /> +A trophy to her present praise;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>Her that dares he<br /> +What these lines wish to see;<br /> +I seek no further, it is She.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis She, and here,<br /> +Lo! I unclothe and clear<br /> +My wishes’ cloudy character.</p> +<p class="poetry">May she enjoy it<br /> +Whose merit dare apply it,<br /> +But modesty dares still deny it!</p> +<p class="poetry">Such worth as this is<br /> +Shall fix my flying wishes,<br /> +And determine them to kisses.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let her full glory,<br /> +My fancies, fly before ye;<br /> +Be ye my fictions:—but her story.</p> +<h3>QUEM VIDISTIS PASTORES, ETC.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY, SUNG BY THE +SHEPHERDS</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Chorus</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, we shepherds +whose blest sight<br /> +Hath met Love’s noon in Nature’s night;<br /> +Come lift we up our loftier song,<br /> +And wake the sun that lies too long.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>To all our world of well-stol’n joy<br /> + He slept, and dreamt of no such thing,<br /> +While we found out Heaven’s fairer eye,<br /> + And kissed the cradle of our King;<br /> +Tell him he rises now too late<br /> +To show us aught worth looking at.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tell him we now can show him more<br /> + Than he e’er showed to mortal sight,<br /> +Than he himself e’er saw before,<br /> + Which to be seen needs not his light:<br /> +Tell him, Tityrus, where th’ hast been,<br /> +Tell him, Thyrsis, what th’ hast seen.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Tityrus</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Gloomy night embraced the place<br /> + Where the noble infant lay:<br /> +The babe looked up, and showed His face;<br /> + In spite of darkness it was day.<br /> +It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise,<br /> +Not from the East, but from Thine eyes.<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise,<br /> +Not from the East, but from Thine eyes.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Thyrsis</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Winter chid aloud, and sent<br /> + The angry North to wage his wars:<br /> +The North forgot his fierce intent,<br /> + And left perfumes instead of scars.<br /> +By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers,<br /> +Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers.<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. By those sweet eyes’ persuasive +powers,<br /> +Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page146"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 146</span><i>Both</i></p> +<p class="poetry">We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,<br /> + Young dawn of our eternal day;<br /> +We saw Thine eyes break from the East,<br /> + And chase the trembling shades away:<br /> +We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,<br /> +We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Tityrus</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do<br /> + To entertain this starry stranger?<br /> +Is this the best thou canst bestow—<br /> + A cold and not too cleanly manger?<br /> +Contend the powers of heaven and earth,<br /> +To fit a bed for this huge birth.<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. Contend the powers of heaven and earth,<br +/> +To fit a bed for this huge birth.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Thyrsis</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Proud world, said I, cease your contest,<br /> + And let the mighty babe alone,<br /> +The phœnix builds the phœnix’ nest,<br /> + Love’s architecture is his own.<br /> +The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,<br /> +Made His own bed ere He was born.<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,<br +/> +Made His own bed ere He was born.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Tityrus</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I saw the curled drops, soft and slow,<br /> + Come hovering o’er the place’s head,<br +/> +Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow,<br /> + To furnish the fair infant’s bed.<br /> +<a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>Forbear, +said I, be not too bold,<br /> +Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Thyrsis</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I saw th’ obsequious seraphim<br /> + Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,<br /> +For well they now can spare their wings,<br /> + Since Heaven itself lies here below.<br /> +Well done, said I; but are you sure<br /> +Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. Well done, said I; but are you sure<br /> +Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Both</i></p> +<p class="poetry">No, no, your King’s not yet to seek<br /> + Where to repose His royal head;<br /> +See, see how soon His new-bloomed cheek<br /> + ’Twixt mother’s breasts is gone to +bed.<br /> +Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,<br /> +Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow!<br /> +<i>Chorus</i>. Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,<br /> +Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Full Chorus</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Welcome all wonders in one sight!<br /> + Eternity shut in a span!<br /> +Summer in winter! day in night!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Chorus</i></p> +<p class="poetry"> Heaven in earth! and God in +man!<br /> +Great little one, whose all-embracing birth<br /> +Lifts earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to earth,<br /> +<a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>Welcome, +tho’ nor to gold, nor silk,<br /> + To more than Cæsar’s birthright is:<br +/> +Two sister seas of virgin’s milk,<br /> + With many a rarely-tempered kiss,<br /> +That breathes at once both maid and mother,<br /> +Warms in the one, cools in the other.</p> +<p class="poetry">She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips<br /> + Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;<br /> +She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,<br /> + That in their buds yet blushing lie.<br /> +She ’gainst those mother diamonds tries<br /> +The points of her young eagle’s eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Welcome—tho’ not to those gay +flies,<br /> + Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings,<br +/> +Slippery souls in smiling eyes—<br /> + But to poor shepherds, homespun things,<br /> +Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit’s to be<br /> +Well read in their simplicity.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, when young April’s husband +show’rs<br /> + Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,<br /> +We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers,<br /> + To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.<br /> +To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep<br /> +The shepherds while they feed their sheep.</p> +<p class="poetry">To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King<br /> + Of simple graces and sweet loves!<br /> +Each of us his lamb will bring,<br /> + Each his pair of silver doves!<br /> +At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,<br /> +Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!</p> +<h3><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>MUSIC’S DUEL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> westward Sol had +spent the richest beams<br /> +Of noon’s high glory, when, hard by the streams<br /> +Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,<br /> +Under protection of an oak, there sat<br /> +A sweet lute’s master: in whose gentle airs<br /> +He lost the day’s heat, and his own hot cares.<br /> + Close in the covert of the leaves there stood<br /> +A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:—<br /> +The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,<br /> +Their muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she,—<br /> +There stood she list’ning, and did entertain<br /> +The music’s soft report, and mould the same<br /> +In her own murmurs, that whatever mood<br /> +His curious fingers lent, her voice made good.<br /> +The man perceived his rival, and her art;<br /> +Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport,<br /> +Awakes his lute, and ’gainst the fight to come<br /> +Informs it, in a sweet <i>præludium</i><br /> +Of closer strains; and ere the war begin<br /> +He slightly skirmishes on every string,<br /> +Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she<br /> +Carves out her dainty voice as readily<br /> +Into a thousand sweet distinguished tones;<br /> +And reckons up in soft divisions<br /> +Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know<br /> +By that shrill taste she could do something too.<br /> + His nimble hand’s instinct then taught each +string<br /> +A cap’ring cheerfulness; and made them sing<br /> +To their own dance; now negligently rash<br /> +He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash<br /> +Blends all together, then distinctly trips<br /> +From this to that, then, quick returning, skips<br /> +<a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>And +snatches this again, and pauses there.<br /> +She measures every measure, everywhere<br /> +Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt—<br /> +Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out—<br /> +Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note<br /> +Through the sleek passage of her open throat:<br /> +A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it<br /> +With tender accents, and severely joint it<br /> +By short diminutives, that, being reared<br /> +In controverting warbles evenly shared,<br /> +With her sweet sell she wrangles; he, amazed<br /> +That from so small a channel should be raised<br /> +The torrent of a voice whose melody<br /> +Could melt into such sweet variety,<br /> +Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art,<br /> +The tattling strings—each breathing in his part—<br +/> +Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling bass<br /> +In surly groans disdains the treble’s grace;<br /> +The high-perched treble chirps at this, and chides<br /> +Until his finger—moderator—hides<br /> +And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all,<br /> +Hoarse, shrill, at once: as when the trumpets call<br /> +Hot Mars to th’ harvest of death’s field, and woo<br +/> +Men’s hearts into their hands; this lesson, too,<br /> +She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out<br /> +Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt<br /> +Of dallying sweetness, hovers o’er her skill,<br /> +And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill,<br /> +The pliant series of her slippery song;<br /> +Then starts she suddenly into a throng<br /> +Of short thick sobs, whose thund’ring volleys float<br /> +And roll themselves over her lubric throat<br /> +In panting murmurs, ’stilled out of her breast,<br /> +That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest<br /> +<a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>Of her +delicious soul, that there does lie<br /> +Bathing in streams of liquid melody,—<br /> +Music’s best seed-plot; when in ripened ears<br /> +A golden-headed harvest fairly rears<br /> +His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath,<br /> +Which there reciprocally laboureth.<br /> +In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire<br /> +Founded to th’ name of great Apollo’s lyre;<br /> +Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes<br /> +Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their throats<br /> +In cream of morning Helicon; and then<br /> +Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,<br /> +To woo them from their beds, still murmuring<br /> +That men can sleep while they their matins sing;—<br /> +Most divine service! whose so early lay<br /> +Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day.<br /> +There might you hear her kindle her soft voice<br /> +In the close murmur of a sparkling noise,<br /> +And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song;<br /> +Still keeping in the forward stream so long,<br /> +Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out,<br /> +Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about,<br /> +And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast;<br /> +Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest,<br /> +Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky,<br /> +Winged with their own wild echos, pratt’ling fly.<br /> +She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide<br /> +Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride<br /> +On the waved back of every swelling strain,<br /> +Rising and falling in a pompous train;<br /> +And while she thus discharges a shrill peal<br /> +Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal<br /> +With the cool epode of a graver note;<br /> +Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat<br /> +<a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>Would +reach the brazen voice of war’s hoarse bird;<br /> +Her little soul is ravished; and so poured<br /> +Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed<br /> +Above herself—music’s enthusiast!<br /> + Shame now and anger mixed a double stain<br /> +In the musician’s face: Yet once again,<br /> +Mistress, I come. Now reach a strain, my lute,<br /> +Above her mock, or be for ever mute;<br /> +Or tune a song of victory to me,<br /> +Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy!<br /> +So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,<br /> +And with a quivering coyness tastes the strings:<br /> +The sweet-lipped sisters, musically frighted,<br /> +Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted:<br /> +Trembling as when Apollo’s golden hairs<br /> +Are fanned and frizzled in the wanton airs<br /> +Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre,<br /> +Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven’s self look +higher;<br /> +From this to that, from that to this, he flies,<br /> +Feels music’s pulse in all her arteries;<br /> +Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,<br /> +His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,<br /> +Following those little rills, he sinks into<br /> +A sea of Helicon; his hand does go<br /> +Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,<br /> +Softer than that which pants in Hebe’s cup:<br /> +The humorous strings expound his learned touch<br /> +By various glosses; now they seem to grutch<br /> +And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle<br /> +In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single;<br /> +Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke,<br /> +Gives life to some new grace: thus doth he invoke<br /> +Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus—<br /> +Fraught with a fury so harmonious—<br /> +<a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 153</span>The +lute’s light Genius now does proudly rise,<br /> +Heaved on the surges of swoll’n rhapsodies,<br /> +Whose flourish, meteor-like, doth curl the air<br /> +With flash of high-born fancies; here and there<br /> +Dancing in lofty measures, and anon<br /> +Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,<br /> +Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,<br /> +Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;<br /> +Because those precious mysteries that dwell<br /> +In music’s ravished soul he dare not tell,<br /> +But whisper to the world: thus do they vary,<br /> +Each string his note, as if they meant to carry<br /> +Their master’s blest soul, snatched out at his ears<br /> +By a strong ecstasy, through all the spheres<br /> +Of music’s heaven; and seat it there on high<br /> +In th’ <i>empyræum</i> of pure harmony.<br /> +At length—after so long, so loud a strife<br /> +Of all the strings, still breathing the best life<br /> +Of blest variety, attending on<br /> +His fingers’ fairest revolution,<br /> +In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall—<br /> +A full-mouthed diapason swallows all.<br /> + This done, he lists what she would say to this;<br +/> +And she, although her breath’s late exercise<br /> +Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,<br /> +Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.<br /> +Alas, in vain! for while, sweet soul, she tries<br /> +To measure all those wild diversities<br /> +Of chatt’ring strings, by the small size of one<br /> +Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone,<br /> +She fails; and failing, grieves; and grieving, dies;<br /> +She dies, and leaves her life the victor’s prize,<br /> +Falling upon his lute. O, fit to have—<br /> +That lived so sweetly—dead, so sweet a grave!</p> +<h3><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>THE +FLAMING HEART</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><i>Upon the Book and +Picture of the Seraphical Saint</i><br /> +<i>Teresa</i>, <i>as she is usually expressed with</i><br /> +<i>a Seraphim beside her</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Well-meaning</span> +readers! you that come as friends<br /> +And catch the precious name this piece pretends,<br /> +Make not too much haste t’ admire<br /> +That fair-cheeked fallacy of fire.<br /> +That is a seraphim, they say,<br /> +And this the great Teresia.<br /> +Readers, be ruled by me, and make<br /> +Here a well-placed and wise mistake;<br /> +You must transpose the picture quite,<br /> +And spell it wrong to read it right;<br /> +Read Him for Her, and Her for Him,<br /> +And call the saint the seraphim.<br /> + Painter, what didst thou understand<br /> +To put her dart into his hand?<br /> +See, even the years and size of him<br /> +Shows this the mother seraphim.<br /> +This is the mistress flame, and duteous he<br /> +Her happy fireworks, here, comes down to see:<br /> +O, most poor-spirited of men!<br /> +Had thy cold pencil kissed her pen,<br /> +Thou couldst not so unkindly err<br /> +To show us this faint shade for her.<br /> +Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame,<br /> +And mocks with female frost love’s manly flame;<br /> +One would suspect thou meant’st to paint<br /> +Some weak, inferior woman Saint.<br /> +But, had thy pale-faced purple took<br /> +Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book,<br /> +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>Thou +wouldst on her have heaped up all<br /> +That could be found seraphical;<br /> +Whate’er this youth of fire wears fair,<br /> +Rosy fingers, radiant hair,<br /> +Glowing cheek, and glist’ring wings,<br /> +All those fair and flagrant things;<br /> +But, before all, that fiery dart<br /> +Had filled the hand of this great heart.<br /> + Do, then, as equal right requires,<br /> +Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires,<br /> +Resume and rectify thy rude design,<br /> +Undress thy seraphim into mine;<br /> +Redeem this injury of thy art,<br /> +Give him the veil, give her the dart.<br /> + Give him the veil, that he may cover<br /> +The red cheeks of a rivalled lover,<br /> +Ashamed that our world now can show<br /> +Nests of new Seraphims here below.<br /> + Give her the dart, for it is she,<br /> +Fair youth, shoots both thy shaft and thee;<br /> +Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts<br /> +That live and die amidst her darts,<br /> +What is’t your tasteful spirits do prove<br /> +In that rare life of her and love?<br /> +Say and bear witness. Sends she not<br /> +A seraphim at every shot?<br /> +What magazines of immortal arms there shine!<br /> +Heav’n’s great artillery in each love-spun line!<br +/> +Give, then, the dart to her who gives the flame,<br /> +Give him the veil who gives the shame.<br /> + But if it be the frequent fate<br /> +Of worst faults to be fortunate,<br /> +If all’s prescription, and proud wrong<br /> +Hearkens not to an humble song,<br /> +<a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>For all +the gallantry of him,<br /> +Give me the suff’ring seraphim.<br /> +His be the bravery of those bright things,<br /> +The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings,<br /> +The rosy hand, the radiant dart;<br /> +Leave her alone the flaming heart.<br /> + Leave her that, and thou shalt leave her<br /> +Not one loose shaft, but Love’s whole quiver.<br /> +For in Love’s field was never found<br /> +A nobler weapon than a wound.<br /> +Love’s passives are his activ’st part,<br /> +The wounded is the wounding heart.<br /> +O, heart! the equal poise of Love’s both parts,<br /> +Big alike with wounds and darts,<br /> +Live in these conquering leaves, live all the same,<br /> +And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame!<br /> +Live here, great heart, and love, and die, and kill,<br /> +And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still.<br /> +Let this immortal Life, where’er it comes,<br /> +Walk in the crowd of loves and martyrdoms.<br /> +Let mystic deaths wait on’t, and wise souls be<br /> +The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.<br /> +O, sweet incendiary! show here thy art<br /> +Upon this carcass of a hard, cold heart;<br /> +Let all thy scattered shafts of light, that play<br /> +Among the leaves of thy large books of day,<br /> +Combined against this breast, at once break in<br /> +And take away from me myself and sin;<br /> +This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be,<br /> +And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.<br /> +O, thou undaunted daughter of desires!<br /> +By all thy dower of lights and fires,<br /> +By all the eagle in thee, all the dove,<br /> +By all thy lives and deaths of love,<br /> +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>By thy +large draughts of intellectual day,<br /> +And by thy thirst of love more large than they;<br /> +By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire,<br /> +By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire,<br /> +By the full kingdom of that final kiss<br /> +That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His;<br /> +By all the heav’ns thou hast in Him,<br /> +Fair sister of the seraphim!<br /> +By all of Him we have in thee,<br /> +Leave nothing of myself in me:<br /> +Let me so read thy life that I<br /> +Unto all life of mine may die.</p> +<h2>ABRAHAM COWLEY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1618–1667</span></h2> +<h3>ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Poet</span> and Saint! to +thee alone are given<br /> +The two most sacred names of earth and heaven;<br /> +The hard and rarest union which can be,<br /> +Next that of Godhead with humanity.<br /> +Long did the muses banished slaves abide,<br /> +And built vain pyramids to mortal pride;<br /> +Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand)<br /> +Hast brought them nobly back home to their Holy Land.<br /> + Ah, wretched we, poets of earth! but thou<br /> +Wert living the same poet which thou’rt now.<br /> +Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine,<br /> +And join in an applause so great as thine,<br /> +Equal society with them to hold,<br /> +Thou need’st not make new songs, but say the old.<br /> +<a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>And they +(kind spirits!) shall all rejoice to see<br /> +How little less than they exalted man may be.<br /> + Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell,<br /> +The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell.<br /> +Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land;<br /> +Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand.<br /> +And though Pan’s death long since all oracles broke,<br /> +Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke:<br /> +Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage we<br /> +(Vain men!) the monster woman deify;<br /> +Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face,<br /> +And paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place.<br /> +What different faults corrupt our muses thus!<br /> +Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous!<br /> + Thy spotless muse, like Mary, did contain<br /> +The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain<br /> +That her eternal verse employed should be<br /> +On a less subject than eternity;<br /> +And for a sacred mistress scorned to take<br /> +But her whom God Himself scorned not His spouse to make.<br /> +It (in a kind) her miracle did do;<br /> +A fruitful mother was and virgin too.<br /> + How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy +death,<br /> +And make thee render up thy tuneful breath<br /> +In thy great Mistress’ arms, thou most divine<br /> +And richest offering of Loretto’s shrine!<br /> +Where, like some holy sacrifice to expire,<br /> +A fever burns thee, and love lights the fire.<br /> +Angels (they say) brought the famed chapel there,<br /> +And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air.<br /> +’Tis surer much they brought <i>thee</i> there, and they<br +/> +And thou, their charge, went singing all the way.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page159"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 159</span>Hail, bard triumphant! and some care +bestow<br /> +On us, the poets militant below.<br /> +Opposed by our old enemy, adverse chance,<br /> +Attacked by envy and by ignorance,<br /> +Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires,<br /> +Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires.<br /> +Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise,<br /> +And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies.<br /> +Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,<br /> +More fit thy greatness and my littleness),<br /> +Lo, here I beg (I, whom thou once didst prove<br /> +So humble to esteem, so good to love)<br /> +Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be—<br /> +I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me;<br /> +And when my muse soars with so strong a wing,<br /> +’Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee, to +sing.</p> +<h3>HYMN TO THE LIGHT</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">First-born</span> of chaos, who so fair didst +come<br /> + + +From the old Negro’s darksome womb!<br /> + + +Which, when it saw the lovely child,<br /> +The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thou tide of glory which no +rest dost know,<br /> + + +But ever ebb and ever flow!<br /> + + +Thou golden shower of a true Jove<br /> +Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to Earth make love!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hail, active Nature’s +watchful life and health!<br /> + + +Her joy, her ornament, and wealth!<br /> + + +Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee!<br /> +Thou the world’s beauteous Bride, the lusty Bridegroom +he.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page160"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 160</span>Say from what golden quivers of the +sky<br /> + + +Do all thy winged arrows fly?<br /> + + +Swiftness and power by birth are thine:<br /> +From thy great Sire they came, thy Sire the Word Divine.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ’Tis, I believe, this +archery to show,<br /> + + +That so much cost in colours thou<br /> + + +And skill in painting dost bestow<br /> +Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Swift as light thoughts their +empty career run,<br /> + + +Thy race is finished when begun.<br /> + + +Let a post-angel start with thee,<br /> +And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thou, in the moon’s +bright chariot proud and gay,<br /> + + +Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;<br /> + + +And all the year dost with thee bring<br /> +Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thou, Scythian-like, dost +round thy lands above<br /> + + +The sun’s gilt tent for ever move;<br /> + + +And still as thou in pomp dost go,<br /> +The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Nor amidst all these triumphs +dost thou scorn<br /> + + +The humble glow-worms to adorn,<br /> + + +And with those living spangles gild<br /> +(O, greatness without pride!) the lilies of the field.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page161"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 161</span>Night and her ugly subjects thou +dost fright,<br /> + + +And sleep, the lazy owl of night;<br /> + + +Ashamed and fearful to appear,<br /> +They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere.</p> +<p class="poetry"> With them there hastes, and +wildly takes the alarm<br /> + + +Of painted dreams a busy swarm.<br /> + + +At the first opening of thine eye<br /> +The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The guilty serpents and +obscener beasts<br /> + + +Creep, conscious, to their secret rests;<br /> + + +Nature to thee does reverence pay,<br /> +Ill omens and ill sights remove out of thy way.</p> +<p class="poetry"> At thy appearance, Grief +itself is said<br /> + + +To shake his wings and rouse his head:<br /> + + +And cloudy Care has often took<br /> +A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.</p> +<p class="poetry"> At thy appearance, Fear +itself grows bold;<br /> + + +Thy sunshine melts away his cold.<br /> + + +Encouraged at the sight of thee,<br /> +To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Even Lust, the master of a +hardened face,<br /> + + +Blushes, if thou be’st in the place,<br /> + + +To darkness’ curtain he retires,<br /> +In sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When, goddess, thou +lift’st up thy wakened head<br /> + + +Out of the morning’s purple bed,<br /> + + +Thy quire of birds about thee play,<br /> +And all thy joyful world salutes the rising day.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page162"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 162</span>The ghosts and monster-spirits that +did presume<br /> + + +A body’s privilege to assume,<br /> + + +Vanish again invisibly,<br /> +And bodies gain again their visibility.</p> +<p class="poetry"> All the world’s bravery +that delights our eyes,<br /> + + +Is but thy several liveries:<br /> + + +Thou the rich dye on them bestow’st,<br /> +Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go’st.</p> +<p class="poetry"> A crimson garment in the rose +thou wear’st,<br /> + + +A crown of studded gold thou bear’st.<br /> + + +The virgin lilies in their white<br /> +Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The violet, Spring’s +little infant, stands<br /> + + +Girt in the purple swaddling-bands;<br /> + + +On the fair tulip thou dost dote,<br /> +Thou cloth’st it in a gay and parti-coloured coat.</p> +<p class="poetry"> With flames condensed thou +dost thy jewels fix,<br /> + + +And solid colours in it mix:<br /> + + +Flora herself envies to see<br /> +Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ah goddess! would thou +couldst thy hand withhold<br /> + + +And be less liberal to gold;<br /> + + +Didst thou less value to it give,<br /> +Of how much care (alas!) might’st thou poor man +relieve.</p> +<p class="poetry"> To me the sun is more +delightful far,<br /> + + +And all fair days much fairer are.<br /> + + +But few, ah, wondrous few there be<br /> +Who do not gold prefer, O goddess, even to thee!</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page163"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 163</span>Through the soft ways of heaven, and +air, and sea,<br /> + + +Which open all their pores to thee;<br /> + + +Like a clear river thou dost glide,<br /> +And with thy living streams through the close channels slide.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But where firm bodies thy +free course oppose,<br /> + + +Gently thy source the land o’erflows;<br /> + + +Takes there possession, and does make,<br /> +Of colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing lake.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But the vast ocean of +unbounded Day<br /> + + +In the Empyrean Heaven does stay.<br /> + + +Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below<br /> +From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.</p> +<h2>RICHARD LOVELACE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1618–1658</span></h2> +<h3>TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tell</span> me not, Sweet, +I am unkind,<br /> + That from the nunnery<br /> +Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind<br /> + To war and arms I fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">True; a new mistress now I chase,<br /> + The first foe in the field;<br /> +And with a stronger faith embrace<br /> + A sword, a horse, a shield.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>Yet this inconstancy is such<br /> + As thou, too, shalt adore;<br /> +I could not love thee, dear, so much<br /> + Loved I not honour more.</p> +<h3>TO AMARANTHA</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>That she would dishevel her +hair</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Amarantha</span>, sweet and +fair,<br /> +Ah, braid no more that shining hair!<br /> +As my curious hand or eye<br /> +Hovering round thee, let it fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let it fly as unconfined<br /> +As its calm ravisher the wind,<br /> +Who hath left his darling, th’ east,<br /> +To wanton in that spicy nest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Every tress must be confessed;<br /> +But neatly tangled at the best;<br /> +Like a clew of golden thread<br /> +Most excellently ravelled.</p> +<p class="poetry">Do not, then, wind up that light<br /> +In ribands, and o’er cloud in night,<br /> +Like the sun in ’s early ray;<br /> +But shake your head and scatter day.</p> +<h3><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>LUCASTA</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Paying her Obsequies to the +chaste memory of my dearest Cousin</i>, <i>Mrs. Bowes +Barne</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">See</span> what an +undisturbed tear<br /> + She weeps for <i>her</i> last +sleep!<br /> +But viewing her, straight waked, a star,<br /> + She weeps that she did weep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Grief ne’er before did tyrannize<br /> + On the honour of that brow,<br /> +And at the wheels of her brave eyes<br /> + Was captive led, till now.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus for a saint’s apostasy,<br /> + The unimagined woes<br /> +And sorrows of the hierarchy<br /> + None but an angel knows.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus for lost soul’s recovery,<br /> + The clapping of the wings<br /> +And triumph of this victory<br /> + None but an angel sings.</p> +<p class="poetry">So none but she knows to bemoan<br /> + This equal virgin’s fate;<br +/> +None but Lucasta can her crown<br /> + Of glory celebrate.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then dart on me, Chaste Light, one ray,<br /> + By which I may descry<br /> +Thy joy clear through this cloudy day<br /> + To dress my sorrow by.</p> +<h3><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>TO +ALTHEA, FROM PRISON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> love with +unconfined wings<br /> + Hovers within my gates,<br /> +And my divine Althea brings<br /> + To whisper at the grates;<br /> +When I lie tangled in her hair<br /> + And fettered to her eye;<br /> +The birds that wanton in the air<br /> + Know no such liberty.</p> +<p class="poetry">When flowing cups run swiftly round<br /> + With no allaying Thames,<br /> +Our careless heads with roses crowned,<br /> + Our hearts with loyal flames;<br /> +When thirsty grief in wine we steep,<br /> + When healths and draughts go free,<br /> +Fishes that tipple in the deep<br /> + Know no such liberty.</p> +<p class="poetry">When (like committed linnets) I<br /> + With shriller throat shall sing<br /> +The sweetness, mercy, majesty<br /> + And glories of my King;<br /> +When I shall voice aloud how good<br /> + He is, how great should be,<br /> +Enlarged winds that curl the flood<br /> + Know no such liberty.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stone walls do not a prison make<br /> + Nor iron bars a cage;<br /> +Minds innocent and quiet take<br /> + That for an hermitage;<br /> +<a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>If I +have freedom in my love,<br /> + And in my soul am free,<br /> +Angels alone that soar above<br /> + Enjoy such liberty.</p> +<h3>A GUILTLESS LADY IMPRISONED: AFTER PENANCED</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hark</span>, fair one, how +whate’er here is<br /> +Doth laugh and sing at thy distress,<br /> +Not out of hate to thy relief,<br /> +But joy—to enjoy thee, though in grief.</p> +<p class="poetry">See! that which chains you, you chain here,<br +/> +The prison is thy prisoner;<br /> +How much thy jailor’s keeper art!<br /> +He binds thy hands, but thou his heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gyves to rase so smooth a skin<br /> +Are so unto themselves within;<br /> +But, blest to kiss so fair an arm,<br /> +Haste to be happy with that harm;</p> +<p class="poetry">And play about thy wanton wrist,<br /> +As if in them thou so wert dressed;<br /> +But if too rough, too hard they press,<br /> +O they but closely, closely kiss.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as thy bare feet bless the way,<br /> +The people do not mock, but pray,<br /> +And call thee, as amazed they run,<br /> +Instead of prostitute, a nun.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>The merry torch burns with desire<br /> +To kindle the eternal fire, <a name="citation168"></a><a +href="#footnote168" class="citation">[168]</a><br /> +And lightly dances in thine eyes<br /> +To tunes of epithalamies.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sheet tied ever to thy waist,<br /> +How thankful to be so embraced!<br /> +And see! thy very, very bands<br /> +Are bound to thee to bind such hands.</p> +<h3>THE ROSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sweet</span>, serene, +sky-like flower,<br /> +Haste to adorn the bower;<br /> +From thy long cloudy bed,<br /> +Shoot forth thy damask head.</p> +<p class="poetry">New-startled blush of Flora,<br /> +The grief of pale Aurora<br /> +(Who will contest no more),<br /> +Haste, haste to strew her floor!</p> +<p class="poetry">Vermilion ball that’s given<br /> +From lip to lip in Heaven;<br /> +Love’s couch’s coverled,<br /> +Haste, haste to make her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear offspring of pleased Venus<br /> +And jolly, plump Silenus,<br /> +Haste, haste to deck the hair<br /> +Of the only sweetly fair!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>See! rosy is her bower,<br /> +Her floor is all this flower<br /> +Her bed a rosy nest<br /> +By a bed of roses pressed.</p> +<p class="poetry">But early as she dresses,<br /> +Why fly you her bright tresses?<br /> +Ah! I have found, I fear,—<br /> +Because her cheeks are near.</p> +<h2>ANDREW MARVELL<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1620–1678</span></h2> +<h3>A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> forward youth +that would appear<br /> +Must now forsake his muses dear,<br /> + Nor in the shadows sing<br /> + His numbers languishing.<br /> +’Tis time to leave the books in dust,<br /> +And oil the unused armour’s rust,<br /> + Removing from the wall<br /> + The corselet of the hall.<br /> +So restless Cromwell could not cease<br /> +In the inglorious arts of peace,<br /> + But through adventurous war<br /> + Urged his active star;<br /> +And, like the three-forked lightning, first<br /> +Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,<br /> + Did thorough his own side<br /> + His fiery way divide;<br /> +(For ’tis all one to courage high,<br /> +The emulous, or enemy,<br /> + <a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span>And with such to enclose<br /> + Is more than to oppose;)<br /> +Then burning through the air he went,<br /> +And palaces and temples rent;<br /> + And Cæsar’s head at +last<br /> + Did through his laurels blast.<br +/> +’Tis madness to resist or blame<br /> +The force of angry heaven’s flame;<br /> + And if we would speak true,<br /> + Much to the man is due,<br /> +Who, from his private gardens, where<br /> +He lived reserved and austere,<br /> + As if his highest plot<br /> + To plant the bergamot,<br /> +Could by industrious valour climb<br /> +To ruin the great work of Time,<br /> + And cast the kingdoms old<br /> + Into another mould.<br /> +Though Justice against Fate complain<br /> +And plead the ancient rights in vain<br /> + (But those do hold or break,<br /> + As men are strong or weak),<br /> +Nature, that hateth emptiness,<br /> +Allows of penetration less,<br /> + And therefore must make room<br /> + Where greater spirits come.<br /> +What field of all the civil war<br /> +Where his were not the deepest scar?<br /> + And Hampton shows what part<br /> + He had of wiser art;<br /> +Where, twining subtle fears with hope,<br /> +He wove a net of such a scope<br /> + That Charles himself might +chase<br /> + To Carisbrook’s narrow +case,<br /> +<a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>That +thence the royal actor borne<br /> +The tragic scaffold might adorn,<br /> + While round the armed bands<br /> + Did clap their bloody hands;<br /> +He nothing common did, or mean,<br /> +Upon that memorable scene,<br /> + But with his keener eye<br /> + The axe’s edge did try;<br +/> +Nor called the gods with vulgar spite<br /> +To vindicate his helpless right,<br /> + But bowed his comely head<br /> + Down, as upon a bed.<br /> +This was that memorable hour,<br /> +Which first assured the forced power;<br /> + So, when they did design<br /> + The capitol’s first line,<br +/> +A bleeding head, where they begun,<br /> +Did fright the architects to run;<br /> + And yet in that the State<br /> + Foresaw its happy fate.<br /> +And now the Irish are ashamed<br /> +To see themselves in one year tamed;<br /> + So much one man can do,<br /> + That does both act and know.<br /> +They can affirm his praises best,<br /> +And have, though overcome, confessed<br /> + How good he is, how just,<br /> + And fit for highest trust;<br /> +Nor yet grown stiffer with command,<br /> +But still in the republic’s hand<br /> + (How fit he is to sway,<br /> + That can so well obey!)<br /> +He to the Commons’ feet presents<br /> +A kingdom for his first year’s rents;<br /> + <a name="page172"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 172</span>And, what he may, forbears<br /> + His fame, to make it theirs;<br /> +And has his sword and spoil ungirt,<br /> +To lay them at the Public’s skirt:<br /> + So when the falcon high<br /> + Falls heavy from the sky,<br /> +She, having killed, no more doth search,<br /> +But on the next green bough to perch;<br /> + Where, when he first does lure,<br +/> + The falconer has her sure.<br /> +What may not then our isle presume,<br /> +While victory his crest does plume?<br /> + What may not others fear,<br /> + If thus he crowns each year?<br /> +As Caesar, he, ere long, to Gaul,<br /> +To Italy a Hannibal,<br /> + And to all states not free<br /> + Shall climacteric be.<br /> +The Pict no shelter now shall find<br /> +Within his parti-coloured mind,<br /> + But, from this valour sad,<br /> + Shrink underneath the plaid;<br /> +Happy, if in the tufted brake<br /> +The English hunter him mistake,<br /> + Nor lay his hounds in near<br /> + The Caledonian deer.<br /> +But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,<br /> +March indefatigably on,<br /> + And for the last effect,<br /> + Still keep the sword erect;<br /> +Beside the force it has to fright<br /> +The spirits of the shady night;<br /> + The same arts that did gain<br /> + A power, must it maintain.</p> +<h3><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>THE +PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">See</span> with what simplicity<br /> + This nymph begins her golden days!<br /> + In the green grass she loves to lie,<br /> + And there with her fair aspect tames<br /> + The wilder flowers, and gives them names;<br /> + But only with the roses plays,<br /> + + +And them does tell<br /> +What colours best become them, and what smell.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Who can foretell for what +high cause<br /> + This darling of the gods was born?<br /> + Yet this is she whose chaster laws<br /> + The wanton Love shall one day fear,<br /> + And, under her command severe,<br /> + See his bow broke, and ensigns torn.<br /> + + +Happy who can<br /> +Appease this virtuous enemy of man!</p> +<p class="poetry"> O then let me in time +compound<br /> + And parley with those conquering eyes,<br /> + Ere they have tried their force to wound;<br /> + Ere with their glancing wheels they drive<br /> + In triumph over hearts that strive,<br /> + And them that yield but more despise:<br /> + + +Let me be laid,<br /> +Where I may see the glories from some shade.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Meantime, whilst every +verdant thing<br /> + Itself does at thy beauty charm,<br /> + Reform the errors of the Spring;<br /> + Make that the tulips may have share<br /> + <a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>Of sweetness, seeing they are fair,<br /> + And roses of their thorns disarm;<br /> + + +But most procure<br /> +That violets may a longer age endure.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But O young beauty of the +woods,<br /> + Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,<br /> + Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;<br /> + Lest Flora, angry at thy crime<br /> + To kill her infants in their prime,<br /> + Should quickly make the example yours;<br /> + + +And, ere we see,<br /> +Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee.</p> +<h3>THE NYMPH COMPLAINING OF THE DEATH OF HER FAWN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> wanton troopers +riding by<br /> +Have shot my fawn, and it will die.<br /> +Ungentle men! they cannot thrive<br /> +Who killed thee. Thou ne’er didst, alive,<br /> +Them any harm, alas! nor could<br /> +Thy death yet ever do them good.<br /> +I’m sure I never wished them ill,<br /> +Nor do I for all this, nor will.<br /> +But if my simple prayers may yet<br /> +Prevail with heaven to forget<br /> +Thy murder, I will join my tears<br /> +Rather than fail. But O my fears!<br /> +It cannot die so. Heaven’s King<br /> +Keeps register of everything,<br /> +And nothing may we use in vain;<br /> +Even beasts must be with justice slain,<br /> +Else men are made their deodands.<br /> +Though they should wash their guilty hands<br /> +<a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 175</span>In this +warm life-blood which doth part<br /> +From thine, and wound me to the heart,<br /> +Yet could they not be clean, their stain<br /> +Is dyed in such a purple grain.<br /> +There is not such another in<br /> +The world, to offer for their sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inconstant Sylvio, when yet<br /> +I had not found him counterfeit,<br /> +One morning (I remember well),<br /> +Tied in this silver chain and bell,<br /> +Gave it to me; nay, and I know<br /> +What he said then, I’m sure I do:<br /> +Said he, ‘Look how your huntsman here<br /> +Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!’<br /> +But Sylvio soon had me beguiled;<br /> +This waxed tame while he grew wild,<br /> +And quite regardless of my smart<br /> +Left me his fawn, but took my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thenceforth I set myself to play<br /> +My solitary time away<br /> +With this; and, very well content,<br /> +Could so mine idle life have spent;<br /> +For it was full of sport, and light<br /> +Of foot and heart, and did invite<br /> +Me to its game; it seemed to bless<br /> +Itself in me; how could I less<br /> +Than love it? O, I cannot be<br /> +Unkind to a beast that loveth me!</p> +<p class="poetry">Had it lived long, I do not know<br /> +Whether it too might have done so<br /> +As Sylvio did; his gifts might be<br /> +Perhaps as false, or more, than he.<br /> +<a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>But I am +sure, for aught that I<br /> +Could in so short a time espy,<br /> +Thy love was far more better than<br /> +The love of false and cruel man.</p> +<p class="poetry">With sweetest milk and sugar first<br /> +I it at my own fingers nursed;<br /> +And as it grew, so every day<br /> +It waxed more white and sweet than they—<br /> +It had so sweet a breath! and oft<br /> +I blushed to see its foot more soft<br /> +And white—shall I say?—than my hand,<br /> +Nay, any lady’s of the land!</p> +<p class="poetry">It is a wondrous thing how fleet<br /> +’Twas on those little silver feet:<br /> +With what a pretty skipping grace<br /> +It oft would challenge me the race:—<br /> +And when ’t had left me far away<br /> +’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;<br /> +For it was nimbler much than hinds,<br /> +And trod as if on the four winds.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have a garden of my own,<br /> +But so with roses overgrown<br /> +And lilies, that you would it guess<br /> +To be a little wilderness:<br /> +And all the spring-time of the year<br /> +It only loved to be there.<br /> +Among the beds of lilies I<br /> +Have sought it oft, where it should lie;<br /> +Yet could not, till itself would rise,<br /> +Find it, although before mine eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>For in the flaxen lilies’ shade<br /> +It like a bank of lilies laid.<br /> +Upon the roses it would feed,<br /> +Until its lips e’en seemed to bleed,<br /> +And then to me ’twould boldly trip,<br /> +And print those roses on my lip.<br /> +But all its chief delight was still<br /> +On roses thus itself to fill,<br /> +And its pure virgin limbs to fold<br /> +In whitest sheets of lilies cold:—<br /> +Had it lived long, it would have been<br /> +Lilies without—roses within.</p> +<p class="poetry">O help! O help! I see it faint<br +/> +And die as calmly as a saint!<br /> +See how it weeps! the tears do come<br /> +Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.<br /> +So weeps the wounded balsam; so<br /> +The holy frankincense doth flow;<br /> +The brotherless Heliades<br /> +Melt in such amber tears as these.</p> +<p class="poetry">I in a golden vial will<br /> +Keep these two crystal tears, and fill<br /> +It, till it doth o’erflow, with mine,<br /> +Then place it in Diana’s shrine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now my sweet fawn is vanished to<br /> +Whither the swans and turtles go;<br /> +In fair Elysium to endure<br /> +With milk-white lambs and ermines pure.<br /> +O, do not run too fast, for I<br /> +Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.<br /> +<a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>First my +unhappy statue shall<br /> +Be cut in marble; and withal<br /> +Let it be weeping too; but there<br /> +The engraver sure his art may spare;<br /> +For I so truly thee bemoan<br /> +That I shall weep though I be stone,<br /> +Until my tears, still dropping, wear<br /> +My breast, themselves engraving there;<br /> +Then at my feet shalt thou be laid,<br /> +Of purest alabaster made;<br /> +For I would have thine image be<br /> +White as I can, though not as thee.</p> +<h3>THE DEFINITION OF LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> love is of a +birth as rare<br /> + As ’tis, for object, strange and high;<br /> +It was begotten by despair<br /> + Upon impossibility.</p> +<p class="poetry">Magnanimous despair alone<br /> + Could show me so divine a thing,<br /> +Where feeble hope could ne’er have flown<br /> + But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet I quickly might arrive<br /> + Where my extended soul is fixed;<br /> +But fate does iron wedges drive,<br /> + And always crowds itself betwixt.</p> +<p class="poetry">For fate with jealous eyes does see<br /> + Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;<br /> +Their union would her ruin be,<br /> + And her tyrannic power depose.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>And therefore her decrees of steel<br /> + Us as the distant poles have placed<br /> +(Though Love’s whole world on us doth wheel),<br /> + Not by themselves to be embraced,</p> +<p class="poetry">Unless the giddy heaven fall,<br /> + And earth some new convulsion tear,<br /> +And, us to join, the world should all<br /> + Be cramped into a planisphere.</p> +<p class="poetry">As lines, so loves oblique may well<br /> + Themselves in every angle greet;<br /> +But ours, so truly parallel,<br /> + Though infinite, can never meet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Therefore the love which us doth bind,<br /> + But fate so enviously debars,<br /> +Is the conjunction of the mind,<br /> + And opposition of the stars.</p> +<h3>THE GARDEN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Translated out of his own +Latin</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> vainly men +themselves amaze<br /> +To win the palm, the oak, or bays,<br /> +And their incessant labours see<br /> +Crowned from some single herb or tree,<br /> +Whose short and narrow-verged shade<br /> +Does prudently their toils upbraid;<br /> +While all the flowers and trees do close<br /> +To weave the garlands of Repose.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,<br /> +And Innocence thy sister dear?<br /> +Mistaken long, I sought you then<br /> +In busy companies of men:<br /> +<a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>Your +sacred plants, if here below,<br /> +Only among the plants will grow:<br /> +Society is all but rude<br /> +To this delicious solitude.</p> +<p class="poetry">No white nor red was ever seen<br /> +So amorous as this lovely green.<br /> +Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,<br /> +Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:<br /> +Little, alas, they know or heed<br /> +How far these beauties her exceed!<br /> +Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,<br /> +No name shall, but your own, be found.</p> +<p class="poetry">When we have run our passions’ heat<br /> +Love hither makes his best retreat;<br /> +The gods, who mortal beauty chase,<br /> +Stall in a tree did end their race;<br /> +Apollo hunted Daphne so<br /> +Only that she might laurel grow;<br /> +And Pan did after Syrinx speed<br /> +Not as a nymph, but for a reed.</p> +<p class="poetry">What wondrous life is this I lead!<br /> +Ripe apples drop about my head;<br /> +The luscious clusters of the vine<br /> +Upon my mouth do crush their wine;<br /> +The nectarine and curious peach<br /> +Into my hands themselves do reach;<br /> +Stumbling on melons, as I pass,<br /> +Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.</p> +<p class="poetry">Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,<br /> +Withdraws into its happiness;<br /> +<a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 181</span>The +mind, that ocean where each kind<br /> +Does straight its own resemblance find;<br /> +Yet it creates, transcending these,<br /> +Far other worlds and other seas;<br /> +Annihilating all that’s made<br /> +To a green thought in a green shade.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here at the fountain’s sliding foot<br /> +Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,<br /> +Casting the body’s vest aside<br /> +My soul into the boughs does glide;<br /> +There, like a bird, it sits and sings,<br /> +Then whets and claps its silver wings,<br /> +And, till prepared for longer flight,<br /> +Waves in its plumes the various light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such was that happy Garden-state<br /> +While man there walked without a mate:<br /> +After a place so pure and sweet,<br /> +What other help could yet be meet!<br /> +But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share<br /> +To wander solitary there:<br /> +Two paradises ’twere in one,<br /> +To live in Paradise alone.</p> +<p class="poetry">How well the skilful gardener drew<br /> +Of flowers and herbs this dial new!<br /> +Where, from above, the milder sun<br /> +Does through a fragrant zodiac run:<br /> +And, as it works, th’ industrious bee<br /> +Computes its time as well as we.<br /> +How could such sweet and wholesome hours<br /> +Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers?</p> +<h2><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>HENRY VAUGHAN<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1621–1695</span></h2> +<h3>THE DAWNING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>! what time wilt +Thou come? When shall that cry,<br /> +‘The Bridegroom’s coming!’ fill the sky?<br /> +Shall it in the evening run,<br /> +When our words and works are done?<br /> +Or will Thy all-surprising light<br /> + + +Break at midnight,<br /> +When either sleep or some dark pleasure<br /> +Possesseth mad man without measure?<br /> +Or shall these early, fragrant hours<br /> + + +Unlock Thy bowers?<br /> +And with their blush of light descry<br /> +Thy locks crowned with eternity?<br /> +Indeed it is the only time<br /> +That with Thy glory best doth chime;<br /> +All now are stirring, every field<br /> + + +Full hymns doth yield;<br /> +The whole creation shakes off night,<br /> +And for Thy shadow looks the light;<br /> +Stars now vanish without number,<br /> +Sleepy planets set and slumber,<br /> +The pursy clouds disband and scatter,<br /> +All expect some sudden matter;<br /> +Not one beam triumphs, but from far<br /> + + +That morning star.<br /> +O at what time soever Thou,<br /> +Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow,<br /> +And, with Thy angels in the van,<br /> +<a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>Descend +to judge poor careless man,<br /> +Grant I may not like puddle lie<br /> +In a corrupt security,<br /> +Where, if a traveller water crave,<br /> +He finds it dead, and in a grave;<br /> +But as this restless vocal spring<br /> +All day and night doth run and sing,<br /> +And, though here born, yet is acquainted<br /> +Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted;<br /> +So let me all my busy age<br /> +In Thy free services engage;<br /> +And though—while here—of force I must<br /> +Have commerce sometimes with poor dust,<br /> +And in my flesh, though vile and low,<br /> +As this doth in her channel flow,<br /> +Yet let my course, my aim, my love,<br /> +And chief acquaintance be above;<br /> +So when that day and hour shall come,<br /> +In which Thy Self will be the sun,<br /> +Thou’lt find me dressed and on my way,<br /> +Watching the break of Thy great day.</p> +<h3>CHILDHOOD</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">cannot</span> reach it; +and my striving eye<br /> +Dazzles at it, as at eternity.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Were now +that chronicle alive,<br /> +Those white designs which children drive,<br /> +And the thoughts of each harmless hour,<br /> +With their content too in my power,<br /> +Quickly would I make my path even,<br /> +And by mere playing go to heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>Why should +men love<br /> +A wolf, more than a lamb or dove?<br /> +Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams<br /> +Before bright stars and God’s own beams?<br /> +Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face,<br /> +But flowers do both refresh and grace;<br /> +And sweetly living—fie on men!—<br /> +Are, when dead, medicinal then;<br /> +If seeing much should make staid eyes,<br /> +And long experience should make wise;<br /> +Since all that age doth teach is ill,<br /> +Why should I not love childhood still?<br /> +Why, if I see a rock or shelf,<br /> +Shall I from thence cast down myself?<br /> +Or by complying with the world,<br /> +From the same precipice be hurled?<br /> +Those observations are but foul,<br /> +Which make me wise to lose my soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet the practice worldlings call<br /> +Business, and weighty action all,<br /> +Checking the poor child for his play,<br /> +But gravely cast themselves away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span<br /> +Where weeping Virtue parts with man;<br /> +Where love without lust dwells, and bends<br /> +What way we please without self-ends.</p> +<p class="poetry"> An age of +mysteries! which he<br /> +Must live twice that would God’s face see;<br /> +Which angels guard, and with it play;<br /> +Angels! which foul men drive away.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>How do I +study now, and scan<br /> +Thee more than e’er I studied man,<br /> +And only see through a long night<br /> +Thy edges and thy bordering light!<br /> +O for thy centre and mid-day!<br /> +For sure that is the narrow way!</p> +<h3>CORRUPTION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sure</span> it was +so. Man in those early days<br /> + Was not all stone and earth;<br /> +He shined a little, and by those weak rays<br /> + Had some glimpse of his birth.<br +/> +He saw heaven o’er his head, and knew from whence<br /> + He came, condemned, hither;<br /> +And, as first-love draws strongest, so from hence<br /> + His mind sure progressed +thither.<br /> +Things here were strange unto him; sweat and till;<br /> + All was a thorn or weed;<br /> +Nor did those last, but—like himself—died still<br /> + As soon as they did seed;<br /> +They seemed to quarrel with him; for that act,<br /> + That fell him, foiled them all;<br +/> +He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked<br /> + The whole frame with his fall.<br +/> +This made him long for home, as loth to stay<br /> + With murmurers and foes;<br /> +He sighed for Eden, and would often say,<br /> + ‘Ah! what bright days were +those!’<br /> +Nor was heaven cold unto him; for each day<br /> + The valley or the mountain<br /> +Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay<br /> + In some green shade or +fountain.<br /> +<a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>Angels +lay leiger here; each bush, and cell,<br /> + Each oak and highway knew them:<br +/> +Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well,<br /> + And he was sure to view them.<br +/> +Almighty Love! where art Thou now? mad man<br /> + Sits down and freezeth on;<br /> +He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan,<br /> + But bids the thread be spun.<br /> +I see Thy curtains are close-drawn; Thy bow<br /> + Looks dim, too, in the cloud;<br +/> +Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below<br /> + The centre, and his shroud.<br /> +All’s in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies<br /> + And hatcheth o’er Thy +people—<br /> +But hark! what trumpet’s that? what angel cries<br /> + ‘Arise! thrust in Thy +sickle’?</p> +<h3>THE NIGHT</h3> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Through</span> that pure virgin shrine,<br /> +That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon,<br /> +That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine,<br /> + And face the +moon:<br /> + Wise Nicodemus saw such light<br +/> + As made him know his God by +night.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Most +blest believer he!<br /> +Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes<br /> +Thy long-expected healing wings could see<br /> + When Thou didst +rise!<br /> + And, what can never more be +done,<br /> + Did at midnight speak with the +Sun!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>O, who will +tell me where<br /> +He found Thee at that dead and silent hour?<br /> +What hallowed solitary ground did bear<br /> + So rare a +flower;<br /> + Within whose sacred leaves did +lie<br /> + The fulness of the Deity?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> No +mercy-seat of gold,<br /> +No dead and dusty cherub nor carved stone,<br /> +But His own living works did my Lord hold<br /> + And lodge +alone;<br /> + Where trees and herbs did watch, +and peep,<br /> + And wonder, while the Jews did +sleep.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Dear +night! this world’s defeat;<br /> +The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb;<br /> +The day of spirits; my soul’s calm retreat<br /> + Which none +disturb!<br /> + Christ’s progress, and His +prayer-time;<br /> + The hours to which high Heaven +doth chime.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> God’s +silent, searching flight;<br /> +When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all<br /> +His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;<br /> + His still, soft +call;<br /> + His knocking-time; the +soul’s dumb watch,<br /> + When spirits their fair kindred +catch.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Were +my loud, evil days<br /> +Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,<br /> +Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice<br /> + Is seldom +rent;<br /> + Then I in heaven all the long +year<br /> + Would keep, and never wander +here.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>But living +where the sun<br /> +Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire<br /> +Themselves and others, I consent and run<br /> + To every +mire;<br /> + And by this world’s +ill-guiding light,<br /> + Err more than I can do by +night.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> There +is in God—some say—<br /> +A deep but dazzling darkness; as men here<br /> +Say it is late and dusky, because they<br /> + See not all +clear.<br /> + O for that night! where I in +Him<br /> + Might live invisible and dim!</p> +<h3>THE ECLIPSE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whither</span>, O whither +didst Thou fly,<br /> +When I did grieve Thine holy eye?<br /> +When Thou didst mourn to see me lost,<br /> +And all Thy care and counsels crossed?<br /> +O do not grieve, where’er Thou art!<br /> +Thy grief is an undoing smart,<br /> +Which doth not only pain, but break<br /> +My heart, and makes me blush to speak.<br /> +Thy anger I could kiss, and will;<br /> +But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill!</p> +<h3>THE RETREAT</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Happy</span> those early +days when I<br /> +Shined in my angel infancy!<br /> +Before I understood this place<br /> +Appointed for my second race,<br /> +Or taught my soul to fancy ought<br /> +<a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>But a +white, celestial thought;<br /> +When yet I had not walked above<br /> +A mile or two from my first love,<br /> +And looking back, at that short space,<br /> +Could see a glimpse of his bright face;<br /> +When on some gilded cloud or flower<br /> +My gazing soul would dwell an hour,<br /> +And in those weaker glories spy<br /> +Some shadows of eternity;<br /> +Before I taught my tongue to wound<br /> +My conscience with a sinful sound,<br /> +Or had the black art to dispense<br /> +A several sin to every sense;<br /> +But felt through all this fleshly dress<br /> +Bright shoots of everlastingness.<br /> + O how I long to travel back,<br /> +And tread again that ancient track!<br /> +That I might once more reach that plain<br /> +Where first I left my glorious train;<br /> +From whence the enlightened spirit sees<br /> +That shady city of palm-trees.<br /> +But ah! my soul with too much stay<br /> +Is drunk, and staggers in the way!<br /> +Some men a forward motion love,<br /> +But I by backward steps would move;<br /> +And, when this dust falls to the urn,<br /> +In that state I came, return.</p> +<h3>THE WORLD OF LIGHT</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> are all gone +into the world of light,<br /> + And I alone sit lingering here;<br /> +Their very memory is fair and bright,<br /> + And my sad thoughts doth clear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,<br /> + Like stars upon some gloomy grove,<br /> +Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,<br /> + After the sun’s remove.</p> +<p class="poetry">I see them walking in an air of glory,<br /> + Whose light doth trample on my days:<br /> +My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,<br /> + Mere glimmering and decays.</p> +<p class="poetry">O holy Hope! and high Humility,<br /> + High as the heavens above!<br /> +These are your walks, and you have shewed them me,<br /> + To kindle my cold love.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the +just,<br /> + Shining no where, but in the dark;<br /> +What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,<br /> + Could man outlook that mark!</p> +<p class="poetry">He that hath found some fledged bird’s +nest, may know<br /> + At first sight, if the bird be flown;<br /> +But what fair well or grove he sings in now,<br /> + That is to him unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry">And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams<br +/> + Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:<br /> +So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,<br /> + And into glory peep.</p> +<p class="poetry">If a star were confined into a tomb,<br /> + Her captive flames must needs burn there;<br /> +But when the hand that locked her up gives room,<br /> + She’ll shine through all the sphere.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +191</span>O Father of eternal life, and all<br /> + Created glories under Thee!<br /> +Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall<br /> + Into true liberty.</p> +<p class="poetry">Either disperse these mists, which blot and +fill<br /> + My perspective still as they pass;<br /> +Or else remove me hence unto that hill<br /> + Where I shall need no glass.</p> +<h2>SCOTTISH BALLADS</h2> +<h3>HELEN OF KIRCONNELL</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">wish</span> I were where +Helen lies!<br /> +Night and day on me she cries;<br /> +O that I were where Helen lies<br /> + On fair Kirconnell lea!</p> +<p class="poetry">Curst be the heart that thought the thought,<br +/> +And curst the hand that fired the shot,<br /> +When in my arms burd Helen dropt,<br /> + And died for sake o’ me!</p> +<p class="poetry">O think na but my heart was sair<br /> +When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair;<br /> +I laid her down wi’ meikle care<br /> + On fair Kirconnell lea.</p> +<p class="poetry">As I went down the water-side,<br /> +None but my foe to be my guide,<br /> +None but my foe to be my guide,<br /> + On fair Kirconnell lea;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>I lighted down my sword to draw,<br /> +I hacked him in pieces sma’,<br /> +I hacked him in pieces sma’,<br /> + For her that died for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Helen fair, beyond compare!<br /> +I’ll make a garland of thy hair<br /> +Shall bind my heart for evermair<br /> + Until the day I die.</p> +<p class="poetry">O that I were where Helen lies!<br /> +Night and day on me she cries;<br /> +Out of my bed she bids me rise,<br /> + Says, ‘Haste and come to +me!’</p> +<p class="poetry">O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!<br /> +If I were with thee, I were blest,<br /> +Where thou liest low and tak’st thy rest<br /> + On fair Kirconnell lea.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish my grave were growing green,<br /> +A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,<br /> +And I in Helen’s arms lying,<br /> + On fair Kirconnell lea.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish I were where Helen lies!<br /> +Night and day on me she cries;<br /> +And I am weary of the skies,<br /> + Since my Love died for me.</p> +<h3>THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">These</span> lived a wife +at Usher’s Well<br /> + And a wealthy wife was she;<br /> +She had three stout and stalwart sons,<br /> + And sent them over the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>They hadna been a week from her,<br /> + A week but barely ane,<br /> +When word came to the carlin wife<br /> + That her three sons were gane.</p> +<p class="poetry">They hadna been a week from her,<br /> + A week but barely three,<br /> +When word came to the carlin wife<br /> + That her sons she’d never see.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I wish the wind may never cease,<br /> + Nor fashes in the flood,<br /> +Till my three sons come hame to me,<br /> + In earthly flesh and blood!’</p> +<p class="poetry">It fell about the Martinmass,<br /> + When nights are lang and mirk,<br /> +The carlin wife’s three sons came hame,<br /> + And their hats were of the birk.</p> +<p class="poetry">It neither grew in syke nor ditch,<br /> + Nor yet in ony sheugh;<br /> +But at the gates o’ Paradise<br /> + That birk grew fair eneugh.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!<br /> + Bring water from the well;<br /> +For a’ my house shall feast this night,<br /> + Since my three sons are well.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And she has made to them a bed,<br /> + She’s made it large and wide;<br /> +And she’s ta’en her mantle her about,<br /> + Sat down at the bedside.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>Up then crew the red, red cock,<br /> + And up and crew the grey;<br /> +The eldest to the youngest said,<br /> + ‘’Tis time we were awa!’</p> +<p class="poetry">The cock he hadna crawed but once,<br /> + And clapped his wings at a’,<br /> +When the youngest to the eldest said,<br /> + ‘Brother, we must awa,’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,<br +/> + The channerin’ worm doth chide;<br /> +Gin we be mist out o’ our place,<br /> + A sair pain we maun bide.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!<br /> + Fareweel to barn and byre!<br /> +And fare ye weel, the bonny lass<br /> + That kindles my mother’s fire!’</p> +<h3>THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Late</span> at e’en, +drinking the wine<br /> + And e’er they paid the lawing,<br /> +They set a combat them between,<br /> + To fight it in the dawing.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O stay at hame, my noble lord,<br /> + O stay at hame, my marrow!<br /> +My cruel brother will you betray<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay!<br /> + O fare ye weel, my Sarah!<br /> +For I maun gae, though I ne’er return<br /> + Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,<br /> + As oft she had done before, O;<br /> +She belted him with his noble brand,<br /> + And he’s awa to Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">As he gaed up the Terries’ bank,<br /> + I wot he gaed with sorrow,<br /> +Till down in a den he spied nine armed men<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O, come ye here to part your land,<br /> + The bonnie forest thorough?<br /> +Or come ye here to wield your brand<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I come not here to part my land,<br /> + And neither to beg or borrow;<br /> +I come to wield my noble brand<br /> + On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If I see all, ye’re nine to +ane;<br /> + An’ that’s an unequal marrow:<br /> +Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,<br /> + On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Four has he hurt, and five has slain,<br /> + On the bloody braes of Yarrow;<br /> +Till that stubborn knight came him behind,<br /> + And ran his body thorough.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother +John,<br /> + And tell your sister Sarah,<br /> +To come and lift her leafu’ lord;<br /> + He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>‘Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu’ dream;<br /> + I fear there will be sorrow!<br /> +I dreamed I pu’ed the heather green<br /> + With my true love, on Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O gentle wind that bloweth south<br /> + From where my love repaireth,<br /> +Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,<br /> + And tell me how he fareth.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But in the glen strive armed men;<br /> + They’ve wrought me dule and sorrow;<br /> +They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve +slain—<br /> + He bleeding lies on Yarrow.’</p> +<p class="poetry">As she sped down yon high, high hill,<br /> + She gaed wi’ dule and sorrow,<br /> +And in the den spied ten slain men,<br /> + On the dowie banks of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,<br +/> + She searched his wounds all thorough,<br /> +She kissed them till her lips grew red,<br /> + On the dowie houms of Yarrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Now haud your tongue, my daughter +dear,<br /> + For a’ this breeds but sorrow;<br /> +I’ll wed ye to a better lord<br /> + Than him ye lost on Yarrow.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,<br +/> + Ye mind me but of sorrow;<br /> +A fairer rose did never bloom<br /> + Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.’</p> +<h3><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>SWEET WILLIAM AND MAY MARGARET</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> came a ghost +to Marg’ret’s door,<br /> + With many a grievous groan;<br /> +And aye he tirled at the pin,<br /> + But answer made she none.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Is that my father Philip?<br /> + Or is’t my brother John?<br /> +Or is’t my true-love Willie,<br /> + From Scotland new come home?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘’Tis not thy father Philip,<br /> + Nor yet thy brother John,<br /> +But ’tis thy true-love Willie<br /> + From Scotland new come home.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O sweet Marg’ret, O dear +Marg’ret!<br /> + I pray thee speak to me;<br /> +Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret,<br /> + As I gave it to thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never +get,<br /> + Nor it will I thee lend,<br /> +Till that thou come within my bower<br /> + And kiss me cheek and chin.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If I should come within thy bower,<br /> + I am no earthly man;<br /> +And should I kiss thy ruby lips<br /> + Thy days would not be lang.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>‘O sweet Marg’ret! O dear +Marg’ret,<br /> + I pray thee speak to me;<br /> +Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret,<br /> + As I gave it to thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never +get,<br /> + Nor it will I thee lend,<br /> +Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard,<br /> + And wed me with a ring.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard<br +/> + Afar beyond the sea;<br /> +And it is but my spirit, Marg’ret,<br /> + That’s now speaking to thee.’</p> +<p class="poetry">She stretched out her lily-white hand<br /> + And for to do her best:<br /> +‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willie;<br /> + God send your soul good rest.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Now she has kilted her robe o’ green<br +/> + A piece below her knee,<br /> +And a’ the live-lang winter night<br /> + The dead corp followed she.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Is there any room at your head, +Willie,<br /> + Or any room at your feet?<br /> +Or any room at your side, Willie,<br /> + Wherein that I may creep?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘There’s nae room at my head, +Marg’ret,<br /> + There’s nae room at my feet;<br /> +There’s nae room at my side, Marg’ret,<br /> + My coffin’s made so meet.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +199</span>Then up and crew the red red cock,<br /> + And up and crew the grey;<br /> +‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear +Marg’ret,<br /> + That you were gane awa.’</p> +<h3>SIR PATRICK SPENS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> king sits in +Dumfermline toun,<br /> + Drinking the blude-red wine;<br /> +‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper<br /> + To sail this new ship o’ mine?’</p> +<p class="poetry">O up and spake an eldern knight,<br /> + Sat at the king’s right knee;<br /> +‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor<br /> + That ever sailed the sea.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Our king has written a braid letter<br /> + And sealed it with his hand,<br /> +And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens<br /> + Was walking on the strand.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘To Noroway, to Noroway,<br /> + To Noroway ower the faem;<br /> +The king’s daughter o’ Noroway<br /> + ’Tis thou must bring her hame.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The first word that Sir Patrick read<br /> + So loud loud laughed he;<br /> +The neist word that Sir Patrick read<br /> + The tear blinded his e’e.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +200</span>‘O wha is this has done this deed<br /> + And tauld the king o’ me,<br /> +To send us out, at this time o’ year,<br /> + To sail upon the sea?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be +it sleet,<br /> + Our ship must sail the faem;<br /> +The king’s daughter o’ Noroway<br /> + ’Tis we must fetch her hame.’</p> +<p class="poetry">They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,<br /> + Wi’ a’ the speed they may;<br /> +They hae landed in Noroway<br /> + Upon a Wodensday.</p> +<p class="poetry">They hadna been a week, a week,<br /> + In Noroway but twae,<br /> +When that the lords o’ Noroway<br /> + Began aloud to say:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our +king’s goud,<br /> + And a’ our queenis fee.’<br /> +‘Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!<br /> + Fu’ loud I hear ye lee.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For I have brought as much white +monie<br /> + As gane my men and me,<br /> +And I hae brought a half-fou of gude red gould<br /> + Out o’er the sea wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Make ready, make ready, my merry men +a’!<br /> + Our good ship sails the morn.’<br /> +‘Now ever alack, my master dear,<br /> + I fear a deadly storm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>‘I saw the new moon late yestreen<br /> + Wi’ the auld moon in her arm;<br /> +And if we gang to sea, master,<br /> + I fear we’ll come to harm.’</p> +<p class="poetry">They hadna sailed a league, a league,<br /> + A league but barely three,<br /> +When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,<br /> + And gurly grew the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ankers brak, and the top-mast lap,<br /> + It was sic a deadly storm;<br /> +And the waves cam o’er the broken ship<br /> + Till a’ her sides were torn.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O where will I get a gude sailor<br /> + To tak the helm in hand,<br /> +Till I get up to the tall top-mast,<br /> + To see if I can spy land?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O here am I, a sailor gude,<br /> + To tak the helm in hand,<br /> +Till you go up to the tall top-mast,<br /> + But I fear you’ll ne’er spy +land.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He hadna gaen a step, a step<br /> + A step but barely ane,<br /> +When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,<br /> + And the salt sea it came in.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Gae fetch a web o’ the silken +claith,<br /> + Another o’ the twine,<br /> +And wap them into our ship’s side,<br /> + And let nae the sea come in.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +202</span>They fetched a web o’ the silken claith,<br /> + Another o’ the twine,<br /> +And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side,<br /> + But still the sea came in.</p> +<p class="poetry">O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords<br /> + To wet their cork-heeled shoon;<br /> +But lang or a’ the play was played<br /> + They wat their hats aboon.</p> +<p class="poetry">And mony was the feather bed<br /> + That floated on the faem;<br /> +And mony was the gude lord’s son<br /> + That never mair came hame.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ladyes wrang their fingers white,<br /> + The maidens tore their hair,<br /> +A’ for the sake o’ their true loves,—<br /> + For them they’ll see nae mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,<br /> + Wi’ their fans into their hand,<br /> +Before they see Sir Patrick Spens<br /> + Come sailing to the strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">And lang, lang may the maidens sit,<br /> + With their goud kaims in their hair,<br /> +A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!<br /> + For them they’ll see nae mair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,<br /> + ’Tis fifty fathoms deep,<br /> +And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,<br /> + Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!</p> +<h3><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>HAME, HAME, HAME</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hame</span>! hame! +hame! O hame fain wad I be!<br /> +O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie.<br /> +When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,<br /> +The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.<br /> + Hame, hame, hame! O hame +fain wad I be!<br /> + O hame, hame, hame to my ain +countrie!</p> +<p class="poetry">The green leaf o’ loyalty’s +beginning now to fa’;<br /> +The bonnie white rose it is withering an’ a’;<br /> +But we’ll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie,<br +/> +And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie!<br /> + Hame, hame, hame! O hame +fain wad I be!<br /> + O hame, hame, hame to my ain +countrie!</p> +<p class="poetry">O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my +countrie can save,<br /> +But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave,<br /> +That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie<br /> +May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.<br /> + Hame, hame, hame! O hame +fain wad I be!<br /> + O hame, hame, hame to my ain +countrie!</p> +<p class="poetry">The great now are gane, who attempted to +save;<br /> +The green grass is growing abune their graves;<br /> +Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me<br /> +I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.<br /> + Hame, hame, hame! O hame +fain wad I be!<br /> + O hame, hame, hame to my ain +countrie!</p> +<h2><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>BORDER BALLAD</h2> +<h3>A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> ae nighte, this +ae nighte,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">When thou from hence away art past,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +Sit thee down and put them on;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If hosen and shoon thou ne’er +gav’st nane,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Whinny-muir when thou may’st +pass,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st +pass,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>If ever thou gavest meat or drink,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +The fire sall never make thee shrink;<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">If meat and drink thou ne’er gav’st +nane,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">This ae nighte, this ae nighte,<br /> + <i>Every nighte and alle</i>,<br +/> +Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,<br /> + <i>And Christe receive thy +saule</i>.</p> +<h2>JOHN DRYDEN<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1631–1700</span></h2> +<h3>ODE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To the Pious Memory of the +accomplished young lady</i>,<br /> +<i>Mrs. Anne Killigrew</i>, <i>excellent in the two sister +arts</i><br /> +<i>of Poesy and Painting</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> youngest +virgin-daughter of the skies,<br /> + Made in the last promotion of the blest;<br /> +Whose palms, new-plucked from paradise,<br /> +In spreading branches more sublimely rise,<br /> + Rich with immortal green, above the rest:<br /> +Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,<br /> +Thou roll’st above us in thy wandering race,<br /> + Or in procession fixed and regular<br /> +Moved with the heaven’s majestic pace,<br /> + Or called to more superior bliss,<br /> +Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss:<br /> +<a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>Whatever +happy region be thy place,<br /> +Cease thy celestial song a little space;<br /> +Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,<br /> +Since heaven’s eternal year is thine.<br /> +Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse,<br /> + In no ignoble verse,<br /> +But such as thy own voice did practise here,<br /> +When thy first-fruits of poesy were given<br /> +To make thyself a welcome inmate there;<br /> + While yet a young probationer<br +/> + And candidate of heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry"> If by traduction came thy +mind,<br /> + Our wonder is the less to find<br /> +A soul so charming from a stock so good;<br /> +Thy father was transfused into thy blood:<br /> +So wert thou born into the tuneful strain<br /> +(An early, rich and inexhausted vein).<br /> + But if thy pre-existing soul<br /> +Was formed at first with myriads more,<br /> + It did through all the mighty poets roll<br /> +Who Greek or Latin laurels wore,<br /> +And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.<br /> + If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!<br +/> +Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:<br /> + Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find<br /> + Than was the beauteous frame she left behind:<br /> +Return, to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.</p> +<p class="poetry"> May we +presume to say that, at thy birth,<br /> +New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?<br /> +For sure the milder planets did combine<br /> +On thy auspicious horoscope to shine,<br /> +<a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>And even +the most malicious were in trine.<br /> +Thy brother angels at thy birth<br /> + Strung each his lyre, and tuned it high,<br /> + That all the people of the sky<br +/> +Might know a poetess was born on earth;<br /> + And then, if ever, mortal ears<br +/> + Had heard the music of the +spheres.<br /> + And if no clustering swarm of bees<br /> +On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,<br /> + ’Twas that such vulgar +miracles<br /> + Heaven had not leisure to +renew:<br /> + For all the best fraternity of love<br /> +Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.</p> +<p class="poetry"> O gracious +God! how far have we<br /> +Profaned Thy heavenly gift of poesy!<br /> +Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,<br /> +Debased to each obscene and impious use,<br /> +Whose harmony was first ordained above,<br /> +For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!<br /> +O wretched we! why were we hurried down<br /> + This lubric and adulterate age<br +/> + (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),<br /> + To increase the steaming ordures +of the stage?<br /> + What can we say to excuse our second fall?<br /> + Let this thy Vestal, heaven, atone for all!<br /> + Her Arethusan stream remains unsoiled,<br /> + Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;<br /> + Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.<br +/> + Art she had none, yet wanted none,<br /> + For Nature did that want +supply:<br /> + So rich in treasures of her own,<br /> + She might our boasted stores +defy:<br /> +<a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>Such +noble vigour did her verse adorn<br /> +That it seemed borrowed, where ’twas only born.<br /> +Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,<br /> + By great examples daily fed,<br /> +What in the best of books, her father’s life, she read.<br +/> + And to be read herself she need not fear;<br /> + Each test and every light her muse will bear,<br /> + Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.<br /> + Even love (for love sometimes her muse expressed)<br +/> +Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast,<br /> + Light as the vapours of a morning +dream;<br /> + So cold herself, while she such warmth expressed,<br +/> + ’Twas Cupid bathing in +Diana’s stream.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">When in mid-air the golden trump shall +sound,<br /> + To raise the nations +underground;<br /> + When in the valley of +Jehosophat<br /> +The judging God shall close the book of Fate,<br /> + And there the last assizes keep<br +/> + For those who wake and those who +sleep;<br /> + When rattling bones together +fly<br /> + From the four quarters of the +sky;<br /> +When sinews o’er the skeletons are spread,<br /> +Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;<br /> +The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,<br /> +And foremost from the tomb shall bound,<br /> +For they are covered with the lightest ground;<br /> +And straight with inborn vigour, on the wing,<br /> +Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing.<br /> +There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shalt go,<br /> +As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,<br /> +The way which thou so well hast learned below.</p> +<h2><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>APHRA BEHN<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1640–1689</span></h2> +<h3>SONG, FROM ABDELAZAR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> in fantastic +triumph sat,<br /> + Whilst bleeding hearts around him +flowed,<br /> +For whom fresh pains he did create;<br /> + And strange tyrannic power he +showed.<br /> +From thy bright eyes he took his fires,<br /> + Which round about in sport he +hurled;<br /> +But ’twas from mine he took desires<br /> + Enough to undo the amorous +world.</p> +<p class="poetry">From me he took his sighs and tears,<br /> + From thee his pride and +cruelty;<br /> +From me his languishment and fears,<br /> + And every killing dart from +thee.<br /> +Thus thou and I the god have armed,<br /> + And set him up a deity;<br /> +But my poor heart alone is harmed,<br /> + Whilst thine the victor is, and +free.</p> +<h2>JOSEPH ADDISON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1672–1719</span></h2> +<h3>HYMN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> spacious +firmament on high,<br /> +With all the blue ethereal sky,<br /> +And spangled heavens (a shining frame!)<br /> +Their great Original proclaim,<br /> +<a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>The +unwearied sun from day to day<br /> +Doth his Creator’s power display,<br /> +And publisheth to every land<br /> +The work of an almighty hand.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon as the evening shades prevail,<br /> +The moon takes up the wondrous tale,<br /> +And nightly to the listening earth<br /> +Repeats the story of her birth:<br /> +Whilst all the stars that round her burn,<br /> +And all the planets in their turn,<br /> +Confirm the tidings as they roll,<br /> +And spread the truth from pole to pole.</p> +<p class="poetry">What though in solemn silence all<br /> +Move round this dark terrestrial ball?<br /> +What though no real voice nor sound<br /> +Amid their radiant orbs be found?<br /> +In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,<br /> +And utter forth a glorious voice,<br /> +For ever singing as they shine,<br /> +‘The hand that made us is divine.’</p> +<h2>ALEXANDER POPE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1688–1744</span></h2> +<h3>ELEGY</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To the Memory of an unfortunate +Lady</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> beckoning ghost +along the moonlight shade<br /> +Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?<br /> +’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored?<br /> +Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?<br /> +<a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>O ever +beauteous, ever friendly! tell,<br /> +Is it in heaven a crime to love too well,<br /> +To bear too tender or too firm a heart,<br /> +To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?<br /> +Is there no bright reversion in the sky,<br /> +For those who greatly think or bravely die?<br /> +Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire<br /> +Above the vulgar flight of low desire?<br /> +Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes,<br /> +The glorious fault of angels and of gods.<br /> +Thence to their images on earth it flows,<br /> +And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.<br /> +Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,<br /> +Dull, sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage;<br /> +Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,<br /> +Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;<br /> +Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,<br /> +And close confined to their own palace, sleep.<br /> + From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)<br /> +Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.<br /> +As into air the purer spirits flow,<br /> +And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;<br /> +So flew the soul to its congenial place,<br /> +Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.<br /> + But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,<br /> +Thou mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!<br /> +See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,<br /> +These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;<br /> +Cold is that breath which warmed the world before,<br /> +And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.<br /> +Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,<br /> +Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:<br /> +On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,<br /> +And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;<br /> +<a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>There +passengers shall stand, and pointing say<br /> +(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way),<br /> +‘Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steeled,<br /> +And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.<br /> +Thus unlamented pass the proud away,<br /> +The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day!<br /> +So perish all whose breasts ne’er learned to glow<br /> +For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.’<br +/> + What can atone (O ever injured shade!)<br /> +Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?<br /> +No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear<br /> +Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:<br /> +By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,<br /> +By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,<br /> +By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,<br /> +By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned.<br /> +What though no friends in sable weeds appear,<br /> +Grieve for an hour perhaps, then mourn a year,<br /> +And bear about the mockery of woe<br /> +To midnight dances, and the public show?<br /> +What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,<br /> +Nor polished marble emulate thy face?<br /> +What though no sacred earth allow thee room,<br /> +Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?<br /> +Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be dressed,<br /> +And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:<br /> +There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,<br /> +There the first roses of the year shall blow;<br /> +While angels with their silver wings o’ershade<br /> +The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.<br /> + So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,<br /> +What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame.<br /> +How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,<br /> +To whom related, or by whom begot;<br /> +<a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>A heap +of dust alone remains of thee:<br /> +’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!<br /> + Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,<br +/> +Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.<br /> +Ev’n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays<br /> +Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;<br /> +Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,<br /> +And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart:<br /> +Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,<br /> +The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!</p> +<h2>WILLIAM COWPER<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1731–1800</span></h2> +<h3>LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">that</span> those lips +had language! Life has passed<br /> +With me but roughly since I heard thee last.<br /> +Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,<br /> +The same that oft in childhood solaced me;<br /> +Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,<br /> +‘Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears +away!’<br /> +The meek intelligence of those dear eyes<br /> +(Blest be the art that can immortalise,<br /> +The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim<br /> +To quench it) here shines on me still the same.<br /> +Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,<br /> +O welcome guest, though unexpected here!<br /> +Who bid’st me honour with an artless song,<br /> +Affectionate, a mother lost so long.<br /> +I will obey, not willingly alone,<br /> +But gladly, as the precept were her own:<br /> +<a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>And +while that face renews my filial grief,<br /> +Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,<br /> +Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,<br /> +A momentary dream, that thou art she.<br /> + My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,<br /> +Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?<br /> +Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,<br /> +Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?<br /> +Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss;<br /> +Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—<br /> +Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—yes.<br /> +I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,<br /> +I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,<br /> +And, turning from my nursery window, drew<br /> +A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!<br /> +But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone<br /> +Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.<br /> +May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore<br /> +The parting word shall pass my lips no more!<br /> +Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,<br /> +Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.<br /> +What ardently I wished, I long believed,<br /> +And, disappointed still, was still deceived,<br /> +By expectation every day beguiled,<br /> +Dupe of <i>to-morrow</i> even from a child.<br /> +Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,<br /> +Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,<br /> +I learnt at last submission to my lot,<br /> +But though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.<br /> + Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,<br /> +Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;<br /> +And where the gardener Robin, day by day,<br /> +Drew me to school along the public way,<br /> +Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped<br /> +<a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>In +scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,<br /> +’Tis now become a history little known,<br /> +That once we called the pastoral house our own.<br /> +Short-lived possession! but the record fair<br /> +That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,<br /> +Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced<br /> +A thousand other themes less deeply traced:<br /> +Thy nightly visits to my chamber paid<br /> +That thou might’st know me safe and warmly laid;<br /> +Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,<br /> +The biscuit, or confectionary plum;<br /> +The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed<br /> +By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;<br /> +All this, and more endearing still than all,<br /> +Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,<br /> +Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,<br /> +That humour interposed too often makes;<br /> +All this still legible in memory’s page,<br /> +And still to be so till my latest age,<br /> +Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay<br /> +Such honours to thee as my numbers may;<br /> +Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,<br /> +Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.<br /> + Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the +hours,<br /> +When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,<br /> +The violet, the pink, the jessamine,<br /> +I pricked them into paper with a pin<br /> +(And thou wast happier than myself the while,<br /> +Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),<br /> +Could those few pleasant days again appear,<br /> +Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?<br /> +I would not trust my heart—the dear delight<br /> +Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might—<br /> +But no—what here we call our life is such,<br /> +<a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>So +little to be loved, and thou so much,<br /> +That I should ill requite thee to constrain<br /> +Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.<br /> + Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast<br +/> +(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed),<br /> +Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,<br /> +Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,<br /> +There sits quiescent on the floods, that show<br /> +Her beauteous form reflected clear below,<br /> +While airs impregnated with incense play<br /> +Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;<br /> +So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,<br /> +‘Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,’<br /> +And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide<br /> +Of life, long since has anchored at thy side.<br /> +But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,<br /> +Always from port withheld, always distressed—<br /> +Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed,<br /> +Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,<br /> +And day by day some current’s thwarting force<br /> +Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.<br /> +Yet, O the thought that thou art safe, and he!<br /> +That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.<br /> +My boast is not that I deduce my birth<br /> +From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;<br /> +But higher far my proud pretensions rise—<br /> +The son of parents passed into the skies.<br /> +And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has run<br /> +His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.<br /> +By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,<br /> +I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again;<br /> +To have renewed the joys that once were mine,<br /> +Without the sin of violating thine;<br /> +<a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>And, +while the wings of Fancy still are free,<br /> +And I can view this mimic show of thee,<br /> +Time has but half succeeded in his theft—<br /> +Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.</p> +<h2>ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1743–1825</span></h2> +<h3>LIFE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Life</span>! I know not +what thou art,<br /> +But know that thou and I must part;<br /> +And when, or how, or where we met,<br /> +I own to me’s a secret yet.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Life! we’ve been long +together<br /> +Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;<br /> +’Tis hard to part when friends are dear—<br /> +Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;<br /> +—Then steal away, give little warning,<br /> + Choose thine own time;<br /> +Say not Good-night—but in some brighter clime<br /> + Bid me Good-morning.</p> +<h2>WILLIAM BLAKE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1757–1828</span></h2> +<h3>THE LAND OF DREAMS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Awake</span>, awake, my +little boy!<br /> +Thou wast thy mother’s only joy.<br /> +Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?<br /> +Awake, thy Father does thee keep.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span>‘O, what land is the Land of Dreams,<br /> +What are its mountains and what are its streams?<br /> +O father, I saw my mother there,<br /> +Among the lilies by waters fair.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Among the lambs clothed in white,<br /> +She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight;<br /> +I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn,<br /> +O, when shall I again return?’</p> +<p class="poetry">Dear child, I also by pleasant streams<br /> +Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams,<br /> +But though calm and warm the waters wide,<br /> +I could not get to the other side.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Father, O Father! what do we here,<br /> +In this land of unbelief and fear?<br /> +The Land of Dreams is better far<br /> +Above the light of the morning star.’</p> +<h3>THE PIPER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Piping</span> down the +valleys wild,<br /> + Piping songs of pleasant glee,<br /> +On a cloud I saw a child,<br /> + And he laughing said to me:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Pipe a song about a lamb.’<br /> + So I piped with merry cheer.<br /> +‘Piper, pipe that song again.’<br /> + So I piped; he wept to hear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,<br /> + Sing thy songs of happy cheer.’<br /> +So I sang the same again,<br /> + While he wept with joy to hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Piper, sit thee down and write<br /> + In a hook that all may read’:<br /> +So he vanished from my sight,<br /> + And I plucked a hollow reed;</p> +<p class="poetry">And I made a rural pen,<br /> + And I stained the water clear,<br /> +And I wrote my happy songs<br /> + Every child may joy to hear.</p> +<h3>HOLY THURSDAY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">’Twas</span> on a +Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,<br /> +Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and +green;<br /> +Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as +snow,<br /> +Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters +flow.</p> +<p class="poetry">O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers +of London town!<br /> +Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own;<br /> +The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,<br /> +Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent +hands.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice +of song,<br /> +Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among;<br /> +Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.<br /> +Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.</p> +<h3>THE TIGER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tiger</span>, tiger, +burning bright<br /> +In the forests of the night,<br /> +What immortal hand or eye<br /> +Could frame thy fearful symmetry?</p> +<p class="poetry">In what distant deeps or skies<br /> +Burnt the fire of thine eyes?<br /> +On what wings dare he aspire?<br /> +What the hand dare seize the fire?</p> +<p class="poetry">And what shoulder, and what art,<br /> +Could twist the sinews of thy heart?<br /> +And when thy heart began to beat,<br /> +What dread hand and what dread feet?</p> +<p class="poetry">What the hammer? what the chain?<br /> +In what furnace was thy brain?<br /> +What the anvil? what dread grasp<br /> +Dare its deadly terrors clasp?</p> +<p class="poetry">When the stars threw down their spears,<br /> +And watered heaven with their tears,<br /> +Did he smile his work to see?<br /> +Did He who made the lamb make thee?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span>Tiger, tiger, burning bright<br /> +In the forests of the night,<br /> +What immortal hand or eye<br /> +Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?</p> +<h3>TO THE MUSES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whether</span> on +Ida’s shady brow,<br /> + Or in the chambers of the East,<br /> +The chambers of the sun, that now<br /> + From ancient melody have ceased;</p> +<p class="poetry">Whether in heaven ye wander fair,<br /> + Or the green corners of the earth,<br /> +Or the blue regions of the air,<br /> + Where the melodious winds have birth;</p> +<p class="poetry">Whether on crystal rocks ye rove<br /> + Beneath the bosom of the sea,<br /> +Wandering in many a coral grove,—<br /> + Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;</p> +<p class="poetry">How have you left the ancient love<br /> + That bards of old enjoyed in you!<br /> +The languid strings do scarcely move,<br /> + The sound is forced, the notes are few.</p> +<h3>LOVE’S SECRET</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Never</span> seek to tell +thy love,<br /> + Love that never told can be;<br /> +For the gentle wind doth move<br /> + Silently, invisibly.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +222</span>I told my love, I told my love,<br /> + I told her all my heart,<br /> +Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears<br /> + Ah! she did depart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Soon after she was gone from me<br /> + A traveller came by,<br /> +Silently, invisibly:<br /> + He took her with a sigh.</p> +<h2>ROBERT BURNS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1759–1796</span></h2> +<h3>TO A MOUSE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>On turning her up in her nest +with the plough</i>, <i>November</i>, 1785</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wee</span>, sleekit, +cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,<br /> +O what a panic’s in thy breastie!<br /> +Thou need na start awa sae hasty,<br /> + Wi’ +bickerin’ brattle!<br /> +I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee<br /> + Wi’ +murd’ring pattle!</p> +<p class="poetry">I’m truly sorry man’s dominion<br +/> +Has broken Nature’s social union,<br /> +An’ justifies that ill opinion<br /> + Which makes thee +startle<br /> +At me, thy poor earth-born companion,<br /> + An’ +fellow-mortal!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;<br /> +What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!<br /> +A daimen-icker in a thrave<br /> + ’S a +sma’ request:<br /> +I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,<br /> + And never +miss’t!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!<br /> +Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’:<br /> +And naething, now, to big a new ane,<br /> + O’ foggage +green!<br /> +An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’<br /> + Baith snell and +keen!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ +waste,<br /> +An’ weary winter comin’ fast,<br /> +An’ cozy here beneath the blast,<br /> + Thou thought to +dwell,<br /> +Till crash! the cruel coulter past<br /> + Out through thy +cell.</p> +<p class="poetry">That wee bit heap o’ leaves and +stibble<br /> +Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!<br /> +Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,<br /> + But house or +hald,<br /> +To thole the winter’s sleety dribble<br /> + An’ +cranreuch cauld!</p> +<p class="poetry">But, mousie, thou art no thy lane<br /> +In proving foresight may be vain:<br /> +The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men<br /> + Gang aft +a-gley,<br /> +An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,<br /> + For promised +joy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>Still thou art blest compared wi’ me!<br /> +The present only toucheth thee:<br /> +But, och! I backward cast my e’e<br /> + On prospects +drear!<br /> +An’ forward though I canna see,<br /> + I guess and +fear!</p> +<h3>THE FAREWELL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a’ for +our rightfu’ king<br /> + We left fair Scotland’s strand;<br /> +It was a’ for our rightfu’ king<br /> + We e’er saw Irish land,<br /> + My dear,<br /> + We e’er saw Irish land.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now a’ is done that man can do,<br /> + And a’ is done in vain;<br /> +My love and native land farewell,<br /> + For I maun cross the main,<br /> + My dear,<br /> + For I maun cross the main.</p> +<p class="poetry">He turned him right and round about<br /> + Upon the Irish shore;<br /> +And gae his bridle-reins a shake,<br /> + With Adieu for evermore,<br /> + My dear,<br /> + Adieu for evermore.</p> +<p class="poetry">The sodger frae the wars returns,<br /> + The sailor frae the main;<br /> +But I hae parted frae my love,<br /> + <a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>Never to meet again,<br /> + My dear,<br /> + Never to meet again.</p> +<p class="poetry">When day is gane, and night is come,<br /> + And a’ folks bound to sleep;<br /> +I think on him that’s far awa’,<br /> + The lee-lang night, and weep,<br /> + My dear,<br /> + The lee-lang night, and weep.</p> +<h2>WILLIAM WORDSWORTH<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1770–1850</span></h2> +<h3>WHY ART THOU SILENT?</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> art thou +silent? Is thy love a plant<br /> +Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air<br /> +Of absence withers what was once so fair?<br /> +Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?<br /> +Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,<br /> +Bound to thy service with unceasing care—<br /> +The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant<br /> +For nought but what thy happiness could spare.<br /> +Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold<br /> +A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,<br /> +Be left more desolate, more dreary cold<br /> +Than a forsaken bird’s-nest filled with snow<br /> +’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—<br /> +Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!</p> +<h3><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>THOUGHTS OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF +SWITZERLAND</h3> +<p class="poetry">Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,<br /> +One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:<br /> +In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,<br /> +They were thy chosen music, Liberty!<br /> +There came a tyrant, and with holy glee<br /> +Thou fought’st against him—but hast vainly +striven:<br /> +Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,<br /> +Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.<br /> +—Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;<br /> +Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—<br /> +For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be<br /> +That Mountain floods should thunder as before,<br /> +And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,<br /> +And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!</p> +<h3>IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> is a beauteous +evening, calm and free;<br /> +The holy time is quiet as a Nun<br /> +Breathless with adoration; the broad sun<br /> +Is sinking down in his tranquillity;<br /> +The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea;<br /> +Listen! the mighty Being is awake,<br /> +And doth with his eternal motion make<br /> +A sound like thunder—everlastingly.<br /> +Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,<br /> +If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,<br /> +Thy nature is not therefore less divine:<br /> +Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year,<br /> +And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine<br /> +God being with thee when we know it not.</p> +<h3><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>ON +THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Once</span> did She hold +the gorgeous East in fee, <br /> +And was the safeguard of the West; the worth<br /> +Of Venice did not fall below her birth,<br /> +Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.<br /> +She was a maiden city, bright and free;<br /> +No guile seduced, no force could violate;<br /> +And when she took unto herself a mate,<br /> +She must espouse the everlasting Sea.<br /> +And what if she had seen those glories fade,<br /> +Those titles vanish, and that strength decay—<br /> +Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid<br /> +When her long life hath reached its final day;<br /> +Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade<br /> +Of that which once was great is passed away.</p> +<h3>O FRIEND! I KNOW NOT</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">friend</span>! I know not +which way I must look<br /> +For comfort; being, as I am, oppressed<br /> +To think that now our life is only dressed<br /> +For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,<br /> +Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brook<br /> +In the open sunshine, or we are unblessed;<br /> +The wealthiest man among us is the best;<br /> +No grandeur now in nature or in book<br /> +Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,—<br /> +This is idolatry; and these we adore;<br /> +Plain living and high thinking are no more;<br /> +The homely beauty of the good old cause<br /> +Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,<br /> +And pure religion breathing household laws.</p> +<h3><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +228</span>SURPRISED BY JOY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Surprised</span> by +joy—impatient as the wind—<br /> +I turned to share the transport—O! with whom<br /> +But thee—deep buried in the silent tomb,<br /> +That spot which no vicissitude can find?<br /> +Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—<br /> +But how could I forget thee? Through what power,<br /> +Even for the least division of an hour,<br /> +Have I been so beguiled as to be blind<br /> +To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return<br /> +Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,<br /> +Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,<br /> +Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;<br /> +That neither present time nor years unborn<br /> +Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.</p> +<h3>TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Toussaint</span>, the most +unhappy man of men!<br /> +Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shed<br /> +His beams around thee, or thou rest thy head<br /> +Pillowed in some dark dungeon’s noisome den—<br /> +O miserable chieftain! where and when<br /> +Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou<br /> +Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:<br /> +Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,<br /> +Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind<br /> +Powers that will work for thee: air, earth, and skies;<br /> +There’s not a breathing of the common wind<br /> +That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;<br /> +Thy friends are exultations, agonies,<br /> +And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.</p> +<h3><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>WITH +SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> ships the sea +was sprinkled far and nigh,<br /> +Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;<br /> +Some lying fast at anchor in the road,<br /> +Some veering up and down, one knew not why.<br /> +A goodly vessel did I then espy<br /> +Come like a giant from a haven broad;<br /> +And lustily along the bay she strode,<br /> +‘Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.’<br /> +This ship was naught to me, nor I to her,<br /> +Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look;<br /> +This ship to all the rest did I prefer:<br /> +When will she turn, and whither? She will brook<br /> +No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:<br /> +On went she—and due north her journey took.</p> +<h3>THE WORLD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> World is too +much with us; late and soon,<br /> +Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;<br /> +Little we see in Nature that is ours;<br /> +We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!<br /> +This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,<br /> +The winds that will be howling at all hours<br /> +And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,—<br /> +For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;<br /> +It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be<br /> +A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,—<br /> +So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,<br /> +Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;<br /> +Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,<br /> +Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.</p> +<h3><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 230</span>UPON +WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Earth</span> has not +anything to show more fair:<br /> +Dull would he be of soul who could pass by<br /> +A sight so touching in its majesty:<br /> +This city now doth like a garment wear<br /> +The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,<br /> +Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie<br /> +Open unto the fields, and to the sky,—<br /> +All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.<br /> +Never did sun more beautifully steep<br /> +In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;<br /> +Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!<br /> +The river glideth at his own sweet will:<br /> +Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;<br /> +And all that mighty heart is lying still!</p> +<h3>WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> I have borne in +memory what has tamed<br /> +Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart,<br /> +What men change swords for ledgers, and desert<br /> +The student’s bower for gold,—some fears unnamed<br +/> +I had, my country!—am I to be blamed?<br /> +Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,<br /> +Verily, in the bottom of my heart<br /> +Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.<br /> +For dearly must we prize thee; we do find<br /> +In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;<br /> +And I by my affection was beguiled:<br /> +What wonder if a Poet now and then,<br /> +Among the many movements of his mind,<br /> +Felt for thee as a lover or a child!</p> +<h3><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>THREE YEARS SHE GREW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Three</span> years she grew +in sun and shower;<br /> +Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower<br /> +On earth was never sown.<br /> +This child I to myself will take:<br /> +She shall be mine, and I will make<br /> +A lady of my own.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Myself will to my darling be<br /> +Both law and impulse; and with me<br /> +The girl, in rock and plain,<br /> +In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,<br /> +Shall feel an overseeing power<br /> +To kindle or restrain.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘She shall be sportive as the fawn,<br /> +That wild with glee across the lawn<br /> +Or up the mountain springs;<br /> +And hers shall be the breathing balm,<br /> +And hers the silence and the calm<br /> +Of mute insensate things.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The floating clouds their state shall +lend<br /> +To her; for her the willow bend;<br /> +Nor shall she fail to see<br /> +Ev’n in the motions of the storm<br /> +Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form<br /> +By silent sympathy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +232</span>‘The stars of midnight shall be dear<br /> +To her, and she shall lean her ear<br /> +In many a secret place,<br /> +Where rivulets dance their wayward round,<br /> +And beauty born of murmuring sound<br /> +Shall pass into her face.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And vital feelings of delight<br /> +Shall rear her form to stately height,<br /> +Her virgin bosom swell;<br /> +Such thoughts to Lucy I will give<br /> +While she and I together live<br /> +Here in this happy dell.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus Nature spake. The work was +done—<br /> +How soon my Lucy’s race was run!<br /> +She died, and left to me<br /> +This heath, this calm and quiet scene;<br /> +The memory of what has been,<br /> +And never more will be.</p> +<h3>THE DAFFODILS</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">wandered</span> lonely as +a cloud<br /> +That floats on high o’er vales and hills,<br /> +When all at once I saw a crowd,<br /> +A host of golden daffodils,<br /> +Beside the lake, beneath the trees,<br /> +Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +233</span>Continuous as the stars that shine<br /> +And twinkle on the milky way,<br /> +They stretched in never-ending line<br /> +Along the margin of a bay:<br /> +Ten thousand saw I at a glance<br /> +Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.</p> +<p class="poetry">The waves beside them danced, but they<br /> +Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—<br /> +A Poet could not but be gay<br /> +In such a jocund company!<br /> +I gazed—and gazed—but little thought<br /> +What wealth the show to me had brought;</p> +<p class="poetry">For oft when on my couch I lie<br /> +In vacant or in pensive mood,<br /> +They flash upon that inward eye<br /> +Which is the bliss of solitude;<br /> +And then my heart with pleasure fills,<br /> +And dances with the daffodils.</p> +<h3>THE SOLITARY REAPER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Behold</span> her, single +in the field,<br /> +Yon solitary Highland Lass!<br /> +Reaping and singing by herself;<br /> +Stop here, or gently pass!<br /> +Alone she cuts and binds the grain<br /> +And sings a melancholy strain;<br /> +O listen! for the vale profound<br /> +Is overflowing with the sound.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>No nightingale did ever chaunt<br /> +More welcome notes to weary bands<br /> +Of travellers in some shady haunt,<br /> +Among Arabian sands:<br /> +A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard<br /> +In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,<br /> +Breaking the silence of the seas<br /> +Among the farthest Hebrides.</p> +<p class="poetry">Will no one tell me what she sings?<br /> +Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow<br /> +For old, unhappy, far-off things,<br /> +And battles long ago:<br /> +Or is it some more humble lay,<br /> +Familiar matter of to-day?<br /> +Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,<br /> +That has been and may be again?</p> +<p class="poetry">Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang<br /> +As if her song could have no ending;<br /> +I saw her singing at her work,<br /> +And o’er the sickle bending;—<br /> +I listened, motionless and still;<br /> +And, as I mounted up the hill,<br /> +The music in my heart I bore<br /> +Long after it was heard no more.</p> +<h3>ELEGIAC STANZAS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Suggested by a Picture of Peele +Castle in a Storm</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">was</span> thy neighbour +once, thou rugged pile!<br /> +Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:<br /> +I saw thee every day; and all the while<br /> +Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!<br /> +So like, so very like, was day to day!<br /> +Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there;<br /> +It trembled, but it never passed away.</p> +<p class="poetry">How perfect was the calm! It seemed no +sleep,<br /> +No mood, which season takes away or brings:<br /> +I could have fancied that the mighty Deep<br /> +Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! then—if mine had been the +painter’s hand<br /> +To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,<br /> +The light that never was on sea or land,<br /> +The consecration, and the Poet’s dream,—</p> +<p class="poetry">I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,<br +/> +Amid a world how different from this!<br /> +Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;<br /> +On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house +divine<br /> +Of peaceful years: a chronicle of heaven;—<br /> +Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine<br /> +The very sweetest had to thee been given.</p> +<p class="poetry">A picture had it been of lasting ease,<br /> +Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;<br /> +No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;<br /> +Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.</p> +<p class="poetry">Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,<br /> +Such picture would I at that time have made;<br /> +And seen the soul of truth in every part,<br /> +A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span>So once it would have been—’tis so no +more;<br /> +I have submitted to a new control:<br /> +A power is gone which nothing can restore;<br /> +A deep distress hath humanized my soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not for a moment could I now behold<br /> +A smiling sea, and be what I have been;<br /> +The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old;<br /> +This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the +friend<br /> +If he had lived, of him whom I deplore.<br /> +This work of thine I blame not, but commend;<br /> +This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.</p> +<p class="poetry">O ’tis a passionate work!—yet wise +and well,<br /> +Well chosen is the spirit that is here;<br /> +That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,<br /> +This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!</p> +<p class="poetry">And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,<br +/> +I love to see the look with which it braves,—<br /> +Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—<br /> +The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.</p> +<p class="poetry">Farewell, farewell the heart that lives +alone,<br /> +Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind!<br /> +Such happiness, wherever it be known,<br /> +Is to be pitied, for ’tis surely blind.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +237</span>But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,<br /> +And frequent sights of what is to be borne,—<br /> +Such sights, or worse, as are before me here!<br /> +Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.</p> +<h3>TO H. C.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hartley Coleridge</i>; <i>six +years old</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">thou</span>! whose +fancies from afar are brought;<br /> +Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,<br /> +And fittest to unutterable thought<br /> +The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;<br /> +Thou fairy voyager! that dost float<br /> +In such clear water that thy boat<br /> +May rather seem<br /> +To brood on air than on an earthly stream;<br /> +Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,<br /> +Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;<br /> +O blessed vision! O happy child!<br /> +That art so exquisitely wild,<br /> +I think of thee with many fears<br /> +For what may be thy lot in future years.</p> +<p class="poetry">I thought of times when pain might be thy +guest,<br /> +Lord of thy house and hospitality;<br /> +And grief, uneasy lover! never rest<br /> +But when she sat within the touch of thee.<br /> +O! too industrious folly!<br /> +O! vain and causeless melancholy!<br /> +Nature will either end thee quite;<br /> +Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,<br /> +Preserve for thee, by individual right,<br /> +A young lamb’s heart among the full-grown flocks.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span>What hast thou to do with sorrow,<br /> +Or the injuries of to-morrow?<br /> +Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth,<br /> +Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks;<br /> +Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;<br /> +A gem that glitters while it lives,<br /> +And no forewarning gives;<br /> +But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife<br /> +Slips in a moment out of life.</p> +<h3>’TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">’Tis</span> said that +some have died for love:<br /> +And here and there a churchyard grave is found<br /> +In the cold North’s unhallowed ground,<br /> +Because the wretched man himself had slain,—<br /> +His love was such a grievous pain.<br /> +And there is one whom I five years have known;<br /> +He dwells alone<br /> +Upon Helvellyn’s side:<br /> +He loved—the pretty Barbara died,<br /> +And thus he makes his moan:<br /> +Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid,<br /> +When thus his moan he made:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O move, thou cottage, from behind that +oak!<br /> +Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,<br /> +That in some other way yon smoke<br /> +May mount into the sky!<br /> +The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart:<br /> +I look—the sky is empty space;<br /> +I know not what I trace;<br /> +But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>‘O what a weight is in these shades! Ye +leaves,<br /> +When will that dying murmur be suppressed?<br /> +Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,<br /> +It robs my heart of rest.<br /> +Thou thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free,<br /> +Into yon row of willows flit,<br /> +Upon that alder sit;<br /> +Or sing another song, or choose another tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy +mountain bounds,<br /> +And there for ever be thy waters chained!<br /> +For thou dost haunt the air with sounds<br /> +That cannot be sustained;<br /> +If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough<br /> +Headlong yon waterfall must come,<br /> +O let it then be dumb!—<br /> +Be anything, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thou eglantine, whose arch so proudly +towers<br /> +(Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale),<br /> +Thou one fair shrub—oh, shed thy flowers,<br /> +And stir not in the gale!<br /> +For thus to see thee nodding in the air,—<br /> +To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,<br /> +Thus rise and thus descend,—<br /> +Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The man who makes this feverish complaint<br /> +Is one of giant stature, who could dance<br /> +Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.<br /> +Ah gentle love! if ever thought was thine<br /> +To store up kindred hours for me, thy face<br /> +Turn from me, gentle love! nor let me walk<br /> +Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know<br /> +Such happiness as I have known to-day.</p> +<h3><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>THE +PET LAMB</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>A Pastoral</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> dew was falling +fast, the stars began to blink;<br /> +I heard a voice: it said, ‘Drink, pretty creature, +drink!’<br /> +And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied<br /> +A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.</p> +<p class="poetry">No other sheep were near, the lamb was all +alone,<br /> +And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;<br /> +With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,<br /> +While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lamb, while from her hand he thus his +supper took,<br /> +Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure +shook.<br /> +‘Drink, pretty creature, drink,’ she said, in such a +tone<br /> +That I almost received her heart into my own.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child +of beauty rare!<br /> +I watched them with delight; they were a lovely pair.<br /> +Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;<br /> +But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Towards the lamb she looked; and from that +shady place<br /> +I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face;<br /> +If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,<br /> +Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might +sing:—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>‘What ails thee, young one? What? Why +pull so at thy cord?<br /> +Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?<br +/> +Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;<br /> +Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth +thee?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘What is it thou wouldst seek? What +is wanting to thy heart?<br /> +Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:<br +/> +This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;<br +/> +And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If the sun be shining hot, do but +stretch thy woollen chain,<br /> +This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;<br /> +For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not +fear;—<br /> +The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast +forgot the day<br /> +When my father found thee first in places far away:<br /> +Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none;<br /> +And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘He took thee in his arms, and in pity +brought thee home:<br /> +A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?<br /> +A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean<br /> +Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span>‘Thou know’st that twice a day I have +brought thee in this can<br /> +Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;<br /> +And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,<br /> +I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and new.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout +as they are now,<br /> +Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the +plough;<br /> +My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,<br /> +Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It will not, will not rest!—poor +creature, can it be<br /> +That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in +thee?<br /> +Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,<br /> +And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Alas, the mountain-tops that look so +green and fair!<br /> +I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come +there;<br /> +The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,<br /> +When they are angry roar like lions for their prey.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Here thou need’st not dread the +raven in the sky;<br /> +Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.<br /> +Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?<br /> +Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee +again!’</p> +<p class="poetry">As homeward through the lane I went with lazy +feet,<br /> +This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;<br /> +And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,<br /> +That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was mine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +243</span>Again, and once again did I repeat the song;<br /> +‘Nay,’ said I, ‘more than half to the damsel +must belong,<br /> +For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a +tone,<br /> +That I almost received her heart into my own.’</p> +<h3>STEPPING WESTWARD</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>While my fellow-traveller and I +were walking by the side of Loch Katrine</i>, <i>one fine evening +after sunset</i>, <i>in our road to a hut where in the course of +our tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks +before</i>, <i>we met</i>, <i>in one of the loneliest parts of +that solitary region</i>, <i>two well-dressed women</i>, <i>one +of whom said to us</i>, <i>by way of greeting</i>, +‘<i>What</i>, <i>you are stepping westward</i>?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>What</i>, <i>you are stepping +westward</i>?’—‘<i>Yea</i>.’<br /> +—’Twould be a wildish destiny,<br /> +If we, who thus together roam<br /> +In a strange land, and far from home,<br /> +Were in this place the guests of chance;<br /> +Yet who would stop, or fear t’ advance,<br /> +Though home or shelter he had none,<br /> +With such a sky to lead him on?</p> +<p class="poetry">The dewy ground was dark and cold;<br /> +Behind, all gloomy to behold;<br /> +And stepping westward seemed to be<br /> +A kind of heavenly destiny:<br /> +I liked the greeting; ’twas a sound<br /> +Of something without place or bound;<br /> +And seemed to give me spiritual right<br /> +To travel through that region bright.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +244</span>The voice was soft, and she who spake<br /> +Was walking by her native lake;<br /> +The salutation had to me<br /> +The very sound of courtesy;<br /> +Its power was felt; and while my eye<br /> +Was fixed upon the glowing sky,<br /> +The echo of the voice enwrought<br /> +A human sweetness with the thought<br /> +Of travelling through the world that lay<br /> +Before me in my endless way.</p> +<h3>THE CHILDLESS FATHER</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Up</span>, Timothy, +up with your staff and away!<br /> +Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;<br /> +The hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds,<br /> +And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.’</p> +<p class="poetry">—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, +and green,<br /> +On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;<br /> +With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,<br /> +The girls on the hills made a holiday show.</p> +<p class="poetry">The basin of boxwood, <a +name="citation244"></a><a href="#footnote244" +class="citation">[244]</a> just six months before,<br /> +Had stood on the table at Timothy’s door;<br /> +A coffin through Timothy’s threshold had passed;<br /> +One child did it bear, and that child was his last.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +245</span>Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,<br /> +The horse and the horn, and the ‘hark! hark away!’<br +/> +Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,<br /> +With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,<br +/> +‘The key I must take, for my Helen is dead.’<br /> +But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,<br /> +And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.</p> +<h3>ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM<br /> +RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> was a time +when meadow, grove, and stream,<br /> +The earth, and every common sight<br /> + + +To me did seem<br /> + Apparelled in celestial light,<br +/> +The glory and the freshness of a dream.<br /> +It is not now as it hath been of yore;—<br /> + Turn wheresoe’er I may,<br +/> + + +By night or day,<br /> +The things which I have seen I now can see no more.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +rainbow comes and goes,<br /> + And lovely is +the rose;<br /> + The moon doth +with delight<br /> + Look round her when the heavens are bare;<br /> + Waters on a +starry night<br /> + Are beautiful +and fair;<br /> + The sunshine is a glorious birth;<br /> + But yet I know, where’er I go,<br /> +That there hath past away a glory from the earth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +246</span>Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,<br /> + And while the young lambs bound<br /> + As to the tabor’s sound,<br +/> + To me alone there came a thought +of grief:<br /> + A timely utterance gave that +thought relief,<br /> + + +And I again am strong.<br /> + The cataracts blow their trumpets +from the steep;—<br /> + No more shall grief of mine the +season wrong:<br /> + I hear the echoes through the +mountains throng,<br /> + The winds come to me from the +fields of sleep,<br /> + + +And all the earth is gay;<br /> + + +Land and sea<br /> + Give themselves +up to jollity,<br /> + + +And with the heart of May<br /> + Doth every beast +keep holiday;—<br /> + + +Thou child of joy<br /> + Shout round me, let me hear thy +shouts, thou happy<br /> + + +Shepherd-boy!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call<br +/> + Ye to each other make; I see<br /> +The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;<br /> + My heart is at your festival,<br /> + My head hath its coronal,<br /> +The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.<br /> + O evil day! if I +were sullen<br /> + While Earth +herself is adorning<br /> + + +This sweet May-morning;<br /> + And the children +are culling<br /> + + +On every side,<br /> + In a thousand +valleys far and wide,<br /> + Fresh flowers; +while the sun shines warm<br /> +And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:—<br /> + <a +name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>I hear, I +hear, with joy I hear!<br /> + —But +there’s a tree, of many, one,<br /> +A single field which I have looked upon,<br /> +Both of them speak of something that is gone;<br /> + + +The pansy at my feet<br /> + + +Doth the same tale repeat:<br /> +Whither is fled the visionary gleam?<br /> +Where is it now, the glory and the dream?</p> +<p class="poetry">Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;<br +/> +The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,<br /> + Hath had +elsewhere its setting<br /> + + +And cometh from afar.<br /> + Not in entire +forgetfulness,<br /> + And not in utter +nakedness,<br /> +But trailing clouds of glory do we come<br /> + + +From God, who is our home;<br /> +Heaven lies about us in our infancy!<br /> +Shades of the prison-house begin to close<br /> + + +Upon the growing Boy,<br /> +But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,<br /> + + +He sees it in his joy;<br /> +The Youth, who daily farther from the east<br /> + Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,<br /> + And by the +vision splendid<br /> + Is on his way +attended;<br /> +At length the Man perceives it die away<br /> +And fade into the light of common day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her +own;<br /> +Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,<br /> +And, even with something of a mother’s mind<br /> + + +And no unworthy aim,<br /> + <a +name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>The homely +nurse doth all she can<br /> +To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,<br /> + + +Forget the glories he hath known,<br /> +And that imperial palace whence he came.</p> +<p class="poetry">Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,<br +/> +A six years’ darling of a pigmy size!<br /> +See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies,<br /> +Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,<br /> +With light upon him from his father’s eyes!<br /> +See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,<br /> +Some fragment from his dream of human life,<br /> +Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;<br /> + A wedding or a festival,<br /> + A mourning or a funeral;<br /> + And this hath +now his heart,<br /> + And unto this he frames his +song:<br /> + Then will he fit +his tongue<br /> +To dialogues of business, love, or strife;<br /> + But it will not be long<br /> + Ere this be thrown aside,<br /> + And with new joy and pride<br /> +The little actor cons another part;<br /> +Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’<br /> +With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,<br /> +That life brings with her in her equipage;<br /> + As if his whole vocation<br /> + Were endless imitation.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie<br /> + Thy soul’s immensity;<br /> +Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep<br /> +Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind<br /> +<a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>That, +deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,<br /> +Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,—<br /> + Mighty Prophet! Seer +blest!<br /> + On whom those truths do rest<br /> +Which we are toiling all our lives to find,<br /> +In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;<br /> +Thou, over whom thy Immortality<br /> +Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave,<br /> +A Presence which is not to be put by;<br /> +Thou little child, yet glorious in the might<br /> +Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,<br /> +Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke<br /> +The years to bring the inevitable yoke,<br /> +Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?<br /> +Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,<br /> +And custom lie upon thee with a weight<br /> +Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!</p> +<p class="poetry"> O joy! that +in our embers<br /> + Is something that doth live,<br /> + That Nature yet remembers<br /> + What was so fugitive!<br /> +The thought of our past years in me doth breed<br /> +Perpetual benediction: not, indeed,<br /> +For that which is most worthy to be blest,<br /> +Delight and liberty, the simple creed<br /> +Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,<br /> +With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:<br /> + —Not for these I raise<br /> + The song of thanks and praise;<br +/> + But for those obstinate questionings<br /> + Of sense and outward things,<br /> + <a name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +250</span>Fallings from us, vanishings;<br /> + Blank misgivings of a creature<br /> +Moving about in worlds not realised,<br /> +High instincts, before which our mortal nature<br /> +Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:<br /> + But for those first affections,<br /> + Those shadowy recollections,<br /> + Which, be they +what they may,<br /> +Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,<br /> +Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;<br /> + Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make<br /> +Our noisy years seem moments in the being<br /> +Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,<br /> + + +To perish never;<br /> +Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,<br /> + + +Nor man nor boy,<br /> +Nor all that is at enmity with joy,<br /> +Can utterly abolish or destroy!<br /> + Hence, in a season of calm +weather,<br /> + + +Though inland far we be,<br /> +Our souls have sight of that immortal sea<br /> + + +Which brought us hither;<br /> + Can in a moment travel +thither—<br /> +And see the children sport upon the shore,<br /> +And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous +song!<br /> + And let the young lambs bound<br +/> + As to the tabor’s sound!<br +/> + We, in thought, will join your throng,<br /> + Ye that pipe and ye that play,<br +/> + Ye that through your hearts +to-day<br /> + Feel the gladness of the May!<br +/> +<a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 251</span>What +though the radiance which was once so bright<br /> +Be now for ever taken from my sight,<br /> + Though nothing can bring back the +hour<br /> +Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;<br /> + + +We will grieve not, rather find<br /> + + +Strength in what remains behind;<br /> + + +In the primal sympathy<br /> + + +Which, having been, must ever be;<br /> + + +In the soothing thoughts that spring<br /> + + +Out of human suffering;<br /> + + +In the faith that looks through death,<br /> +In years that bring the philosophic mind.</p> +<p class="poetry">And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and +Groves,<br /> +Forbode not any severing of our loves!<br /> +Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;<br /> +I only have relinquished one delight<br /> +To live beneath your more habitual sway:<br /> +I love the brooks which down their channels fret<br /> +Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;<br /> +The innocent brightness of a new-born day<br /> + Is lovely +yet;<br /> +The clouds that gather round the setting sun<br /> +Do take a sober colouring from an eye<br /> +That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;<br /> +Another race hath been, and other palms are won.<br /> +Thanks to the human heart by which we live,<br /> +Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,<br /> +To me the meanest flower that blows can give<br /> +Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.</p> +<h2><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>SIR +WALTER SCOTT<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1771–1832</span></h2> +<h3>PROUD MAISIE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Proud</span> Maisie is in +the wood,<br /> + Walking so early;<br /> +Sweet Robin sits on the bush,<br /> + Singing so rarely.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,<br /> + When shall I marry me?’<br /> +‘When six braw gentlemen<br /> + Kirkward shall carry ye.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Who makes the bridal bed,<br /> + Birdie, say truly?’<br /> +‘The grey-headed sexton<br /> + That delves the grave duly.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The glowworm o’er grave and +stone<br /> + Shall light thee steady;<br /> +The owl from the steeple sing<br /> + Welcome, proud lady.’</p> +<h3>A WEARY LOT IS THINE</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘A <span class="smcap">weary</span> lot +is thine, fair maid,<br /> + A weary lot is thine!<br /> +To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,<br /> + And press the rue for wine.<br /> +<a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 253</span>A +lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien,<br /> + A feather of the blue,<br /> +A doublet of the Lincoln green—<br /> + No more of me you knew.<br /> + + +My Love!<br /> +No more of me you knew.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘This morn is merry June, I trow,<br /> + The rose is budding fain;<br /> +But she shall bloom in winter snow<br /> + Ere we two meet again.’<br /> +He turned his charger as he spake<br /> + Upon the river shore,<br /> +He gave the bridle-reins a shake,<br /> + Said, ‘Adieu for evermore,<br /> + + +My Love!<br /> +And adieu for evermore.’</p> +<h3>THE MAID OF NEIDPATH</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">lovers</span>’ eyes +are sharp to see,<br /> + And lovers’ ears in hearing;<br /> +And love, in life’s extremity,<br /> + Can lend an hour of cheering.<br /> +Disease had been in Mary’s bower<br /> + And slow decay from mourning,<br /> +Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower<br /> + To watch her love’s returning.</p> +<p class="poetry">All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,<br /> + Her form decayed by pining,<br /> +Till through her wasted hand, at night,<br /> + You saw the taper shining.<br /> +<a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>By fits +a sultry hectic hue<br /> + Across her cheek was flying;<br /> +By fits so ashy pale she grew<br /> + Her maidens thought her dying.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet keenest powers to see and hear<br /> + Seemed in her frame residing;<br /> +Before the watch-dog pricked his ear<br /> + She heard her lover’s riding;<br /> +Ere scarce a distant form was kenned<br /> + She knew and waved to greet him,<br /> +And o’er the battlement did bend<br /> + As on the wing to meet him.</p> +<p class="poetry">He came—he passed—an heedless +gaze<br /> + As o’er some stranger glancing;<br /> +Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,<br /> + Lost in his courser’s prancing—<br /> +The castle-arch, whose hollow tone<br /> + Returns each whisper spoken,<br /> +Could scarcely catch the feeble moan<br /> + Which told her heart was broken.</p> +<h2>SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1772–1834</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: center">KUBLA KHAN</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Xanadu did Kubla +Khan<br /> +A stately pleasure-dome decree:<br /> +Where Alph, the sacred river, ran<br /> +Through caverns measureless to man<br /> + Down to a sunless sea.<br /> +So twice five miles of fertile ground<br /> +With walls and towers were girdled round:<br /> +<a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>And +there were gardens bright with sinuous rills<br /> +Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;<br /> +And here were forests ancient as the hills,<br /> +Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.<br /> + But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted<br /> +Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!<br /> +A savage place! as holy and enchanted<br /> +As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted<br /> +By woman wailing for her demon-lover!<br /> +And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,<br /> +As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,<br /> +A mighty fountain momently was forced:<br /> +Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst<br /> +Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,<br /> +Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail;<br /> +And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever<br /> +It flung up momently the sacred river.<br /> +Five miles meandering with a mazy motion<br /> +Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,<br /> +Then reached the caverns measureless to man,<br /> +And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:<br /> +And, ’mid this tumult, Kubla heard from far<br /> +Ancestral voices prophesying war!</p> +<p class="poetry"> The shadow +of the dome of pleasure<br /> + Floated midway on the waves;<br /> + Where was heard the mingled measure<br /> + From the fountain and the caves.<br /> +It was a miracle of rare device,<br /> +A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!<br /> + A damsel with a dulcimer<br /> + In a vision once I saw:<br /> + It was an Abyssinian maid,<br /> + And on her dulcimer she played,<br /> + <a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +256</span>Singing of Mount Abora.<br /> + Could I revive within me<br /> + Her symphony and song,<br /> +To such a deep delight ’twould win me,<br /> +That with music loud and long<br /> +I would build that dome in air,<br /> +That sunny dome! those caves of ice!<br /> +And all who heard should see them there,<br /> +And all should cry, Beware! Beware!<br /> +His flashing eyes, his floating hair!<br /> +Weave a circle round him thrice,<br /> +And close your eyes with holy dread,<br /> +For he on honey-dew hath fed,<br /> +And drunk the milk of Paradise.</p> +<h3>YOUTH AND AGE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Verse</span>, a breeze +’mid blossoms straying,<br /> +Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—<br /> +Both were mine! Life went a-maying<br /> + With Nature, +Hope, and Poesy,<br /> + + +When I was young!<br /> +When I was young?—Ah, woeful when!<br /> +Ah! for the change ’twixt Now and Then!<br /> +This breathing house not built with hands,<br /> +This body that does me grievous wrong,<br /> +O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands<br /> +How lightly then it flashed along:<br /> +Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,<br /> +On winding lakes and rivers wide,<br /> +That ask no aid of sail or oar,<br /> +That fear no spite of wind or tide!<br /> +Nought cared this body for wind or weather<br /> +When Youth and I lived in’t together.<br /> + <a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +257</span>Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;<br /> +Friendship is a sheltering tree;<br /> +O! the joys, that came down shower-like,<br /> +Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,<br /> + + +Ere I was old!<br /> +Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,<br /> +Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here!<br /> +O Youth! for years so many and sweet,<br /> +’Tis known that thou and I were one,<br /> +I’ll think it but a fond conceit—<br /> +It cannot be that thou art gone!<br /> +Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:—<br /> +And thou wert aye a masker bold!<br /> +What strange disguise hast now put on<br /> +To make believe that thou art gone?<br /> +I see these locks in silvery slips,<br /> +This drooping gait, this altered size;<br /> +But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,<br /> +And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!<br /> +Life is but Thought: so think I will<br /> +That Youth and I are house-mates still.<br /> +Dew-drops are the gems of morning,<br /> +But the tears of mournful eve,<br /> +Where no hope is, life’s forewarning<br /> +That only serves to make us grieve,<br /> + + +When we are old:<br /> +That only serves to make us grieve<br /> +With oft and tedious taking-leave,<br /> +Like some poor nigh-related guest<br /> +That may not rudely be dismissed,<br /> +Yet hath out-stayed his welcome while,<br /> +And tells the jest without the smile.</p> +<h3><a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>THE +RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>In seven parts</i></p> +<h4>ARGUMENT</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> a ship having +passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards +the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the +tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange +things that befell; and in what manner the Ancient Mariner came +back to his own Country.</p> +<h4>PART I</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> is an ancient +mariner,<br /> +And he stoppeth one of three.<br /> +‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,<br /> +Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The Bridegroom’s doors are opened +wide,<br /> +And I am next of kin;<br /> +The guests are met, the feast is set:<br /> +May’st hear the merry din.’</p> +<p class="poetry">He holds him with his skinny hand,<br /> +‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.<br /> +‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’<br /> +Eftsoons his hand dropt he.</p> +<p class="poetry">He holds him with his glittering eye—<br +/> +The Wedding-Guest stood still,<br /> +And listens like a three-years’ child:<br /> +The mariner hath his will.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:<br /> +He cannot choose but hear;<br /> +And thus spake on that ancient man,<br /> +The bright-eyed Mariner.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span>‘The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,<br /> +Merrily did we drop<br /> +Below the kirk, below the hill,<br /> +Below the lighthouse top.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The sun came up upon the left,<br /> +Out of the sea came he!<br /> +And he shone bright, and on the right<br /> +Went down into the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Higher and higher every day,<br /> +Till over the mast at noon—’<br /> +The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,<br /> +For he heard the loud bassoon.</p> +<p class="poetry">The bride hath paced into the hall,<br /> +Bed as a rose is she;<br /> +Nodding their heads before her goes<br /> +The merry minstrelsy.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,<br /> +Yet he cannot choose but hear;<br /> +And thus spake on that ancient man,<br /> +The bright-eyed Mariner.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And now the Storm-blast came, and he<br +/> +Was tyrannous and strong:<br /> +He struck with his o’ertaking wings,<br /> +And chased us south along.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘With sloping masts and dipping prow<br +/> +As who pursued with yell and blow<br /> +Still treads the shadow of his foe,<br /> +<a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>And +forward bends his head,<br /> +The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,<br /> +And southward aye we fled.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And now there came both mist and +snow,<br /> +And it grew wondrous cold:<br /> +And ice, mast-high, came floating by,<br /> +As green as emerald.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And through the drifts the snowy +clifts<br /> +Did send a dismal sheen:<br /> +Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—<br /> +The ice was all between.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The ice was here, the ice was there,<br +/> +The ice was all around:<br /> +It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,<br /> +Like noises in a swound!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘At length did cross an Albatross,<br /> +Thorough the fog it came;<br /> +As it had been a Christian soul,<br /> +We hailed it in God’s name.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘It ate the food it ne’er had +eat,<br /> +And round and round it flew.<br /> +The ice did split with a thunder-fit;<br /> +The helmsman steered us through!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And a good south wind sprang up +behind;<br /> +The Albatross did follow,<br /> +And every day, for food or play,<br /> +Came to the mariner’s hollo!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +261</span>‘In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,<br /> +It perched for vespers nine;<br /> +Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,<br /> +Glimmered the white moon-shine.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!<br /> +From the fiends that plague thee thus!—<br /> +Why look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow<br /> +I shot the Albatross.</p> +<h4>PART II</h4> +<p class="poetry">The sun now rose upon the right:<br /> +Out of the sea came he,<br /> +Still hid in mist, and on the left<br /> +Went down into the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the good south wind still blew behind,<br +/> +But no sweet bird did follow,<br /> +Nor any day for food or play<br /> +Came to the mariner’s hollo!</p> +<p class="poetry">And I had done a hellish thing,<br /> +And it would work ’em woe:<br /> +For all averred I had killed the bird<br /> +That made the breeze to blow.<br /> +Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,<br /> +That made the breeze to blow!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head<br +/> +The glorious Sun uprist:<br /> +Then all averred I had killed the bird<br /> +That brought the fog and mist.<br /> +’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,<br /> +That bring the fog and mist.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span>The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,<br /> +The furrow followed free;<br /> +We were the first that ever burst<br /> +Into that silent sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,<br +/> +’Twas sad as sad could be;<br /> +And we did speak only to break<br /> +The silence of the sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">All in a hot and copper sky,<br /> +The bloody Sun, at noon,<br /> +Right up above the mast did stand,<br /> +No bigger than the Moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Day after day, day after day,<br /> +We stuck, nor breath nor motion;<br /> +As idle as a painted ship<br /> +Upon a painted ocean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Water, water, every where,<br /> +And all the boards did shrink;<br /> +Water, water, every where<br /> +Nor any drop to drink.</p> +<p class="poetry">The very deep did rot: O Christ!<br /> +That ever this should be!<br /> +Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs<br /> +Upon the slimy sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">About, about, in reel and rout<br /> +The death-fires danced at night;<br /> +The water, like a witch’s oils,<br /> +Burnt green, and blue and white.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +263</span>And some in dreams assured were<br /> +Of the Spirit that plagued us so,<br /> +Nine fathom deep he had followed us<br /> +From the land of mist and snow.</p> +<p class="poetry">And every tongue, through utter drought,<br /> +Was withered at the root;<br /> +We could not speak, no more than if<br /> +We had been choked with soot.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! well a-day! what evil looks<br /> +Had I from old and young!<br /> +Instead of the cross, the Albatross<br /> +About my neck was hung.</p> +<h4>PART III</h4> +<p class="poetry">There passed a weary time. Each throat<br +/> +Was parched, and glazed each eye.<br /> +A weary time! a weary time!<br /> +How glazed each weary eye—<br /> +When looking westward, I beheld<br /> +A something in the sky.</p> +<p class="poetry">At first it seemed a little speck,<br /> +And then it seemed a mist;<br /> +It moved and moved, and took at last<br /> +A certain shape, I wist.</p> +<p class="poetry">A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!<br /> +And still it neared and neared:<br /> +As if it dodged a water-sprite,<br /> +It plunged and tacked and veered.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +264</span>With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,<br /> +We could nor laugh nor wail;<br /> +Through utter drought all dumb we stood!<br /> +I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,<br /> +And cried, A sail! a sail!</p> +<p class="poetry">With throats unslaked, with black lips +baked,<br /> +Agape they heard me call:<br /> +Gramercy! they for joy did grin,<br /> +And all at once their breath drew in,<br /> +As they were drinking all.</p> +<p class="poetry">See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!<br /> +Hither to work us weal,<br /> +Without a breeze, without a tide,<br /> +She steadies with upright keel!</p> +<p class="poetry">The western wave was all aflame,<br /> +The day was well nigh done;<br /> +Almost upon the western wave<br /> +Rested the broad bright Sun;<br /> +When that strange shape drove suddenly<br /> +Betwixt us and the Sun!</p> +<p class="poetry">And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,<br +/> +(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)<br /> +As if through a dungeon-grate he peered<br /> +With broad and burning face.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)<br /> +How fast she nears and nears!<br /> +Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,<br /> +Like restless gossameres?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +265</span>Are those her ribs through which the Sun<br /> +Did peer as through a grate?<br /> +And is that Woman all her crew?<br /> +Is that a Death? and are there two?<br /> +Is Death that woman’s mate?</p> +<p class="poetry">Her lips were red, her looks were free,<br /> +Her locks were yellow as gold,<br /> +Her skin was white as leprosy;<br /> +The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,<br /> +Who thicks man’s blood with cold.</p> +<p class="poetry">The naked hulk alongside came,<br /> +And the twain were casting dice;<br /> +‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve +won!’<br /> +Quoth she, and whistles thrice.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush +out:<br /> +At one stride comes the dark;<br /> +With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,<br /> +Off shot the spectre-bark.</p> +<p class="poetry">We listened and looked sideways up;<br /> +Fear at my heart, as at a cup,<br /> +My life-blood seemed to sip!<br /> +The stars were dim, and thick the night,<br /> +The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;<br /> +From the sails the dew did drip—<br /> +Till clomb above the eastern bar<br /> +The horned Moon, with one bright star<br /> +Within the nether tip.</p> +<p class="poetry">One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,<br /> +Too quick for groan or sigh,<br /> +Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,<br /> +And cursed me with his eye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +266</span>Four times fifty living men,<br /> +(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)<br /> +With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,<br /> +They dropped down one by one.</p> +<p class="poetry">The souls did from their bodies fly,—<br +/> +They fled to bliss or woe!<br /> +And every soul it passed me by,<br /> +Like the whizz of my cross-bow!</p> +<h4>PART IV</h4> +<p class="poetry">‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!<br /> +I fear thy skinny hand!<br /> +And thou art long, and lank, and brown,<br /> +As is the ribbed sea-sand.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I fear thee and thy glittering eye,<br +/> +And thy skinny hand so brown.’—<br /> +Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!<br /> +This body dropt not down.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alone, alone, all, all alone,<br /> +Alone on a wide wide sea!<br /> +And never a saint took pity on<br /> +My soul in agony.</p> +<p class="poetry">The many men, so beautiful!<br /> +And they all dead did lie;<br /> +And a thousand thousand slimy things<br /> +Lived on; and so did I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page267"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +267</span>I looked upon the rotting sea,<br /> +And drew mine eyes away:<br /> +I looked upon the rotting deck,<br /> +And there the dead men lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">I looked to heaven and tried to pray;<br /> +But or ever a prayer had gusht,<br /> +A wicked whisper came and made<br /> +My heart as dry as dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">I closed my lids, and kept them close,<br /> +And the balls like pulses beat;<br /> +For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky<br /> +Lay like a load on my weary eye,<br /> +And the dead were at my feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">The cold sweat melted from their limbs,<br /> +Nor rot nor reek did they:<br /> +The look with which they looked on me<br /> +Had never passed away.</p> +<p class="poetry">An orphan’s curse would drag to hell<br +/> +A spirit from on high;<br /> +But oh! more horrible than that<br /> +Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!<br /> +Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,<br /> +And yet I could not die.</p> +<p class="poetry">The moving Moon went up the sky,<br /> +And nowhere did abide:<br /> +Softly she was going up,<br /> +And a star or two beside—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span>Her beams bemocked the sultry main,<br /> +Like April hoar-frost spread;<br /> +But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,<br /> +The charmed water burnt alway<br /> +A still and awful red.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beyond the shadow of the ship,<br /> +I watched the water-snakes:<br /> +They moved in tracks of shining white,<br /> +And when they reared, the elfish light<br /> +Fell off in hoary flakes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Within the shadow of the ship<br /> +I watched their rich attire:<br /> +Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,<br /> +They coiled and swam: and every track<br /> +Was a flash of golden fire.</p> +<p class="poetry">O happy living things! no tongue<br /> +Their beauty might declare;<br /> +A spring of love gushed from my heart,<br /> +And I blessed them unaware:<br /> +Sure my kind Saint took pity on me,<br /> +And I blessed them unaware.</p> +<p class="poetry">The selfsame moment I could pray;<br /> +And from my neck so free<br /> +The Albatross fell off, and sank<br /> +Like lead into the sea.</p> +<h4>PART V</h4> +<p class="poetry">O sleep! it is a gentle thing,<br /> +Beloved from pole to pole!<br /> +<a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>To Mary +Queen the praise be given!<br /> +She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,<br /> +That slid into my soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">The silly buckets on the deck,<br /> +That had so long remained,<br /> +I dreamt that they were filled with dew;<br /> +And when I woke, it rained.</p> +<p class="poetry">My lips were wet, my throat was cold,<br /> +My garments all were dank;<br /> +Sure I had drunken in my dreams,<br /> +And still my body drank.</p> +<p class="poetry">I moved, and could not feel my limbs;<br /> +I was so light—almost<br /> +I thought that I had died in sleep,<br /> +And was a blessed ghost.</p> +<p class="poetry">And soon I heard a roaring wind:<br /> +It did not come anear;<br /> +But with its sound it shook the sails,<br /> +That were so thin and sere.</p> +<p class="poetry">The upper air burst into life!<br /> +And a hundred fire-flags sheen,<br /> +To and fro they were hurried about!<br /> +And to and fro, and in and out,<br /> +The wan stars danced between.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the coming wind did roar more loud,<br /> +And the sails did sigh like sedge;<br /> +And the rain poured down from one black cloud;<br /> +The Moon was at its edge.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +270</span>The thick black cloud was cleft, and still<br /> +The Moon was at its side:<br /> +Like waters shot from some high crag,<br /> +The lightning fell with never a jag,<br /> +A river steep and wide.</p> +<p class="poetry">The loud wind never reached the ship,<br /> +Yet now the ship moved on!<br /> +Beneath the lightning and the Moon<br /> +The dead men gave a groan.</p> +<p class="poetry">They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,<br +/> +Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;<br /> +It had been strange, even in a dream,<br /> +To have seen those dead men rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;<br /> +Yet never a breeze up blew;<br /> +The mariners all ’gan work the ropes,<br /> +Where they were wont to do;<br /> +They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—<br /> +We were a ghastly crew.</p> +<p class="poetry">The body of my brother’s son<br /> +Stood by me, knee to knee:<br /> +The body and I pulled at one rope<br /> +But he said nought to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’<br +/> +Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!<br /> +’Twas not those souls that fled in pain,<br /> +Which to their corses came again,<br /> +But a troop of spirits blest:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +271</span>For when it dawned—they dropped their arms,<br /> +And clustered round the mast;<br /> +Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,<br /> +And from their bodies passed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Around, around, flew each sweet sound,<br /> +Then darted to the Sun;<br /> +Slowly the sounds came back again,<br /> +Now mixed, now one by one.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sometimes a-dropping from the sky<br /> +I heard the sky-lark sing;<br /> +Sometimes all little birds that are,<br /> +How they seemed to fill the sea and air<br /> +With their sweet jargoning!</p> +<p class="poetry">And now ’twas like all instruments,<br /> +Now like a lonely flute;<br /> +And now it is an angel’s song,<br /> +That makes the heavens be mute.</p> +<p class="poetry">It ceased; yet still the sails made on<br /> +A pleasant noise till noon,<br /> +A noise like of a hidden brook<br /> +In the leafy month of June,<br /> +That to the sleeping woods all night<br /> +Singeth a quiet tune.</p> +<p class="poetry">Till noon we quietly sailed on,<br /> +Yet never a breeze did breathe;<br /> +Slowly and smoothly went the ship,<br /> +Moved onward from beneath.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page272"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +272</span>Under the keel nine fathom deep,<br /> +From the land of mist and snow,<br /> +The spirit slid: and it was he<br /> +That made the ship to go.<br /> +The sails at noon left off their tune,<br /> +And the ship stood still also.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Sun, right up above the mast,<br /> +Had fixed her to the ocean:<br /> +But in a minute she ’gan stir,<br /> +With a short uneasy motion—<br /> +Backwards and forwards half her length<br /> +With a short uneasy motion.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then like a pawing horse let go,<br /> +She made a sudden bound:<br /> +It flung the blood into my head,<br /> +And I fell down in a swound.</p> +<p class="poetry">How long in that same fit I lay,<br /> +I have not to declare;<br /> +But ere my living life returned,<br /> +I heard, and in my soul discerned,<br /> +Two voices in the air.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is +this the man?<br /> +By Him who died on cross,<br /> +With his cruel bow he laid full low<br /> +The harmless Albatross.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The spirit who bideth by himself<br /> +In the land of mist and snow,<br /> +He loved the bird that loved the man<br /> +Who shot him with his bow.’</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span>The other was a softer voice,<br /> +As soft as honey-dew:<br /> +Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done,<br /> +And penance more will do.’</p> +<h4>PART VI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">FIRST VOICE</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But tell me, tell me! speak again,<br /> +Thy soft response renewing—<br /> +What makes that ship drive on so fast?<br /> +What is the ocean doing?’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SECOND VOICE</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Still as a slave before his lord,<br /> +The ocean hath no blast;<br /> +His great bright eye most silently<br /> +Up to the moon is cast—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If he may know which way to go;<br /> +For she guides him smooth or grim.<br /> +See, brother, see! how graciously<br /> +She looketh down on him.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">FIRST VOICE</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But why drives on that ship so fast,<br +/> +Without or wave or wind?’</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SECOND VOICE</p> +<p class="poetry">‘The air is cut away before,<br /> +And closes from behind.<br /> +<a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +274</span>‘Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!<br /> +Or we shall be belated:<br /> +For slow and slow that ship will go,<br /> +When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’</p> +<p class="poetry">I woke, and we were sailing on<br /> +As in a gentle weather:<br /> +’Twas night, calm night, the moon was high,<br /> +The dead men stood together.</p> +<p class="poetry">All stood together on the deck,<br /> +For a charnel-dungeon fitter:<br /> +All fixed on me their stony eyes,<br /> +That in the Moon did glitter.</p> +<p class="poetry">The pang, the curse, with which they died<br /> +Had never passed away;<br /> +I could not draw my eyes from theirs,<br /> +Nor turn them up to pray.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now this spell was snapt: once more<br /> +I viewed the ocean green,<br /> +And looked far forth, yet little saw<br /> +Of what had else been seen—</p> +<p class="poetry">Like one that on a lonesome road<br /> +Doth walk in fear and dread,<br /> +And having once turned round walks on,<br /> +And turns no more his head;<br /> +Because he knows a frightful fiend<br /> +Doth close behind him tread.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +275</span>But soon there breathed a wind on me,<br /> +Nor sound nor motion made:<br /> +Its path was not upon the sea,<br /> +In ripple or in shade.</p> +<p class="poetry">It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek<br /> +Like a meadow-gale of spring—<br /> +It mingled strangely with my fears,<br /> +Yet it felt like a welcoming.</p> +<p class="poetry">Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,<br /> +Yet she sailed softly too;<br /> +Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—<br /> +On me alone it blew.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! dream of joy! is this indeed<br /> +The lighthouse top I see?<br /> +Is this the hill? is this the kirk?<br /> +Is this mine own countree?</p> +<p class="poetry">We drifted o’er the harbour bar,<br /> +And I with sobs did pray—<br /> +O let me be awake, my God!<br /> +Or let me sleep alway.</p> +<p class="poetry">The harbour-bay was clear as glass,<br /> +So smoothly it was strewn!<br /> +And on the bay the moonlight lay,<br /> +And the shadow of the Moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">The rock shone bright, the kirk no less<br /> +That stands above the rock:<br /> +The moonlight steeped in silentness<br /> +The steady weathercock.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +276</span>And the bay was white with silent light,<br /> +Till, rising from the same,<br /> +Full many shapes, that shadows were,<br /> +In crimson colours came.</p> +<p class="poetry">A little distance from the prow<br /> +Those crimson shadows were:<br /> +I turned my eyes upon the deck—<br /> +O, Christ! what saw I there!</p> +<p class="poetry">Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,<br /> +And, by the holy rood!<br /> +A man all light, a seraph-man,<br /> +On every corse there stood.</p> +<p class="poetry">This seraph-band, each waved his hand:<br /> +It was a heavenly sight!<br /> +They stood as signals to the land,<br /> +Each one a lovely light;</p> +<p class="poetry">This seraph-band, each waved his hand,<br /> +No voice did they impart—<br /> +No voice; but oh! the silence sank<br /> +Like music on my heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">But soon I heard the dash of oars,<br /> +I heard the Pilot’s cheer;<br /> +My head was turned perforce away,<br /> +And I saw a boat appear.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,<br /> +I heard them coming fast:<br /> +Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy<br /> +The dead men could not blast.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +277</span>I saw a third—I heard his voice:<br /> +It is the hermit good!<br /> +He singeth loud his godly hymns<br /> +That he makes in the wood.<br /> +He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away<br /> +The Albatross’s blood.</p> +<h4>PART VII</h4> +<p class="poetry">This Hermit good lives in that wood<br /> +Which slopes down to the sea.<br /> +How loudly his sweet voice he rears!<br /> +He loves to talk with marineres<br /> +That come from a far countree.</p> +<p class="poetry">He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve,—<br +/> +He hath a cushion plump:<br /> +It is the moss that wholly hides<br /> +The rotted old oak-stump.</p> +<p class="poetry">The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk:<br /> +‘Why, this is strange, I trow!<br /> +Where are those lights, so many and fair,<br /> +That signal made but now?’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit +said—<br /> +‘And they answered not our cheer!<br /> +The planks looked warped! and see those sails,<br /> +How thin they are and sere!<br /> +I never saw aught like to them,<br /> +Unless perchance it were<br /> +<a name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>Brown +skeletons of leaves that lag<br /> +My forest-brook along;<br /> +When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,<br /> +And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,<br /> +That eats the she-wolf’s young.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish +look’—<br /> +(The Pilot made reply)<br /> +‘I am a-feared’—‘Push on, push +on!’<br /> +Said the Hermit cheerily.</p> +<p class="poetry">The boat came closer to the ship,<br /> +But I nor spake nor stirred;<br /> +The boat came close beneath the ship,<br /> +And straight a sound was heard.</p> +<p class="poetry">Under the water it rumbled on,<br /> +Still louder and more dread;<br /> +It reached the ship, it split the bay;<br /> +The ship went down like lead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,<br /> +Which sky and ocean smote,<br /> +Like one that hath been seven days drowned<br /> +My body lay afloat;<br /> +But swift as dreams, myself I found<br /> +Within the Pilot’s boat.</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,<br /> +The boat spun round and round;<br /> +And all was still, save that the hill<br /> +Was telling of the sound.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +279</span>I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked<br /> +And fell down in a fit;<br /> +The holy Hermit raised his eyes,<br /> +And prayed where he did sit.</p> +<p class="poetry">I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,<br /> +Who now doth crazy go,<br /> +Laughed loud and long, and all the while<br /> +His eyes went to and fro.<br /> +‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see,<br /> +The Devil knows how to row.’</p> +<p class="poetry">And now all in my own countree,<br /> +I stood on the firm land!<br /> +The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,<br /> +And scarcely he could stand.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy +man!’<br /> +The Hermit crossed his brow.<br /> +‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee +say—<br /> +What manner of man art thou?’</p> +<p class="poetry">Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched<br /> +With a woful agony,<br /> +Which forced me to begin my tale;<br /> +And then it left me free.</p> +<p class="poetry">Since then, at an uncertain hour,<br /> +That agony returns:<br /> +And till my ghastly tale is told,<br /> +This heart within me burns.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +280</span>I pass, like night, from land to land;<br /> +I have strange power of speech;<br /> +That moment that his face I see,<br /> +I know the man that must hear me;<br /> +To him my tale I teach.</p> +<p class="poetry">What loud uproar bursts from that door!<br /> +The wedding-guests are there:<br /> +But in the garden-bower the bride<br /> +And bride-maids singing are:<br /> +And hark the little vesper-bell<br /> +Which biddeth me to prayer!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been<br /> +Alone on a wide wide sea:<br /> +So lonely ’twas, that God Himself<br /> +Scarce seemed there to be.</p> +<p class="poetry">O sweeter than the marriage-feast,<br /> +’Tis sweeter far to me,<br /> +To walk together to the kirk<br /> +With a goodly company—</p> +<p class="poetry">To walk together to the kirk,<br /> +And all together pray,<br /> +While each to his great Father bends,<br /> +Old men, and babes, and loving friends,<br /> +And youths and maidens gay!</p> +<p class="poetry">Farewell, farewell! but this I tell<br /> +To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!<br /> +He prayeth well who loveth well<br /> +Both man and bird and beast.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page281"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +281</span>He prayeth best who loveth best<br /> +All things both great and small;<br /> +For the dear God who loveth us,<br /> +He made and loveth all.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Mariner, whose eye is bright,<br /> +Whose beard with age is hoar,<br /> +Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest<br /> +Turned from the bridegroom’s door.</p> +<p class="poetry">He went like one that hath been stunned,<br /> +And is of sense forlorn;<br /> +A sadder and a wiser man,<br /> +He rose the morrow-morn.</p> +<h2>WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1775–1864</span></h2> +<h3>ROSE AYLMER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, what avails the +sceptred race,<br /> + Ah, what the form divine!<br /> +What every virtue, every grace!<br /> + Rose Aylmer, all were thine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rose Aylmer, whom these watchful eyes<br /> + May weep, but never see,<br /> +A night of memories and of sighs<br /> + I consecrate to thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +282</span>EPITAPH</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">strove</span> with none, +for none were worth my strife.<br /> + Nature I loved, and next to +Nature, Art,<br /> +I warmed both hands before the fire of life;<br /> + It sinks, and I am ready to +depart.</p> +<h3>CHILD OF A DAY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Child</span> of a day, thou +knowest not<br /> + The tears that overflow thine urn,<br /> +The gushing eyes that read thy lot,<br /> + Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return!</p> +<p class="poetry">And why the wish! the pure and blest<br /> + Watch, like thy mother, o’er thy sleep;<br /> +O peaceful night! O envied rest!<br /> + Thou wilt not ever see her weep.</p> +<h2>THOMAS CAMPBELL<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1767–1844</span></h2> +<h3>HOHENLINDEN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> Linden, when the +sun was low,<br /> +All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;<br /> +And dark as winter was the flow<br /> + Of Iser, rolling rapidly.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Linden saw another sight,<br /> +When the drum beat at dead of night<br /> +Commanding fires of death to light<br /> + The darkness of her scenery.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +283</span>By torch and trumpet fast arrayed<br /> +Each horseman drew his battle-blade,<br /> +And furious every charger neighed<br /> + To join the dreadful revelry.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then shook the hills with thunder riven;<br /> +Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;<br /> +And louder than the bolts of Heaven<br /> + Far flashed the red artillery.</p> +<p class="poetry">But redder yet that light shall glow<br /> +On Linden’s hills of stained snow;<br /> +And bloodier yet the torrent flow<br /> + Of Iser, rolling rapidly.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun<br /> +Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,<br /> +Where furious Frank and fiery Hun<br /> + Shout in their sulphurous +canopy.</p> +<p class="poetry">The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,<br /> +Who rush to glory or the grave!<br /> +Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,<br /> + And charge with all thy +chivalry!</p> +<p class="poetry">Few, few shall part, where many meet!<br /> +The snow shall be their winding-sheet,<br /> +And every turf beneath their feet<br /> + Shall be a soldier’s +sepulchre.</p> +<h3>EARL MARCH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Earl March</span> looked on +his dying child,<br /> + And, smit with grief to view her—<br /> +The youth, he cried, whom I exiled<br /> + Shall be restored to woo her.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +284</span>She’s at the window many an hour<br /> + His coming to discover:<br /> +And he looked up to Ellen’s bower<br /> + And she looked on her lover—</p> +<p class="poetry">But ah! so pale, he knew her not,<br /> + Though her smile on him was dwelling!<br /> +And am I then forgot—forgot?<br /> + It broke the heart of Ellen.</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,<br /> + Her cheek is cold as ashes;<br /> +Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes<br /> + To lift their silken lashes.</p> +<h2>CHARLES LAMB<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1775–1835</span></h2> +<h3>HESTER.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> maidens such as +Hester die,<br /> +Their place ye may not well supply,<br /> +Though ye among a thousand try<br /> + With vain +endeavour.<br /> +A month or more hath she been dead,<br /> +Yet cannot I by force be led<br /> +To think upon the wormy bed<br /> + And her +together.</p> +<p class="poetry">A springy motion in her gait,<br /> +A rising step, did indicate<br /> +Of pride and joy no common rate<br /> + That flushed her +spirit:<br /> +I know not by what name beside<br /> +<a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 285</span>I shall +it call: if ’twas not pride,<br /> +It was a joy to that allied<br /> + She did +inherit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her parents held the Quaker rule,<br /> +Which doth the human feeling cool;<br /> +But she was trained in Nature’s school,<br /> + Nature had blest +her.<br /> +A waking eye, a prying mind,<br /> +A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;<br /> +A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind,<br /> + Ye could not +Hester.</p> +<p class="poetry">My sprightly neighbour! gone before<br /> +To that unknown and silent shore,<br /> +Shall we not meet, as heretofore,<br /> + Some summer +morning—<br /> +When from thy cheerful eyes a ray<br /> +Hath struck a bliss upon the day,<br /> +A bliss that would not go away,<br /> + A sweet +fore-warning?</p> +<h2>ALLAN CUNNINGHAM<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1784–1842</span></h2> +<h3>A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">wet</span> sheet and a +flowing sea,<br /> + A wind that follows fast<br /> +And fills the white and rustling sail<br /> + And bends the gallant mast;<br /> +And bends the gallant mast, my boys,<br /> + While like the eagle free<br /> +Away the good ship flies, and leaves<br /> + Old England on the lee.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +286</span>O for a soft and gentle wind!<br /> + I heard a fair one cry;<br /> +But give to me the snoring breeze<br /> + And white waves heaving high;<br /> +And white waves heaving high, my lads,<br /> + The good ship tight and free—<br /> +The world of waters is our home,<br /> + And merry men are we.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s tempest in yon horned moon,<br /> + And lightning in yon cloud;<br /> +But hark the music, mariners!<br /> + The wind is piping loud;<br /> +The wind is piping loud, my boys,<br /> + The lightning flashes free—<br /> +While the hollow oak our palace is,<br /> + Our heritage the sea.</p> +<h2>GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1788–1823</span></h2> +<h3>THE ISLES OF GREECE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Isles of Greece, +the Isles of Greece!<br /> + Where burning Sappho loved and sung,<br /> +Where grew the arts of war and peace,<br /> + Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!<br /> +Eternal summer gilds them yet,<br /> +But all, except their sun, is set.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Scian and the Teian muse,<br /> + The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,<br /> +Have found the fame your shores refuse;<br /> + <a name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +287</span>Their place of birth alone is mute<br /> +To sounds which echo further west<br /> +Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’</p> +<p class="poetry">The mountains look on Marathon,<br /> + And Marathon looks on the sea;<br /> +And musing there an hour alone,<br /> + I dreamed that Greece might still be free;<br /> +For, standing on the Persians’ grave,<br /> +I could not think myself a slave.</p> +<p class="poetry">A king sate on the rocky brow<br /> + Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis;<br /> +And ships, by thousands, lay below,<br /> + And men in nations;—all were his!<br /> +He counted them at break of day—<br /> +And when the sun set where were they?</p> +<p class="poetry">And where are they? and where art thou,<br /> + My country? On thy voiceless shore<br /> +The heroic lay is tuneless now—<br /> + The heroic bosom beats no more!<br /> +And must thy lyre, so long divine,<br /> +Degenerate into hands like mine?</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis something, in the dearth of fame,<br +/> + Though linked among a fettered race<br /> +To feel at least a patriot’s shame,<br /> + Even as I sing, suffuse my face;<br /> +For what is left the poet here?<br /> +For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +288</span>Must <i>we</i> but weep o’er days more blest?<br +/> + Must <i>we</i> but blush?—Our fathers bled.<br +/> +Earth! render back from out thy breast<br /> + A remnant of our Spartan dead!<br /> +Of the three hundred grant but three,<br /> +To make a new Thermopylæ!</p> +<p class="poetry">What, silent still? and silent all?<br /> + Ah! no;—the voices of the dead<br /> +Sound like a distant torrent’s fall,<br /> + And answer, ‘Let one living head,<br /> +But one, arise,—we come, we come!’<br /> +’Tis but the living who are dumb.</p> +<p class="poetry">In vain—in vain: strike other chords;<br +/> + Fill high the cup with Samian wine!<br /> +Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,<br /> + And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!<br /> +Hark! rising to the ignoble call—<br /> +How answers each bold bacchanal!</p> +<p class="poetry">You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,<br /> + Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?<br /> +Of two such lessons, why forget<br /> + The nobler and the manlier one?<br /> +You have the letters Cadmus gave—<br /> +Think ye he meant them for a slave?</p> +<p class="poetry">Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!<br /> + We will not think of themes like these!<br /> +It made Anacreon’s song divine:<br /> + He served—but served Polycrates—<br /> +A tyrant; but our masters then<br /> +Were still, at least, our countrymen.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page289"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +289</span>The tyrant of the Chersonese<br /> + Was freedom’s best and bravest friend;<br /> +<i>That</i> tyrant was Miltiades!<br /> + Oh! that the present hour would lend<br /> +Another despot of the kind!<br /> +Such chains as his were sure to bind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!<br /> + On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore,<br /> +Exists the remnant of a line<br /> + Such as the Doric mothers bore;<br /> +And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,<br /> +The Heracleidan blood might own.</p> +<p class="poetry">Trust not for freedom to the Franks—<br +/> + They have a king who buys and sells;<br /> +In native swords, and native ranks,<br /> + The only hope of courage dwells;<br /> +But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,<br /> +Would break your shield, however broad.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!<br /> + Our virgins dance beneath the shade—<br /> +I see their glorious black eyes shine;<br /> + But gazing on each glowing maid,<br /> +My own the burning tear-drop laves,<br /> +To think such breasts must suckle slaves.</p> +<p class="poetry">Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,<br /> + Where nothing, save the waves and I,<br /> +May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;<br /> + There, swan-like, let me sing and die:<br /> +A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—<br /> +Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!</p> +<h2><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +290</span>PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1792–1822</span></h2> +<h3>HELLAS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> world’s +great age begins anew,<br /> + The golden years return,<br /> +The earth doth like a snake renew<br /> + Her winter weeds outworn:<br /> +Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam,<br /> +Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">A brighter Hellas rears its mountains<br /> + From waves serener far;<br /> +A new Peneus rolls his fountains<br /> + Against the morning star.<br /> +Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep<br /> +Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.</p> +<p class="poetry">A loftier Argo cleaves the main,<br /> + Fraught with a later prize;<br /> +Another Orpheus sings again,<br /> + And loves, and weeps, and dies.<br /> +A new Ulysses leaves once more<br /> +Calypso for his native shore.</p> +<p class="poetry">O write no more the tale of Troy,<br /> + If earth Death’s scroll must be!<br /> +Nor mix with Laian rage the joy<br /> + Which dawns upon the free:<br /> +Although a subtler Sphinx renew<br /> +Riddles of death Thebes never knew.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +291</span>Another Athens shall arise,<br /> + And to remoter time<br /> +Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,<br /> + The splendour of its prime;<br /> +And leave, if nought so bright may live,<br /> +All earth can take or Heaven can give.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">O cease! must hate and death return?<br /> + Cease! must men kill and die?<br /> +Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn<br /> + Of bitter prophecy.<br /> +The world is weary of the past,<br /> +O might it die or rest at last!</p> +<h3>WILD WITH WEEPING</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> head is wild with +weeping for a grief<br /> + Which is the shadow of a gentle mind.<br /> +I walk into the air (but no relief<br /> + To seek,—or haply, if I sought, to find;<br /> +It came unsought); to wonder that a chief<br /> + Among men’s spirits should be cold and +blind.</p> +<h3>TO THE NIGHT</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Swiftly</span> walk over +the western wave,<br /> + Spirit of +Night!<br /> +Out of the misty eastern cave<br /> +Where, all the long and lone daylight,<br /> +Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear<br /> +Which make thee terrible and dear,—<br /> + Swift be thy +flight!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +292</span>Wrap thy form in a mantle grey<br /> + +Star-inwrought;<br /> +Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,<br /> +Kiss her until she be wearied out:<br /> +Then wander o’er city and sea and land,<br /> +Touching all with thine opiate wand—<br /> + Come, +long-sought!</p> +<p class="poetry">When I arose and saw the dawn,<br /> + I sighed for +thee;<br /> +When light rode high, and the dew was gone,<br /> +And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,<br /> +And the weary Day turned to his rest<br /> +Lingering like an unloved guest,<br /> + I sighed for +thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy brother Death came, and cried<br /> + Wouldst thou +me?<br /> +Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,<br /> +Murmured like a noon-tide bee,<br /> +Shall I nestle near thy side?<br /> +Wouldst thou me?—And I replied<br /> + No, not +thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">Death will come when thou art dead,<br /> + Soon, too +soon—<br /> +Sleep will come when thou art fled;<br /> +Of neither would I ask the boon<br /> +I ask of thee, beloved Night—<br /> +Swift be thine approaching flight,<br /> + Come soon, +soon!</p> +<h3><a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 293</span>TO A +SKYLARK</h3> +<p +class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Hail</span> to thee, blithe Spirit!<br /> + + +Bird thou never wert!<br /> + That from +heaven, or near it,<br /> + + +Pourest thy full heart<br /> +In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Higher +still and higher<br /> + + +From the earth thou springest,<br /> + Like a cloud of +fire,<br /> + + +The blue deep thou wingest,<br /> +And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> In +the golden lightning<br /> + + +Of the sunken sun<br /> + O’er which +clouds are brightening,<br /> + + +Thou dost float and run<br /> +Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> The +pale purple even<br /> + + +Melts around thy flight:<br /> + Like a star of +heaven<br /> + + +In the broad daylight<br /> +Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight;</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Keen +as are the arrows<br /> + + +Of that silver sphere,<br /> + Whose intense +lamp narrows<br /> + + +In the white dawn clear<br /> +Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>All the +earth and air<br /> + + +With thy voice is loud,<br /> + As, when night +is bare,<br /> + + +From one lonely cloud<br /> +The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over-flowed.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> What +thou art we know not;<br /> + + +What is most like thee?<br /> + From rainbow +clouds there flow not<br /> + + +Drops so bright to see<br /> +As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;—</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Like +a poet hidden<br /> + + +In the light of thought,<br /> + Singing hymns +unbidden,<br /> + + +Till the world is wrought<br /> +To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Like +a high-born maiden<br /> + + +In a palace tower,<br /> + Soothing her +love-laden<br /> + + +Soul in secret hour<br /> +With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Like +a glow-worm golden<br /> + + +In a dell of dew,<br /> + Scattering +unbeholden<br /> + + +Its aërial hue<br /> +Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>Like a rose +embowered<br /> + + +In its own green leaves,<br /> + By warm winds +deflowered,<br /> + + +Till the scent it gives<br /> +Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Sound +of vernal showers<br /> + + +On the twinkling grass,<br /> + Rain-awakened +flowers,<br /> + + +All that ever was<br /> +Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Teach +us, sprite or bird,<br /> + + +What sweet thoughts are thine:<br /> + I have never +heard<br /> + + +Praise of love or wine<br /> +That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Chorus +hymeneal<br /> + + +Or triumphal chaunt<br /> + Matched with +thine, would be all<br /> + + +But an empty vaunt—<br /> +A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> What +objects are the fountains<br /> + + +Of thy happy strain?<br /> + What fields, or +waves, or mountains?<br /> + + +What shapes of sky or plain?<br /> +What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <a +name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 296</span>With thy +clear keen joyance<br /> + + +Languor cannot be:<br /> + Shadow of +annoyance<br /> + + +Never came near thee:<br /> +Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Waking +or asleep<br /> + + +Thou of death must deem<br /> + Things more true +and deep<br /> + + +Than we mortals dream,<br /> +Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?</p> +<p +class="poetry"> We +look before and after,<br /> + + +And pine for what is not:<br /> + Our sincerest +laughter<br /> + + +With some pain is fraught;<br /> +Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Yet +if we could scorn<br /> + + +Hate, and pride, and fear;<br /> + If we were +things born<br /> + + +Not to shed a tear,<br /> +I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Better +than all measures<br /> + + +Of delightful sound,<br /> + Better than all +treasures<br /> + + +That in books are found,<br /> +Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!</p> +<p +class="poetry"> Teach +me half the gladness<br /> + + +That thy brain must know,<br /> + Such harmonious +madness<br /> + + +From my lips would flow,<br /> +The world should listen then, as I am listening now!</p> +<h3><a name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>TO +THE MOON</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Art</span> thou pale for weariness<br /> + Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,<br /> + Wandering companionless<br /> + Among the stars that have a different +birth,—<br /> +And ever-changing, like a joyless eye<br /> +That finds no object worth its constancy?</p> +<h3>THE QUESTION</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">dreamed</span> that as I +wandered by the way<br /> + Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,<br /> +And gentle odours led my steps astray,<br /> + Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring<br /> +Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay<br /> + Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling<br /> +Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,<br /> +But kissed it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.</p> +<p class="poetry">There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,<br /> + Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,<br /> +The constellated flower that never sets;<br /> + Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth<br +/> +The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets<br /> +Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears,<br /> +When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,<br +/> + Green cow-bind and the moonlight-coloured May,<br /> +And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine<br /> + Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;<br /> +<a name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>And wild +roses, and ivy serpentine<br /> + With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;<br +/> +And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,<br /> +Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.</p> +<p class="poetry">And nearer to the river’s trembling +edge<br /> + There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with +white,<br /> +And starry river-buds among the sedge,<br /> + And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,<br /> +Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge<br /> + With moonlight beams of their own watery light;<br +/> +And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green<br /> +As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.</p> +<p class="poetry">Methought that of these visionary flowers<br /> + I made a nosegay, bound in such a way<br /> +That the same hues, which in their natural bowers<br /> + Were mingled or opposed, the like array<br /> +Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours<br /> + Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,<br /> +I hastened to the spot whence I had come<br /> +That I might there present it—O! to Whom?</p> +<h3>THE WANING MOON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">And</span> like a dying +lady, lean and pale,<br /> +Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil,<br /> +Out of her chamber, led by the insane<br /> +And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,<br /> +The moon arose up in the murky east,<br /> +A white and shapeless mass.</p> +<h3><a name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 299</span>ODE +TO THE WEST WIND</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">wild</span> West Wind, +thou breath of Autumn’s being,<br /> +Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead<br /> +Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,<br /> +Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,<br /> +Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou<br /> +Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed<br /> +The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,<br /> +Each like a corpse within its grave, until<br /> +Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow<br /> +Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill<br /> +(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)<br /> +With living hues and odours plain and hill:<br /> +Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;<br /> +Destroyer and Preserver: Hear, oh hear!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thou on whose stream, +’mid the steep sky’s commotion,<br /> +Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,<br /> +Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,<br /> +Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread<br /> +On the blue surface of thine airy surge,<br /> +Like the bright hair uplifted from the head<br /> +Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge<br /> +Of the horizon to the zenith’s height—<br /> +The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge<br /> +Of the dying year, to which this closing night<br /> +Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,<br /> +Vaulted with all thy congregated might<br /> +Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere<br /> +Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page300"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 300</span>Thou who didst waken from his +summer-dreams<br /> +The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,<br /> +Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,<br /> +Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,<br /> +And saw in sleep old palaces and towers<br /> +Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,<br /> +All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers<br /> +So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou<br /> +For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers<br /> +Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below<br /> +The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear<br /> +The sapless foliage of the ocean, know<br /> +Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear<br /> +And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!</p> +<p class="poetry"> If I were a dead leaf thou +mightest bear;<br /> +If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;<br /> +A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share<br /> +The impulse of thy strength, only less free<br /> +Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even<br /> +I were as in my boyhood, and could be<br /> +The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,<br /> +As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed<br /> +Scarce seemed a vision,—I would ne’er have striven<br +/> +As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.<br /> +O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!<br /> +I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!<br /> +A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed<br /> +One too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Make me thy lyre, even as the +forest is:<br /> +What if my leaves are falling like its own!<br /> +The tumult of thy mighty harmonies<br /> +Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,<br /> +<a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>Sweet +though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,<br /> +My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!<br /> +Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,<br /> +Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;<br /> +And, by the incantation of this verse,<br /> +Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth<br /> +Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind<br /> +Be through my lips to unawakened earth<br /> +The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,<br /> +If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?</p> +<h3>RARELY, RARELY COMEST THOU</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Rarely</span>, rarely +comest thou,<br /> + Spirit of Delight!<br /> +Wherefore hast thou left me now<br /> + Many a day and night?<br /> +Many a weary night and day<br /> +’Tis since thou art fled away.</p> +<p class="poetry">How shall ever one like me<br /> + Win thee back again?<br /> +With the joyous and the free<br /> + Thou wilt scoff at pain.<br /> +Spirit false! thou hast forgot<br /> +All but those who need thee not.</p> +<p class="poetry">As a lizard with the shade<br /> + Of a trembling leaf,<br /> +Thou with sorrow art dismayed;<br /> + Even the sighs of grief<br /> +<a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>Reproach +thee, that thou art not near,<br /> +And reproach thou wilt not hear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let me set my mournful ditty<br /> + To a merry measure,<br /> +Thou wilt never come for pity,<br /> + Thou wilt come for pleasure.<br /> +Pity then will cut away<br /> +Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.</p> +<p class="poetry">I love all that thou lovest,<br /> + Spirit of Delight!<br /> +The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,<br /> + And the starry night,<br /> +Autumn evening, and the morn<br /> +When the golden mists are born.</p> +<p class="poetry">I love snow, and all the forms<br /> + Of the radiant frost;<br /> +I love waves, and winds, and storms—<br /> + Everything almost<br /> +Which is Nature’s, and may be<br /> +Untainted by man’s misery.</p> +<p class="poetry">I love tranquil solitude,<br /> + And such society<br /> +As is quiet, wise and good;<br /> + Between thee and me<br /> +What difference? but thou dost possess<br /> +The things I seek, not love them less.</p> +<p class="poetry">I love Love—though he has wings,<br /> + And like light can flee,<br /> +<a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 303</span>But +above all other things,<br /> + Spirit, I love thee—<br /> +Thou art love and life! O come,<br /> +Make once more my heart thy home!</p> +<h3>THE INVITATION, TO JANE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Best</span> and brightest, +come away!<br /> +Fairer far than this fair Day,<br /> +Which, like thee to those in sorrow,<br /> +Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow<br /> +To the rough Year just awake<br /> +In its cradle on the brake.<br /> +The brightest hour of unborn Spring,<br /> +Through the winter wandering,<br /> +Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn<br /> +To hoar February born;<br /> +Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,<br /> +It kissed the forehead of the Earth,<br /> +And smiled upon the silent sea,<br /> +And bade the frozen streams be free,<br /> +And waked to music all their fountains,<br /> +And breathed upon the frozen mountains,<br /> +And like a prophetess of May<br /> +Strewed flowers upon the barren way,<br /> +Making the wintry world appear<br /> +Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.<br /> +Away, away, from men and towns,<br /> +To the wild wood and the downs—<br /> +To the silent wilderness<br /> +Where the soul need not repress<br /> +<a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 304</span>Its +music, lest it should not find<br /> +An echo in another’s mind,<br /> +While the touch of Nature’s art<br /> +Harmonizes heart to heart.<br /> +I leave this notice on my door<br /> +For each accustomed visitor:—<br /> +‘I am gone into the fields<br /> +To take what this sweet hour yields;—<br /> +Reflection, you may come to-morrow,<br /> +Sit by the fireside with sorrow.—<br /> +You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—<br /> +You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—<br /> +I will pay you in the grave,—<br /> +Death will listen to your stave.<br /> +Expectation, too, be off!<br /> +To-day is for itself enough;<br /> +Hope in pity mock not Woe<br /> +With smiles, nor follow where I go;<br /> +Long having lived on thy sweet food,<br /> +At length I find one moment’s good<br /> +After long pain—with all your love,<br /> +This you never told me of.’</p> +<p class="poetry">Radiant sister of the Day,<br /> +Awake! arise! and come away!<br /> +To the wild woods and the plains,<br /> +And the pools where winter rains<br /> +Image all their roof of leaves,<br /> +Where the pine its garland weaves<br /> +Of sapless green and ivy dun<br /> +Round stems that never kiss the sun;<br /> +Where the lawns and pastures be,<br /> +And the sand-hills of the sea;—<br /> +<a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 305</span>Where +the melting hoar-frost wets<br /> +The daisy-star that never sets,<br /> +The wind-flowers, and violets,<br /> +Which yet join not scent to hue,<br /> +Crown the pale year weak and new;<br /> +When the night is left behind<br /> +In the deep east, dun and blind,<br /> +And the blue noon is over us,<br /> +And the multitudinous<br /> +Billows murmur at our feet,<br /> +Where the earth and ocean meet,<br /> +And all things seem only one<br /> +In the universal sun.</p> +<h3>THE RECOLLECTION</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the last day of +many days<br /> +All beautiful and bright as thou,<br /> +The loveliest and the last, is dead:<br /> +Rise, Memory, and write its praise!<br /> +Up—to thy wonted work! come, trace<br /> +The epitaph of glory fled,<br /> +For now the earth has changed its face,<br /> +A frown is on the heaven’s brow.</p> +<p class="poetry">We wandered to the Pine Forest<br /> + That skirts the Ocean’s foam;<br /> +The lightest wind was in its nest,<br /> + The tempest in its home.<br /> +The whispering waves were half asleep,<br /> + The clouds were gone to play,<br /> +And on the bosom of the deep<br /> + The smile of heaven lay;<br /> +<a name="page306"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 306</span>It +seemed as if the hour were one<br /> + Sent from beyond the skies<br /> +Which scattered from above the sun<br /> + A light of Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">We paused amid the pines that stood<br /> + The giants of the waste,<br /> +Tortured by storms to shapes as rude<br /> + As serpents interlaced,—<br /> +And soothed by every azure breath<br /> + That under heaven is blown,<br /> +To harmonies and hues beneath,<br /> + As tender as its own:<br /> +Now all the tree-tops lay asleep<br /> + Like green waves on the sea,<br /> +As still as in the silent deep<br /> + The ocean-woods may be.</p> +<p class="poetry">How calm it was!—The silence there<br /> + By such a chain was bound,<br /> +That even the busy woodpecker<br /> + Made stiller with her sound<br /> +The inviolable quietness;<br /> + The breath of peace we drew<br /> +With its soft motion made not less<br /> + The calm that round us grew.<br /> +There seemed, from the remotest seat<br /> + Of the white mountain waste<br /> +To the soft flower beneath our feet,<br /> + A magic circle traced,—<br /> +A spirit interfused around,<br /> + A thrilling silent life;<br /> +To momentary peace it bound<br /> + Our mortal nature’s strife;—<br /> +<a name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>And +still I felt the centre of<br /> + The magic circle there<br /> +Was one fair form that filled with love<br /> + The lifeless atmosphere.</p> +<p class="poetry">We paused beside the pools that lie<br /> + Under the forest bough;<br /> +Each seemed as ’twere a little sky<br /> + Gulfed in a world below;<br /> +A firmament of purple light<br /> + Which in the dark earth lay,<br /> +More boundless than the depth of night<br /> + And purer than the day—<br /> +In which the lovely forests grew<br /> + As in the upper air,<br /> +More perfect both in shape and hue<br /> + Than any spreading there.<br /> +There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,<br /> + And through the dark green wood<br /> +The white sun twinkling like the dawn<br /> + Out of a speckled cloud.<br /> +Sweet views, which in our world above<br /> + Can never well be seen,<br /> +Were imaged in the water’s love<br /> + Of that fair forest green:<br /> +And all was interfused beneath<br /> + With an Elysian glow,<br /> +An atmosphere without a breath,<br /> + A softer day below.<br /> +Like one beloved, the scene had lent<br /> + To the dark water’s breast<br /> +Its every leaf and lineament<br /> + With more than truth exprest;<br /> +<a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 308</span>Until an +envious wind crept by,<br /> + Like an unwelcome thought<br /> +Which from the mind’s too faithful eye<br /> + Blots one dear image out.<br /> +—Though thou art ever fair and kind,<br /> + The forests ever green,<br /> +Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind<br /> + Than calm in waters seen!</p> +<h3>ODE TO HEAVEN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Chorus of Spirits</i></p> +<h4>FIRST SPIRIT</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Palace</span> roof of +cloudless nights!<br /> +Paradise of golden lights!<br /> + Deep, immeasurable, vast,<br /> +Which art now and which wert then<br /> + Of the present and the past,<br /> +Of the eternal where and when,<br /> + Presence-chamber, temple, home,<br /> + Ever canopying dome<br /> + Of acts and ages yet to come!</p> +<p class="poetry">Glorious shapes have life in thee,<br /> +Earth, and all earth’s company;<br /> + Living globes which ever throng<br /> +Thy deep chasms and wildernesses;<br /> + And green worlds that glide along;<br /> +And swift stars with flashing tresses;<br /> + And icy moons most cold and bright,<br /> + And mighty suns beyond the night,<br /> + Atoms of intensest light.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +309</span>Even thy name is as a God,<br /> +Heaven! for thou art the abode<br /> + Of that power which is the glass<br /> +Wherein man his nature sees.<br /> + Generations as they pass<br /> +Worship thee with bended knees.<br /> + Their unremaining gods and they<br /> + Like a river roll away:<br /> + Thou remainest such alway.</p> +<h4>SECOND SPIRIT</h4> +<p class="poetry">Thou art but the mind’s first chamber,<br +/> +Round which its young fancies clamber,<br /> + Like weak insects in a cave,<br /> +Lighted up by stalactites;<br /> + By the portal of the grave,<br /> +Where a world of new delights<br /> + Will make thy best glories seem<br /> + But a dim and noonday gleam<br /> + From the shadow of a dream!</p> +<h4>THIRD SPIRIT</h4> +<p class="poetry">Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scorn<br /> +At your presumption, atom-born!<br /> + What is heaven, and what are ye<br /> +Who its brief expanse inherit?<br /> + What are suns and spheres which flee<br /> +With the instinct of that spirit<br /> + Of which ye are but a part?<br /> + Drops which Nature’s mighty heart<br /> + Drives through thinnest veins. Depart!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +310</span>What is heaven? a globe of dew,<br /> +Filling in the morning new<br /> + Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken<br /> +On an unimagined world:<br /> + Constellated suns unshaken,<br /> +Orbits measureless are furled<br /> + In that frail and fading sphere,<br /> + With ten millions gathered there,<br /> + To tremble, gleam, and disappear.</p> +<h3>LIFE OF LIFE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Life</span> of Life! thy +lips enkindle<br /> + With their love the breath between them;<br /> +And thy smiles before they dwindle<br /> + Make the cold air fire; then screen them<br /> +In those looks, where whoso gazes<br /> +Faints, entangled in their mazes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Child of Light! thy limbs are burning<br /> + Thro’ the vest which seeks to hide them;<br /> +As the radiant lines of morning<br /> + Thro’ the clouds ere they divide them;<br /> +And this atmosphere divinest<br /> +Shrouds thee wheresoe’er thou shinest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fair are others; none beholds thee,<br /> + But thy voice sounds low and tender<br /> +Like the fairest, for it folds thee<br /> + From the sight, that liquid splendour,<br /> +And all feel, yet see thee never,<br /> +As I feel now, lost for ever!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +311</span>Lamp of Earth! where’er thou movest<br /> + Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,<br /> +And the souls of whom thou lovest<br /> + Walk upon the winds with lightness,<br /> +Till they fail, as I am failing,<br /> +Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!</p> +<h3>AUTUMN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>A Dirge</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> warm sun is +failing, the bleak wind is wailing,<br /> +The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,<br /> + + +And the year<br /> +On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,<br /> + + +Is lying.<br /> + + +Come, months, come away,<br /> + + +From November to May,<br /> + + +In your saddest array;<br /> + + +Follow the bier<br /> + + +Of the dead cold year,<br /> +And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.</p> +<p class="poetry">The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is +crawling,<br /> +The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling<br /> + + +For the year;<br /> +The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone<br /> + + +To his dwelling;<br /> + + +Come, months, come away;<br /> + + +Put on white, black, and grey;<br /> + + +Let your light sisters play—<br /> + + +Ye, follow the bier<br /> + + +Of the dead cold year,<br /> +And make her grave green with tear on tear.</p> +<h3><a name="page312"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +312</span>STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES</h3> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> sun is warm, the sky is clear,<br /> + The waves are dancing fast and +bright,<br /> + Blue isles and snowy mountains +wear<br /> + The purple noon’s +transparent might:<br /> + The breath of the moist earth is +light<br /> + Around its unexpanded buds;<br /> + Like many a voice of one +delight—<br /> + The winds’, the +birds’, the ocean-floods’—<br /> +The city’s voice itself is soft like Solitude’s.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I see the +deep’s untrampled floor<br /> + With green and purple sea-weeds +strown;<br /> + I see the waves upon the shore<br +/> + Like light dissolved in +star-showers thrown:<br /> + I sit upon the sands alone;<br /> + The lightning of the noon-tide +ocean<br /> + Is flashing round me, and a +tone<br /> + Arises from its measured +motion—<br /> +How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Alas! I +have nor hope nor health,<br /> + Nor peace within nor calm +around,<br /> + Nor that content, surpassing +wealth,<br /> + The sage in meditation found,<br +/> + And walked with inward glory +crowned—<br /> + Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor +leisure;<br /> + Others I see whom these +surround—<br /> + Smiling they live, and call life +pleasure;<br /> +To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>Yet now +despair itself is mild<br /> + Even as the winds and waters +are;<br /> + I could lie down like a tired +child,<br /> + And weep away the life of care<br +/> + Which I have borne and yet must +bear,—<br /> + Till death like sleep might steal +on me,<br /> + And I might feel in the warm +air<br /> + My cheek grow cold, and hear the +sea<br /> +Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.</p> +<h3>DIRGE FOR THE YEAR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Orphan</span> hours, the +year is dead,<br /> + Come and sigh, come and weep!<br /> +Merry hours, smile instead,<br /> + For the year is but asleep.<br /> +See, it smiles as it is sleeping,<br /> +Mocking your untimely weeping.</p> +<p class="poetry">As an earthquake rocks a corse<br /> + In its coffin in the clay,<br /> +So White Winter, that rough nurse,<br /> + Rocks the death-cold year to-day;<br /> +Solemn hours! wail aloud<br /> +For your mother in her shroud.</p> +<p class="poetry">As the wild air stirs and sways<br /> + The tree-swung cradle of a child,<br /> +So the breath of these rude days<br /> + Rocks the year:—be calm and mild;<br /> +Trembling hours, she will arise<br /> +With new love within her eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page314"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +314</span>January grey is here,<br /> + Like a sexton by her grave;<br /> +February bears the bier,<br /> + March with grief doth howl and rave.<br /> +And April weeps—but O, ye hours,<br /> +Follow with May’s fairest flowers.</p> +<h3>A WIDOW BIRD</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">widow</span> bird sat +mourning for her love<br /> + Upon a wintry bough;<br /> +The frozen wind crept on above,<br /> + The freezing stream below.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was no leaf upon the forest bare,<br /> + No flower upon the ground,<br /> +And little motion in the air<br /> + Except the mill-wheel’s +sound.</p> +<h3>THE TWO SPIRITS</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>First Spirit</i></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">thou</span>, who plumed +with strong desire<br /> + Wouldst float above the earth, +beware!<br /> +A shadow tracks the flight of fire—<br /> + + +Night is coming!<br /> + Bright are the regions of the +air,<br /> +And among the winds and beams<br /> + It were delight to wander +there—<br /> + + +Night is coming!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page315"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 315</span><i>Second Spirit</i></p> +<p class="poetry">The deathless stars are bright above;<br /> + If I would cross the shade of +night,<br /> +Within my heart is the lamp of love,<br /> + + +And that is day!<br /> + And the moon will smile with +gentle light<br /> +On my golden plumes where’er they move;<br /> + The meteors will linger round my +flight,<br /> + + +And make night day.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>First Spirit</i></p> +<p class="poetry">But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken<br /> + Hail, and lightning, and stormy +rain;<br /> +See, the bounds of the air are shaken—<br /> + + +Night is coming!<br /> + The red swift clouds of the +hurricane<br /> +Yon declining sun have overtaken;<br /> + The clash of the hail sweeps over +the plain—<br /> + + +Night is coming!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Second Spirit</i></p> +<p class="poetry">I see the light, and I hear the sound;<br /> + I’ll sail on the flood of +the tempests dark,<br /> +With the calm within and the light around<br /> + + +Which makes night day:<br /> + And then, when the gloom is deep +and stark,<br /> +Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;<br /> + My moon-like flight thou then +may’st mark<br /> + + +On high, far away.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +316</span>Some say there is a precipice<br /> + Where one vast pine is frozen to +ruin<br /> +O’er piles of snow and chasms of ice<br /> + + +’Mid Alpine mountains;<br /> + And that the languid storm +pursuing<br /> +That winged shape, for ever flies<br /> + Round those hoar branches, aye +renewing<br /> + + +Its aëry fountains.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some say, when nights are dry and clear,<br /> + And the death-dews sleep on the +morass,<br /> +Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,<br /> + + +Which make night day;<br /> + And a silver shape, like his early +love, doth pass<br /> +Up-borne by her wild and glittering hair,<br /> + And when he awakes on the fragrant +grass,<br /> + + +He finds night day.</p> +<h2>JOHN KEATS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1795–1821</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: center">LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O <span class="smcap">what</span> can +ail thee, knight-at-arms,<br /> + Alone and palely loitering?<br /> +The sedge has withered from the lake,<br /> + And no birds sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!<br +/> + So haggard and so woe-begone?<br /> +The squirrel’s granary is full,<br /> + And the harvest’s done.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page317"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +317</span>‘I see a lily on thy brow<br /> + With anguish moist and fever-dew,<br /> +And on thy cheeks a fading rose<br /> + Fast withereth too.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I met a lady in the meads,<br /> + Full beautiful—a faery’s child,<br /> +Her hair was long, her foot was light,<br /> + And her eyes were wild.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I made a garland for her head,<br /> + And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;<br /> +She looked at me as she did love,<br /> + And made sweet moan.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I set her on my pacing steed<br /> + And nothing else saw all day long,<br /> +For sidelong would she bend, and sing<br /> + A faery’s song.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘She found me roots of relish sweet,<br +/> + And honey wild and manna-dew,<br /> +And sure, in language strange, she said,<br /> + “I love thee true.”</p> +<p class="poetry">‘She took me to her elfin grot,<br /> + And there she wept and sighed full sore:<br /> +And there I shut her wild wild eyes<br /> + With kisses four.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And there she lulled me asleep,<br /> + And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!<br /> +The latest dream I ever dreamed<br /> + On the cold hill’s side.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +318</span>‘I saw pale kings and princes too,<br /> + Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:<br /> +They cried—“La belle Dame sans Merci<br /> + Hath thee in thrall!”</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I saw their starved lips in the gloam<br +/> + With horrid warning gaped wide,<br /> +And I awoke and found me here<br /> + On the cold hill’s side.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘And this is why I sojourn here<br /> + Alone and palely loitering,<br /> +Though the sedge is withered from the lake,<br /> + And no birds sing.’</p> +<h3>ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Much</span> have I +travelled in the realms of gold,<br /> + And many goodly states and kingdoms seen:<br /> + Round many western islands have I been<br /> +Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oft of one wide expanse had I been told<br /> + That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:<br /> + Yet did I never breathe its pure serene<br /> +Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold;</p> +<p class="poetry">—Then felt I like some watcher of the +skies<br /> +When a new planet swims into his ken;<br /> +Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes</p> +<p class="poetry">He stared at the Pacific—and all his +men<br /> +Looked on each other with a wild surmise—<br /> +Silent, upon a peak in Darien.</p> +<h3><a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 319</span>TO +SLEEP</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">soft</span> embalmer of +the still midnight,<br /> + Shutting with careful fingers and +benign<br /> +Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light,<br /> + Enshaded in forgetfulness +divine;<br /> +O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,<br /> + In midst of this thine hymn, my +willing eyes,<br /> +Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws<br /> + Around my bed its lulling +charities;</p> +<p class="poetry">Then save me, or the passed day will shine<br +/> + Upon my pillow, breeding many +woes;<br /> +Save me from curious conscience, that still lords<br /> + Its strength, for darkness +burrowing like a mole;<br /> +Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,<br /> + And seal the hushed casket of my +soul.</p> +<h3>THE GENTLE SOUTH</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">After</span> dark vapours +have oppressed our plains<br /> + For a long dreary season, comes a +day<br /> + Born of the gentle South, and +clears away<br /> +From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.<br /> +The anxious month, relieved from its pains,<br /> + Takes as a long-lost sight the +feel of May,<br /> + The eyelids with the passing +coolness play,<br /> +Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains.<br /> +The calmest thoughts come round us—as of leaves<br /> + Budding; fruit ripening in +stillness; autumn suns<br /> +Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves;<br /> + Sweet Sappho’s cheek; a +sleeping infant’s breath;<br /> +The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs;<br /> + A woodland rivulet; a poet’s +death.</p> +<h3><a name="page320"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 320</span>LAST +SONNET</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bright</span> Star! would I +were steadfast as thou art—<br /> + Not in lone splendour hung aloft +the night,<br /> +And watching with eternal lids apart,<br /> + Like Nature’s patient, +sleepless Eremite,<br /> +The moving waters at their priest-like task<br /> + Of pure ablution round +earth’s human shores,<br /> +Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask<br /> + Of snow upon the mountains and the +moors—</p> +<p class="poetry">No—yet still steadfast, still +unchangeable,<br /> + Pillowed upon my fair love’s +ripening breast,<br /> +To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,<br /> + Awake for ever in a sweet +unrest,<br /> +Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,<br /> +And so live ever—or else swoon to death.</p> +<h3>ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> heart aches, and +a drowsy numbness pains<br /> + My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,<br /> +Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains<br /> + One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:<br /> +’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,<br /> + But being too happy in thine happiness,—<br /> + That thou, light-winged Dryad of +the trees,<br /> + + +In some melodious plot<br /> + Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,<br /> + Singest of summer in full-throated +ease.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page321"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +321</span>O for a draught of vintage! that hath been<br /> + Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,<br /> +Tasting of Flora and the country green,<br /> + Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt +mirth!<br /> +O for a beaker full of the warm South,<br /> + Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,<br /> + With beaded bubbles winking at the +brim,<br /> + + +And purple-stained mouth;<br /> + That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,<br +/> + And with thee fade into the forest +dim:</p> +<p class="poetry">Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget<br /> + What thou among the leaves hast never known,<br /> +The weariness, the fever, and the fret<br /> + Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;<br /> +Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,<br /> + Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and +dies;<br /> + Where but to think is to be full +of sorrow<br /> + + +And leaden-eyed despairs;<br /> + Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,<br /> + Or new Love pine at them beyond +to-morrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away! away! for I will fly to thee,<br /> + Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,<br /> +But on the viewless wings of Poesy,<br /> + Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:<br /> +Already with thee! tender is the night,<br /> + And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,<br /> + Clustered around by all her starry +Fays;<br /> + + +But here there is no light,<br /> + Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown<br +/> + Through verdurous glooms and +winding mossy ways.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page322"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +322</span>I cannot tell what flowers are at my feet,<br /> + Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,<br /> +But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet<br /> + Wherewith the seasonable month endows<br /> +The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;<br /> + White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;<br /> + Fast-fading violets covered up in +leaves;<br /> + + +And mid-May’s eldest child,<br /> + The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,<br /> + The murmurous haunt of flies on +summer eves.</p> +<p class="poetry">Darkling I listen; and for many a time<br /> + I have been half in love with easeful Death,<br /> +Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,<br /> + To take into the air my quiet breath;<br /> +Now more than ever seems it rich to die,<br /> + To cease upon the midnight with no pain,<br /> + While thou art pouring forth thy +soul abroad<br /> + + +In such an ecstasy!<br /> + Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in +vain—<br /> + To thy high requiem become a +sod.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!<br +/> + No hungry generations tread thee down;<br /> +The voice I hear this passing night was heard<br /> + In ancient days by emperor and clown:<br /> +Perhaps the self-same song that found a path<br /> + Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for +home,<br /> + She stood in tears amid the alien +corn;<br /> + + +The same that oft-times hath<br /> + Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam<br /> + Of perilous seas, in faery lands +forlorn.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page323"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +323</span>Forlorn! the very word is like a bell<br /> + To toll me back from thee to my sole self!<br /> +Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well<br /> + As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.<br /> +Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades<br /> + Past the near meadows, over the still stream,<br /> + Up the hill-side; and now +’tis buried deep<br /> + + +In the next valley-glades:<br /> + Was it a vision or a waking dream?<br /> + Fled is that music:—Do I +wake or sleep?</p> +<h3>ODE ON A GRECIAN URN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> still +unravished bride of quietness,<br /> + Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,<br /> +Sylvan historian, who canst thus express<br /> + A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:<br /> +What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape<br /> + Of deities or mortals, or of both,<br /> + In Tempe or the dales of +Arcady?<br /> +What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?<br /> + What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?<br +/> + What pipes and timbrels? +What wild ecstasy?</p> +<p class="poetry">Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard<br +/> + Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;<br +/> +Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,<br /> + Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:<br /> +Fair youth, beneath the trees thou canst not leave<br /> + Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;<br /> + Bold Lover, never, never canst +thou kiss,<br /> +Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve;<br /> + She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,<br +/> + For ever wilt thou love, and she +be fair!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page324"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +324</span>Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed<br /> + Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;<br /> +And happy melodist, unwearied,<br /> + For ever piping songs for ever new;<br /> +More happy love! more happy, happy love!<br /> + For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,<br /> + For ever panting, and for ever +young;<br /> +All breathing human passion far above,<br /> + That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,<br /> + A burning forehead and a parching +tongue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who are these coming to the sacrifice?<br /> + To what green altar, O mysterious priest,<br /> +Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,<br /> + And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?<br /> +What little town by river or sea-shore,<br /> + Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,<br /> + Is emptied of its folk, this pious +morn?<br /> +And, little town, thy streets for evermore<br /> + Will silent be; and not a soul to tell<br /> + Why thou art desolate, can +e’er return.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with +brede<br /> + Of marble men and maidens overwrought,<br /> +With forest branches and the trodden weed;<br /> + Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought<br +/> +As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!<br /> + When old age shall this generation waste,<br /> + Thou shalt remain, in midst of +other woe<br /> +Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayest,<br /> + ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is +all<br /> + Ye know on earth, and all ye need +to know.’</p> +<h3><a name="page325"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span>ODE +TO AUTUMN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Season</span> of mists and +mellow fruitfulness,<br /> +Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;<br /> +Conspiring with him how to load and bless<br /> +With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;<br /> +To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,<br /> +And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;<br /> +To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells<br /> +With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,<br /> +And still more, later flowers for the bees,<br /> +Until they think warm days will never cease;<br /> +For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.</p> +<p class="poetry">Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?<br +/> +Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find<br /> +Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,<br /> +Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;<br /> +Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,<br /> +Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook<br /> +Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:<br /> +And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep<br /> +Steady thy laden head across a brook;<br /> +Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,<br /> +Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where +are they?<br /> +Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—<br /> +While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day<br /> +And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;<br /> +Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn<br /> +<a name="page326"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 326</span>Among +the river-sallows, borne aloft<br /> +Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;<br /> +And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;<br /> +Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft<br /> +The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;<br /> +And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.</p> +<h3>ODE TO PSYCHE</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">Goddess</span>! hear +these tuneless numbers, wrung<br /> + By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,<br /> +And pardon that my secrets should be sung<br /> + Even into thine own soft-conched ear:<br /> +Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see<br /> + The winged Psyche with awakened eyes?<br /> +I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,<br /> + And on the sudden, fainting with surprise,<br /> +Saw two fair creatures couched side by side<br /> + In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof<br /> + Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran<br +/> + + +A brooklet scarce espied:<br /> +’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,<br /> + Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,<br /> +They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass,<br /> + Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;<br /> + Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,<br +/> +As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,<br /> +And ready still past kisses to outnumber<br /> + At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:<br /> + + +The winged boy I knew;<br /> + But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?<br /> + + +His Psyche true!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page327"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +327</span>O latest-born and loveliest vision far<br /> + Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!<br /> +Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-regioned star,<br /> + Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky:<br /> +Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,<br /> + + +Nor altar heaped with flowers;<br /> +Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan<br /> + + +Upon the midnight hours;<br /> +No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet<br /> + From chain-swung censer teeming;<br /> +No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat<br /> + Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.<br /> +O brightest! though too late for antique vows,<br /> + Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,<br /> +When holy were the haunted forest boughs,<br /> + Holy the air, the water, and the fire;<br /> +Yet even in these days so far retired<br /> + From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,<br /> + Fluttering among the faint Olympians,<br /> +I see and sing, by my own eyes inspired.<br /> + So let me be thy choir, and make a moan<br /> + + +Upon the midnight hours!<br /> +Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet<br /> + From swinged censer teeming;<br /> +Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat<br /> + Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane<br +/> + In some untrodden region of my mind,<br /> +Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,<br /> + Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind;<br /> +Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees<br /> + Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;<br +/> +<a name="page328"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 328</span>And +there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,<br /> + The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;<br /> +And in the midst of this wide quietness<br /> +A rosy sanctuary will I dress<br /> +With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,<br /> + With buds, and shells, and stars without a name.<br +/> +With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,<br /> + Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same:<br +/> +And there shall be for thee all soft delight<br /> + That shadowy thought can win,<br /> +A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,<br /> + To let the warm Love in!</p> +<h3>ODE TO MELANCHOLY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">No</span>, no, go not to +Lethe, neither twist<br /> + Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous +wine;<br /> +Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed<br /> + By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine:<br /> +Make not your rosary of yew-berries,<br /> + Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be<br /> + Your mournful Psyche, nor the +downy owl<br /> +A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;<br /> + For shade to shade will come too drowsily,<br /> + And drown the wakeful anguish of +the soul.</p> +<p class="poetry">But when the melancholy fit shall fall<br /> + Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud<br /> +That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,<br /> + And hides the green hill in an April shroud;<br /> +Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,<br /> + Or on the rainbow of a salt sand-wave;<br /> + <a name="page329"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 329</span>Or on the wealth of globed +peonies;<br /> +Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,<br /> + Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,<br /> + And feed deep, deep upon her +peerless eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must +die;<br /> + And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips<br /> +Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,<br /> + Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips.<br /> +Ay, in the very temple of Delight<br /> + Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,<br /> + Though seen of none save him whose +strenuous tongue<br /> + Can burst Joy’s grapes against his palate +fine;<br /> +His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,<br /> + And be among her cloudy trophies +hung.</p> +<h2>HARTLEY COLERIDGE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1796–1849</span></h2> +<h3>SHE IS NOT FAIR</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> is not fair to +outward view<br /> + As many maidens be;<br /> +Her loveliness I never knew<br /> + Until she smiled on me.<br /> +O then I saw her eye was bright,<br /> +A well of love, a spring of light.</p> +<p class="poetry">But now her looks are coy and cold,<br /> + To mine they ne’er reply,<br /> +And yet I cease not to behold<br /> + The love-light in her eye:<br /> +Her very frowns are fairer far<br /> +Than smiles of other maidens are.</p> +<h2><a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +331</span>NOTES</h2> +<h3><span class="smcap">Epithalamion</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page3">3</a></span>.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Written</span> by Spenser on his marriage +in Ireland, in 1594, with Elizabeth Boyle of Kilcoran, who +survived him, married one Roger Seckerstone, and was again a +widow. Dr. Grosart seems to have finally decided the +identity of the heroine of this great poem. It is worth +while to explain, once for all, that I do not use the accented +<i>e</i> for the longer pronunciation of the past +participle. The accent is not an English sign, and, to my +mind, disfigures the verse; neither do I think it necessary to +cut off the <i>e</i> with an apostrophe when the participle is +shortened. The reader knows at a glance how the word is to +be numbered; besides, he may have his preferences where choice is +allowed. In reading such a line as Tennyson’s</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘Dear as +remembered kisses after death,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>one man likes the familiar sound of the word +‘remembered’ as we all speak it now; another takes +pleasure in the four light syllables filling the line so +full. Tennyson uses the apostrophe as a rule, but neither +he nor any other author is quite consistent.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Rosalynd’s +Madrigal</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span>.</h3> +<p>It may please the reader to think that this frolic, rich, and +delicate singer was Shakespeare’s very Rosalind. From +Dr. Thomas Lodge’s novel, <i>Euphues’ Golden +Legacy</i>, was taken much of the story, with some of the +characters, and some few of the passages, of <i>As You Like +It</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Rosaline</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page22">22</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This splendid poem (from the same romance), written on the +poet’s voyage to the Islands of Terceras and the Canaries, +has the fire and freshness of the south and the sea; all its +colours are clear. The reader’s ear will at once +teach him to read the sigh ‘heigh ho’ so as to give +the first syllable the time of two (long and short).</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Farewell to Arms</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page25">25</a></span>.</h3> +<p>George Peele’s four fine stanzas (which must be +mentioned as dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, but are better without +that dedication) exist <a name="page332"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 332</span>in another form, in the first +person, and with some archaisms smoothed. But the third +person seems to be far more touching, the old man himself having +done with verse.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Passionate +Shepherd</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The sixth stanza is perhaps by Izaak Walton.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Take</span>, <span class="smcap">O take +those Lips away</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The author of this exquisite song is by no means +certain. The second stanza is not with the first in +Shakespeare, but it is in Beaumont and Fletcher.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Kind are her Answers</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page46">46</a></span>.</h3> +<p>These verses are a more subtle experiment in metre by the +musician and poet, Campion, than even the following, +<i>Laura</i>, which he himself sweetly commended as +‘voluble, and fit to express any amorous +conceit.’ In <i>Kind are her Answers</i> the long +syllables and the trochaic movement of the short lines meet the +contrary movement of the rest, with an exquisite effect of flux +and reflux. The ‘dancers’ whose time they sang +must have danced (with Perdita) like ‘a wave of the +sea.’</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Dirge</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page44">44</a></span>.</h3> +<p>I have followed the usual practice in omitting the last and +less beautiful stanza.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Follow</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page49">49</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Campion’s ‘airs,’ for which he wrote his +words, laid rules too urgent upon what would have been a delicate +genius in poetry. The airs demanded so many stanzas; but +they gave his imagination leave to be away, and they depressed +and even confused his metrical play, hurting thus the two vital +spots of poetry. Many of the stanzas for music make an +unlucky repeating pattern with the poor variety that a repeating +wall-paper does not attempt. And yet Campion began again +and again with the onset of a true poet. Take, for example, +the poem beginning with the vitality of this line, +‘touching in its majesty’—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘Awake, thou +spring of speaking grace; mute rest becomes not thee!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Who would have guessed that the piece was to close in a +jogging stanza containing a reflection on the fact that brutes +are speechless, with these two final lines—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘If speech be then the best of graces,<br +/> + Doe it not in slumber smother!’</p> +<p><a name="page333"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +333</span>Campion yields a curious collection of beautiful first +lines.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Sleep, angry beauty, sleep and fear not +me’</p> +<p>is far finer than anything that follows. So is there a +single gloom in this—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Follow thy fair sun, unhappy +shadow!’</p> +<p>And a single joy in this—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Oh, what unhoped-for sweet +supply!’</p> +<p>Another solitary line is one that by its splendour proves +Campion the author of <i>Cherry Ripe</i>—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A thousand cherubim fly in her +looks.’</p> +<p>And yet ‘a thousand cherubim’ is a line of a poem +full of the dullest kind of reasoning—curious matter for +music—and of the intricate knotting of what is a very +simple thread of thought. It was therefore no easy matter +to choose something of Campion’s for a collection of the +finest work. For an historical book of representative +poetry the question would be easy enough, for there Campion +should appear by his glorious lyric, <i>Cherry Ripe</i>, by one +or two poems of profounder imagination (however imperfect), and +by a madrigal written for the music (however the stanzas may flag +in their quibbling). But the work of choosing among his +lyrics for the sake of beauty shows too clearly the inequality, +the brevity of the inspiration, and the poet’s absolute +disregard of the moment of its flight and departure.</p> +<p>A few splendid lines may be reason enough for extracting a +short poem, but must not be made to bear too great a burden.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">When thou must Home</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page50">50</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Of the quality of this imaginative lyric there is no +doubt. It is fine throughout, as we confess even after the +greatness of the opening:—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘When thou must home to shades of +underground,<br /> + And there arrived, a new admired +guest—’</p> +<p>It is as solemn and fantastic at the close as at this dark and +splendid opening, and throughout, past description, +Elizabethan. This single poem must bind Campion to that +period without question; and as he lived thirty-six years in the +actual reign of Elizabeth, and printed his <i>Book of Airs</i> +with Rosseter two years before her death, it is by no violence +that we give him the name that covers our earlier poets of the +great age. <i>When thou must Home</i> is of the day of +Marlowe. It has the qualities of great poetry, and +especially the quality of keeping its simplicity; and it has a +quality of great simplicity not at all child-like, but adult, +large, gay, credulous, tragic, sombre, and amorous.</p> +<h3><a name="page334"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +334</span><span class="smcap">The Funeral</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page56">56</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Donne, too, is a poet of fine onsets. It was with some +hesitation that I admitted a poem having the middle stanza of +this Funeral; but the earlier lines of the last are fine.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Charis’ Triumph</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page58">58</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The freshest of Ben Jonson’s lyrics have been +chosen. Obviously it is freshness that he generally lacks, +for all his vigour, his emphatic initiative, and his overhearing +and impulsive voice in verse. There is a stale breath in +that hearty shout. Doubtless it is to the credit of his +honesty that he did not adopt the country-phrases in vogue; but +when he takes landscape as a task the effect is ill enough. +I have already had the temerity to find fault, for a blunder of +meaning, with the passage of a most famous lyric, where it says +the contrary of what it would say—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But might I of Jove’s nectar +sup<br /> + I would not change for thine;’</p> +<p>and for doing so have encountered the anger rather than the +argument of those who cannot admire a pretty lyric but they must +hold reason itself to be in error rather than allow that a line +of it has chanced to get turned in the rhyming.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">In Earth</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page64">64</a></span>.</h3> +<p>‘I never saw anything,’ says Charles Lamb, +‘like this funeral dirge, except the ditty which reminds +Ferdinand of his drowned father in the <i>Tempest</i>. As +that is of the water, watery; so this is of the earth, +earthy. Both have that intentness of feeling which seems to +resolve itself into the element which it contemplates.’</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Song</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page65">65</a></span>.</h3> +<p>All Drummond’s poems seem to be minor poems, even at +their finest, except only this. He must have known, for the +creation of that poem, some more impassioned and less restless +hour. It is, from the outset to the close, the sigh of a +profound expectation. There is no division into stanzas, +because its metre is the breath of life. One might wish +that the English ode (roughly called ‘Pindaric’) had +never been written but with passion, for so written it is the +most immediate of all metres; the shock of the heart and the +breath of elation or grief are the law of the lines. It has +passed out of the gates of the garden of stanzas, and walks (not +astray) in the further freedom where all is interior law. +Cowley, long afterwards, wrote this Pindaric ode, and wrote it +coldly. But Drummond’s (he calls it a song) can never +again be forgotten. With admirable judgment it was set up +at the very gate of that <i>Golden Treasury</i> we all know so +well; and, therefore, generation after <a +name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 335</span>generation +of readers, who have never opened Drummond’s poems, know +this fine ode as well as they know any single poem in the whole +of English literature. There was a generation that had not +been taught by the <i>Golden Treasury</i>, and Cardinal Newman +was of it. Writing to Coventry Patmore of his great odes, +he called them beautiful but fragmentary; was inclined to wish +that they might some day be made complete. There is nothing +in all poetry more complete. Seldom is a poem in stanzas so +complete but that another stanza might have made a final close; +but a master’s ode has the unity of life, and when it ends +it ends for ever.</p> +<p>A poem of Drummond’s has this auroral image of a blush: +Anthea has blushed to hear her eyes likened to stars (habit might +have caused her, one would think, to hear the flattery with a +front as cool as the very daybreak), and the lover tells her that +the sudden increase of her beauty is futile, for he cannot admire +more: ‘For naught thy cheeks that morn do +raise.’ What sweet, nay, what solemn roses!</p> +<p>Again:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Me here she first perceived, and here a +morn<br /> +Of bright carnations overspread her face.’</p> +<p>The seventeenth century has possession of that +‘morn’ caught once upon its uplands; nor can any +custom of aftertime touch its freshness to wither it.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">To my Inconstant +Mistress</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The solemn vengeance of this poem has a strange tone—not +unique, for it had sounded somewhere in mediæval poetry in +Italy—but in a dreadful sense divine. At the first +reading, this sentence against inconstancy, spoken by one more +than inconstant, moves something like indignation; nevertheless, +it is menacingly and obscurely justified, on a ground as it were +beyond the common region of tolerance and pardon.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Pulley</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page91">91</a></span>.</h3> +<p>An editor is greatly tempted to mend a word in these exquisite +verses. George Herbert was maladroit in using the word +‘rest’ in two senses. ‘Peace’ is +not quite so characteristic a word, but it ought to take the +place of ‘rest’ in the last line of the second +stanza; so then the first line of the last stanza would not have +this rather distressing ambiguity. The poem is otherwise +perfect beyond description.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Misery</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page94">94</a></span>.</h3> +<p>George Herbert’s work is so perfectly a box where +thoughts ‘compacted lie,’ that no one is moved, in +reading his rich poetry, to detach a line, so fine and so +significant are its neighbours; nevertheless, it may be well to +stop the reader at such a lovely passage as this—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘He was a garden +in a Paradise.’</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page336"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +336</span><span class="smcap">The Rose</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page99">99</a></span>.</h3> +<p>There is nothing else of Waller’s fine enough to be +admitted here; and even this, though unquestionably a beautiful +poem, elastic in words and fresh in feeling, despite its wearied +argument, is of the third-class. Greatness seems generally, +in the arts, to be of two kinds, and the third rank is less than +great. The wearied argument of <i>The Rose</i> is the +almost squalid plea of all the poets, from Ronsard to Herrick: +‘Time is short; they make the better bargain who make haste +to love.’ This thrifty business and essentially cold +impatience was—time out of mind—unknown to the truer +love; it is larger, illiberal, untender, and without all +dignity. The poets were wrong to give their verses the +message of so sorry a warning. There is only one thing that +persuades you to forgive the paltry plea of the poet that time is +brief—and that is the charming reflex glimpse it gives of +her to whom the rose and the verse were sent, and who had not +thought that time was brief.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">L’Allegro</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page109">109</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The sock represents the stage, in <i>L’Allegro</i>, for +comedy, and the buskin, in <i>Il Penseroso</i>, for +tragedy. Milton seems to think the comic drama in England +needs no apology, but he hesitates at the tragic. The poet +of <i>King Lear</i> is named for his sweetness and his wood-notes +wild.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Il Penseroso</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page113">113</a></span>.</h3> +<p>It is too late to protest against Milton’s display of +weak Italian. <i>Pensieroso</i> is, of course, what he +should have written.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Lycidas</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page119">119</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Most of the allusions in <i>Lycidas</i> need no explaining to +readers of poetry. The geography is that of the western +coasts from furthest north to Cornwall. Deva is the Dee; +‘the great vision’ means the apparition of the +Archangel, St. Michael, at St. Michael’s Mount; Namancos +and Bayona face the mount from the continental coast; Bellerus +stands for Belerium, the Land’s End.</p> +<p>Arethusa and Mincius—Sicilian and Italian +streams—represent the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and +Virgil.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">On a Prayer-book</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page131">131</a></span>.</h3> +<p>‘Fair and flagrant things’—Crashaw’s +own phrase—might serve for a brilliant and fantastic praise +and protest in description of his own verses. In the last +century, despite the opinion of a few, and despite the fact that +Pope took possession of Crashaw’s line—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘Obedient +slumbers that can wake and weep,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and for some time of the present century, the critics had a +wintry word to blame him with. They said of George Herbert, +of Lovelace, <a name="page337"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +337</span>of Crashaw, and of other light hearts of the +seventeenth century—not so much that their inspiration was +in bad taste, as that no reader of taste could suffer them. +A better opinion on that company of poets is that they had a +taste extraordinarily liberal, generous, and elastic, but not +essentially lax: taste that gave now and then too much room to +play, but anon closed with the purest and exactest laws of +temperance and measure. The extravagance of Crashaw is a +far more lawful thing than the extravagance of Addison, whom some +believe to have committed none; moreover, Pope and all the +politer poets nursed something they were pleased to call a +‘rage,’ and this expatiated (to use another word of +their own) beyond all bounds. Of sheer voluntary extremes +it is not in the seventeenth century conceit that we should seek +examples, but in an eighteenth century ‘rage.’ +A ‘noble rage,’ properly provoked, could be backed to +write more trash than fancy ever tempted the half-incredulous +sweet poet of the older time to run upon. He was +fancy’s child, and the bard of the eighteenth century was +the child of common sense with straws in his hair—vainly +arranged there. The eighteenth century was never content +with a moderate mind; it invented ‘rage’; it matched +rage with a flagrant diction mingled of Latin words and simple +English words made vacant and ridiculous, and these were the +worst; it was resolved to be behind no century in +passion—nay, to show the way, to fire the nations. +Addison taught himself, as his hero taught the battle, +‘where to rage’; and in the later years of the same +literary age, Johnson summoned the lapsed and absent fury, with +no kind of misgiving as to the resulting verse. Take such a +phrase as ‘the madded land’; there, indeed, is a word +coined by the noble rage as the last century evoked it. +‘The madded land’ is a phrase intended to prove that +the law-giver of taste, Johnson himself, could lodge the fury in +his breast when opportunity occurred. ‘And dubious +title shakes the madded land.’ It would be hard to +find anything, even in Addison, more flagrant and less fair.</p> +<p>Take <i>The Weeper</i> of Crashaw—his most flagrant +poem. Its follies are all sweet-humoured, they smile. +Its beauties are a quick and abundant shower. The delicate +phrases are so mingled with the flagrant that it is difficult to +quote them without rousing that general sense of humour of which +any one may make a boast; and I am therefore shy even of citing +the ‘brisk cherub’ who has early sipped the +Saint’s tear: ‘Then to his music,’ in +Crashaw’s divinely simple phrase; and his singing +‘tastes of this breakfast all day long.’ Sorrow +is a queen, he cries to the Weeper, and when sorrow would be seen +in state, ‘then is she drest by none but thee.’ +Then you come upon the fancy, ‘Fountain and garden in one +face.’ All places, times, and objects are ‘Thy +tears’ sweet opportunity.’ If these charming +passages lurk in his worst poems, the reader of this anthology +will not be able to count them in his best. In the Epiphany +Hymn the heavens have found means</p> +<blockquote><p>‘To disinherit the sun’s rise,<br /> +Delicately to displace<br /> +The day, and plant it fairer in thy face.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page338"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 338</span><i>To +the Morning</i>: <i>Satisfaction for Sleep</i>, is, all through, +luminous. It would he difficult to find, even in the orient +poetry of that time, more daylight or more spirit. True, an +Elizabethan would not have had poetry so rich as in +<i>Love’s Horoscope</i>, but yet an Elizabethan would have +had it no fresher. The <i>Hymn to St. Teresa</i> has the +brevities which this poet—reproached with his +<i>longueurs</i>—masters so well. He tells how the +Spanish girl, six years old, set out in search of death: +‘She’s for the Moors and Martyrdom. Sweet, not +so fast!’ Of many contemporary songs in pursuit of a +fugitive Cupid, Crashaw’s <i>Cupid’s Cryer</i>: +<i>out of the Greek</i>, is the most dainty. But if readers +should be a little vexed with the poet’s light heart and +perpetual pleasure, with the late ripeness of his sweetness, +here, for their satisfaction, is a passage capable of the great +age that had lately closed when Crashaw wrote. It is in his +summons to nature and art:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Come, and come strong,<br /> +To the conspiracy of our spacious song!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I have been obliged to take courage to alter the reading of +the seventeenth and nineteenth lines of the <i>Prayer-Book</i>, +so as to make them intelligible; they had been obviously +misprinted. I have also found it necessary to re-punctuate +generally.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Wishes to his Supposed +Mistress</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This beautiful and famous poem has its stanzas so carelessly +thrown together that editors have allowed themselves a certain +freedom with it. I have done the least I could, by +separating two stanzas that repeated the rhyme, and by +suppressing one that grew tedious.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">On the Death of Mr. +Crashaw</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page157">157</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This ode has been chosen as more nobly representative than +that, better known, <i>On the Death of Mr. William +Harvey</i>. In the Crashaw ode, and in the <i>Hymn to the +Light</i>, Cowley is, at last, tender. But it cannot be +said that his love-poems had tenderness. He wrote in a gay +language, but added nothing to its gaiety. He wrote the +language of love, and left it cooler than he found it. What +the conceits of Lovelace and the rest—flagrant, not +frigid—did not do was done by Cowley’s quenching +breath; the language of love began to lose by him. But even +then, even then, who could have foretold what the loss at a later +day would be!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Hymn to the Light</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page159">159</a></span>.</h3> +<p>It is somewhat to be regretted that this splendid poem should +show Cowley as the writer of the alexandrine that divides into +two lines. For he it was who first used (or first +conspicuously used) the alexandrine that is organic, integral, +and itself a separate unit of metre. He first passed beyond +the heroic line, or at least he first used the alexandrine +freely, at his pleasure, amid heroic verse; and after him <a +name="page339"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 339</span>Dryden took +possession and then Pope. But both these masters, when they +wrote alexandrines, wrote them in the French manner, +divided. Cowley, however, with admirable art, is able to +prevent even an accidental pause, making the middle of his line +fall upon the middle of some word that is rapid in the speaking +and therefore indivisible by pause or even by any +lingering. Take this one instance—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘Like some fair +pine o’erlooking all the ignobler wood.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If Cowley’s delicate example had ruled in English poetry +(and he surely had authority on this one point, at least), this +alexandrine would have taken its own place as an important line +of English metre, more mobile than the heroic, less fitted to +epic or dramatic poetry, but a line liberally lyrical. It +would have been the light, pursuing wave that runs suddenly, +outrunning twenty, further up the sands than these, a swift +traveller, unspent, of longer impulse, of more impetuous foot, of +fuller and of hastier breath, more eager to speak, and yet more +reluctant to have done. Cowley left the line with all this +lyrical promise within it, and if his example had been followed, +English prosody would have had in this a valuable bequest.</p> +<p>Cowley probably was two or three years younger than Richard +Crashaw, and the alexandrine is to be found—to be found by +searching—in Crashaw; and he took precisely the same care +as Cowley that the long wand of that line should not give way in +the middle—should be strong and supple and should +last. Here are four of his alexandrines—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Or you, more noble architects of +intellectual noise.’</p> +<p>‘Of sweets you have, and murmur that you have no +more.’</p> +<p>‘And everlasting series of a deathless song.’</p> +<p>‘To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming +name.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A later poet—Coventry Patmore—wrote a far longer +line than even these—a line not only speeding further, but +speeding with a more celestial movement than Cowley or Crashaw +heard with the ear of dreams.</p> +<p>‘He unhappily adopted,’ says Dr. Johnson as to +Cowley’s diction, ‘that which was +predominant.’ ‘That which was +predominant’ was as good a vintage of English language as +the cycles of history have ever brought to pass.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">To Lucasta</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page163">163</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Colonel Richard Lovelace, an enchanting poet, is hardly read, +except for two poems which are as famous as any in our +language. Perhaps the rumour of his conceits has frightened +his reader. It must be granted they are now and then +daunting; there is a poem on ‘Princess Louisa +Drawing’ which is a very maze; the little paths of verse +and fancy turn in upon one another, and the turns are <a +name="page340"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 340</span>pointed +with artificial shouts of joy and surprise. But, again, +what a reader unused to a certain living symbolism will be apt to +take for a careful and cold conceit is, in truth, a +rapture—none graver, none more fiery or more +luminous. But even to name the poem where these occur might +be to deliver delicate and ardent poetry over to the general +sense of humour, which one distrusts. Nor is Lovelace easy +reading at any time (the two or three famous poems +excepted). The age he adorned lived in constant readiness +for the fiddler. Eleven o’clock in the morning was as +good an hour as another for a dance, and poetry, too, was gay +betimes, but intricate with figures. It is the very order, +the perspective, as it were, of the movement that seems to baffle +the eye, but the game was a free impulse. Since the first +day danced with the first night, no dancing was more +natural—at least to a dancer of genius. True, the +dance could be tyrannous. It was an importunate +fashion. When the Bishop of Hereford, compelled by Robin +Hood, in merry Barnsdale, danced in his boots (‘and glad he +could so get away’), he was hardly in worse heart or trim +than a seventeenth century author here and there whose original +seriousness or work-a-day piety would have been content to go +plodding flat-foot or halting, as the muse might naturally +incline with him, but whom the tune, the grace, and gallantry of +the time beckoned to tread a perpetual measure. Lovelace +was a dancer of genius; nay, he danced to rest his wings, for he +was winged, cap and heel. The fiction of flight has lost +its charm long since. Modern art grew tired of the idea, +now turned to commonplace, and painting took leave of the buoyant +urchins—naughty cherub and Cupid together; but the +seventeenth century was in love with that old fancy—more in +love, perhaps, than any century in the past. Its late +painters, whose human figures had no lack of weight upon the +comfortable ground, yet kept a sense of buoyancy for this +hovering childhood, and kept the angels and the loves aloft, as +though they shook a tree to make a flock of birds flutter up.</p> +<p>Fine is the fantastic and infrequent landscape in +Lovelace’s poetry:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘This is the palace of the wood,<br /> +And court o’ the royal oak, where stood<br /> +The whole nobility.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In more than one place Lucasta’s, or Amarantha’s, +or Laura’s hair is sprinkled with dew or rain almost as +freshly and wildly as in Wordsworth’s line.</p> +<p>Lovelace, who loved freedom, seems to be enclosed in so narrow +a book; yet it is but a ‘hermitage.’ To shake +out the light and spirit of its leaves is to give a glimpse of +liberty not to him, but to the world.</p> +<p>In <i>To Lucasta</i> I have been bold to alter, at the close, +‘you’ to ‘thou.’ Lovelace sent his +verses out unrevised, and the inconsistency of pronouns is common +with him, but nowhere else so distressing as in this brief and +otherwise perfect poem. The fault is easily set right, and +it seems even an unkindness not to lend him this redress, offered +him here as an act of comradeship.</p> +<h3><a name="page341"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +341</span><span class="smcap">Lucasta Paying her +Obsequies</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page165">165</a></span>.</h3> +<p>That errors should abound in the text of Lovelace is the more +lamentable because he was apt to make a play of phrases that +depend upon the precision of a comma—nay, upon the +precision of the voice in reading. <i>Lucasta Paying her +Obsequies</i> is a poem that makes a kind of dainty confusion +between the two vestals—the living and the dead; they are +‘equal virgins,’ and you must assign the pronouns +carefully to either as you read. This, read twice, must +surely be placed amongst the loveliest of his lovely +writings. It is a joy to meet such a phrase as ‘her +brave eyes.’</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">To Althea</span>, <span +class="smcap">from Prison</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page166">166</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This is a poem that takes the winds with an answering +flight. Should they be ‘birds’ or +‘gods’ that wanton in the air in the first of these +gallant stanzas? Bishop Percy shied at ‘gods,’ +and with admirable judgment suggested ‘birds,’ an +amendment adopted by the greater number of succeeding editors, +until one or two wished for the other phrase again, as an +audacity fit for Lovelace. But the Bishop’s misgiving +was after all justified by one of the <span +class="GutSmall">MSS.</span> of the poem, in which the +‘gods’ proved to be ‘birds’ long before +he changed them. The reader may ask, what is there to +choose between birds so divine and gods so light? But to +begin with ‘gods’ would be to make an anticlimax of +the close. Lovelace led from birds and fishes to winds, and +from winds to angels.</p> +<p>‘When linnet-like confined’ is another modern +reading. ‘When, like committed linnets,’ +daunted the eighteenth century. Nevertheless, it is right +seventeenth century, and is now happily restored; happily, +because Lovelace would not have the word ‘confined’ +twice in this little poem.</p> +<h3>A <span class="smcap">Horatian Ode</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page169">169</a></span>.</h3> +<p>‘He earned the glorious name,’ says a biographer +of Andrew Marvell (editing an issue of that post’s works +which certainly has its faults), ‘of the British +Aristides.’ The portly dulness of the mind that could +make such a phrase, and having made, award it, is not, in +fairness, to affect a reader’s thought of Marvell himself +nor even of his time. Under correction, I should think that +the award was not made in his own age; he did but live on the eve +of the day that cumbered its mouth with phrases of such foolish +burden and made literature stiff with them. Andrew +Marvell’s political rectitude, it is true, seems to have +been of a robustious kind; but his poetry, at its rare best, has +a ‘wild civility,’ which might puzzle the triumph of +him, whoever he was, who made a success of this phrase of the +‘British Aristides.’ Nay, it is difficult not +to think that Marvell too, who was ‘of middling stature, +roundish-faced, cherry-cheeked,’ a healthy and active +rather than a spiritual Aristides, might himself <a +name="page342"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 342</span>have been +somewhat taken by surprise at the encounters of so subtle a +muse. He, as a garden-poet, expected the accustomed Muse to +lurk about the fountain-heads, within the caves, and by the walks +and the statues of the gods, keeping the tryst of a seventeenth +century convention in which there were certainly no +surprises. And for fear of the commonplaces of those +visits, Marvell sometimes outdoes the whole company of +garden-poets in the difficult labours of the fancy. The +reader treads with him a ‘maze’ most resolutely +intricate, and is more than once obliged to turn back, having +been too much puzzled on the way to a small, visible, plain, and +obvious goal of thought.</p> +<p>And yet this poet two or three times did meet a Muse he had +hardly looked for among the trodden paths; a spiritual creature +had been waiting behind a laurel or an apple-tree. You find +him coming away from such a divine ambush a wilder and a simpler +man. All his garden had been made ready for poetry, and +poetry was indeed there, but in unexpected hiding and in a +strange form, looking rather like a fugitive, shy of the poet who +was conscious of having her rules by heart, yet sweetly willing +to be seen, for all her haste.</p> +<p>The political poems, needless to say, have an excellence of a +different character and a higher degree. They have so much +authentic dignity that ‘the glorious name of the British +Aristides’ really seems duller when it is conferred as the +earnings of the <i>Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from +Ireland</i> than when it inappropriately clings to Andrew +Marvell, cherry-cheeked, caught in the tendrils of his vines and +melons. He shall be, therefore, the British Aristides in +those moments of midsummer solitude; at least, the heavy phrase +shall then have the smile it never sought.</p> +<p>The Satires are, of course, out of reach for their inordinate +length. The celebrated Satire on Holland certainly makes +the utmost of the fun to be easily found in the physical facts of +the country whose people ‘with mad labour fished the land +to shore.’ The Satire on ‘Flecno’ makes +the utmost of another joke we know of—that of famine. +Flecno, it will be remembered, was a poet, and poor; but the joke +of his bad verses was hardly needed, so fine does Marvell find +that of his hunger. Perhaps there is no age of English +satire that does not give forth the sound of that laughter +unknown to savages—that craven laughter.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Picture of T. C. in a Prospect of +Flowers</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The presence of a furtive irony of the sweetest kind is the +sure sign of the visit of that unlooked-for muse. With all +spirit and subtlety does Marvell pretend to offer the little girl +T. C. (the future ‘virtuous enemy of man’) the +prophetic homage of the habitual poets. The poem closes +with an impassioned tenderness not to be found elsewhere in +Marvell.</p> +<h3><a name="page343"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +343</span><span class="smcap">The Definition of +Love</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page179">179</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The noble phrase of the <i>Horatian Ode</i> is not recovered +again, high or low, throughout Marvell’s book, if we except +one single splendid and surpassing passage from <i>The Definition +of Love</i>—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Magnanimous despair alone<br /> + Could show me so divine a thing.’</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><span class="smcap">Childhood</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page183">183</a></span>.</h3> +<p>One of our true poets, and the first who looked at nature with +the full spiritual intellect, Henry Vaughan was known to few but +students until Mr. E. K. Chambers gave us his excellent +edition. The tender wit and grave play of Herbert, +Crashaw’s lovely rapture, are all unlike this meditation of +a soul condemned and banished into life. Vaughan’s +imagination suddenly opens a new window towards the east. +The age seems to change with him, and it is one of the most +incredible of all facts that there should be more than a +century—and such a century!—from him to +Wordsworth. The passing of time between them is strange +enough, but the passing of Pope, Prior, and Gray—of the +world, the world, whether reasonable or flippant or +rhetorical—is more strange. Vaughan’s phrase +and diction seem to carry the light. <i>Il vous semble que +cette femme dégage de la lumière en +marchant</i>? <i>Vous l’aimez</i>! says Marius in +<i>Les Misérables</i> (I quote from memory), and it seems +to be by a sense of light that we know the muse we are to +love.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Scottish Ballads</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page191">191</a></span>.</h3> +<p>It was no easy matter to choose a group of representative +ballads from among so many almost equally fine and equally +damaged with thin places. Finally, it seemed best to take, +from among the finest, those that had passages of genius—a +line here and there of surpassing imagination and +poetry—rare in even the best folk-songs. Such +passages do not occur but in ballads that are throughout on the +level of the highest of their kind. ‘None but my foe +to be my guide’ so distinguishes <i>Helen of +Kirconnell</i>; the exquisite stanza about the hats of birk, +<i>The Wife of Usher’s Well</i>; its varied refrain, <i>The +Dowie Dens of Yarrow</i>; the stanza spoken by Margaret asking +for room in the grave, <i>Sweet William and Margaret</i>; and a +number of passages, <i>Sir Patrick Spens</i>, such as that +beginning, ‘I saw the new moon late yestreen,’ the +stanza beginning ‘O laith, laith were our gude Scots +lords,’ and almost all the stanzas following. <i>A +Lyke Wake Dirge</i> is of surpassing quality throughout. I +am sorry to have no room for Jamieson’s version of <i>Fair +Annie</i>, for <i>Edom o’ Gordon</i>, for <i>The +Dæmon Lover</i>, for <i>Edward</i>, <i>Edward</i>, and for +the Scottish edition of <i>The Battle of Otterbourne</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page344"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +344</span><span class="smcap">Mrs. Anne +Killigrew</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This most majestic ode—one of the few greatest of its +kind—is a model of noble rhythm and especially of +cadence. To print it whole would be impossible, and one of +the very few excisions in this book is made in the midst of +it. Dryden, so adult and so far from simplicity, bears +himself like a child who, having said something fine, caps it +with something foolish. The suppressed part of the ode is +silly with a silliness which Dryden’s age chose to dodder +in when it would. The deplorable ‘rattling +bones’ of the closing section has a touch of it.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Song</span>, <span class="smcap">from +Abdelazar</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span>.</h3> +<p>It is a futile thing—and the cause of a train of +futilities—to hail ‘style’ as though it were a +separable quality in literature, and it is not in that illusion +that the style of the opening of Aphra Behn’s resounding +song is to be praised. But it <i>is</i> the +style—implying the reckless and majestic heart—that +first takes the reader of these great verses.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Hymn</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page209">209</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Whether Addison wrote the whole of this or not,—and it +seems that the inspired passages are none of his—it is to +me a poem of genius, magical in spite of the limited diction.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate +Lady</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page210">210</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Also in spite of limited diction—the sign of thought +closing in, as it did fast close in during those years—are +Pope’s tenderness and passion communicated in this +beautiful elegy. It would not be too much to say that all +his passion, all his tenderness, and certainly all his mystery, +are in the few lines at the opening and close. The +<i>Epistle of Eloisa</i> is (artistically speaking) but a +counterfeit. Yet Pope’s <i>Elegy</i> begins by +stealing and translating into the false elegance of altered taste +that lovely and poetic opening of Ben Jonson’s—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘What beckoning ghost, besprent with April +dew,<br /> +Hails me so solemnly to yonder yew?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>All the gravity, all the sweetness, one might fear, must be +lost in such a change as Pope makes—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘What beckoning ghost along the moonlight +shade<br /> +Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Yet they are not lost. Pope’s awe and ardour are +authentic, and they prevail; the succeeding +couplet—inimitably modulated, and of tragic +dignity—proves, without delay, the quality of the +poem. The poverty and coldness of the passage (towards the +end), in which the roses and the angels are somewhat trivially +sung, cannot mar so veritable an utterance. The four final +couplets are the very glory of the English couplet.</p> +<h3><a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +345</span><span class="smcap">Lines on Receiving his +Mother’s Picture</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page213">213</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Cowper, again, by the very directness of human feeling makes +his narrowing English a means of absolutely direct +communication. Of all his works (and this is my own mere +and unshared opinion) this single one deserves immortality.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Life</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page217">217</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This fragment (the only fragment, properly so called, in the +present collection) so pleased Wordsworth that he wished he had +written the lines. They are very gently touched.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Land of Dreams</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page217">217</a></span>.</h3> +<p>When Blake writes of sleep and dreams he writes under the very +influence of the hours of sleep—with a waking consciousness +of the wilder emotion of the dream. Corot painted so, when +at summer dawn he went out and saw landscape in the hours of +sleep.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Surprised by Joy</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page229">229</a></span>.</h3> +<p>It is not necessary to write notes on Wordsworth’s +sonnets—the greatest sonnets in our literature; but it +would be well to warn editors how they print this one sonnet; +‘I wished to share the transport’ is by no means an +uncommon reading. Into the history of the variant I have +not looked. It is enough that all the suddenness, all the +clash and recoil of these impassioned lines are lost by that +‘wished’ in the place of ‘turned.’ +The loss would be the less tolerable in as much as perhaps only +here and in that heart-moving poem, <i>’Tis said that some +have died for love</i>, is Wordsworth to be confessed as an +impassioned poet.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Stepping Westward</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page243">243</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This and the preceding two exquisite poems of sympathy are far +more justified, more recollected and sincere than is that more +monumental composition, the famous poem of sympathy, <i>Hartleap +Well</i>. The most beautiful stanzas of this poem +last-named are so rebuked by the truths of nature that they must +ever stand as obstacles to the straightforward view of sensitive +eyes upon the natural world. Wordsworth shows us the ruins +of an aspen-wood, a blighted hollow, a dreary place forlorn +because an innocent creature, hunted, had there broken its heart +in a leap from the rocks above; grass would not grow, nor shade +linger there—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘This beast not unobserved by Nature +fell,<br /> +His death was mourned by sympathy divine.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And the signs of that sympathy are cruelly asserted to be +these arid woodland ruins—cruelly, because the common sight +of the day <a name="page346"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +346</span>blossoming over the agonies of animals and birds is +made less tolerable by such fictions. We have to shut our +ears to the benign beauty of this stanza especially—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The Being that is in the clouds and air,<br +/> + That is in the green leaves among the groves,<br /> +Maintains a deep and reverential care<br /> + For the unoffending creature whom He +loves.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We must shut our ears because the poet offers us, as a proof +of that ‘reverential care,’ the visible alteration of +nature at the scene of suffering—an alteration we are +obliged to dispense with every day we pass in the woods. We +are tempted to ask whether Wordsworth himself believed in a +sympathy he asks us—upon such grounds!—to believe +in? Did he think his faith to be worthy of no more than a +fictitious sign or a false proof?</p> +<p>To choose from Wordsworth is to draw close a net with very +large meshes—so that the lovely things that escape must +doubtless cause the reader to protest; but the poems gathered +here are not only supremely beautiful but exceedingly +Wordsworthian.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Youth and Age</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page256">256</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Close to the marvellous <i>Kubla Khan</i>—a poem that +wrests the secret of dreams and brings it to the light of +verse—I place <i>Youth and Age</i> as the best specimen of +Coleridge’s poetry that is quite undelirious—to my +mind the only fine specimen. I do not rate his undelirious +poems highly, and even this, charming and nimble as it is, seems +to me rather lean in thought and image. The tenderness of +some of the images comes to a rather lamentable close; the +likeness to ‘some poor nigh-related guest’ with the +three lines that follow is too squalid for poetry, or prose, or +thought.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Rime of the Ancient +Mariner</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page258">258</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This poem is surely more full of a certain quality of extreme +poetry—the simplest ‘flower of the mind,’ the +most single magic—than any other in our language. But +the reader must be permitted to call the story silly.</p> +<h4>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page265">265</a></span>.</h4> +<p>Coleridge used the sun, moon, and stars as a great dream uses +them when the sleeping imagination is obscurely threatened with +illness. All through <i>The Ancient Mariner</i> we see them +like apparitions. It is a pity that he followed the pranks +also of a dream when he impossibly placed a star <i>within</i> +the tip of the crescent.</p> +<h4>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page266">266</a></span>.</h4> +<p>The likeness of ‘the ribbed sea sand’ is said to +be the one passage actually composed by Wordsworth,—who +according to the first plan should have written <i>The Ancient +Mariner</i> with Coleridge—<a name="page347"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 347</span>‘and perhaps the most +beautiful passage in the poem,’ adds one critic after +another. It is no more than a good likeness, and has +nothing whatever of the indescribable Coleridge quality.</p> +<p>Coleridge reveals, throughout this poem, an exaltation of the +senses, which is the most poetical thing that can befall a simple +poet. It is necessary only to refer, for sight, to the +stanza on ‘the moving Moon’ at the bottom of page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page267">267</a></span>; for +hearing, to the supernatural stanzas on page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page271">271</a></span>; and, for +touch, to the line—</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘And still my +body drank.’</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><span class="smcap">Rose Aylmer</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page281">281</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Never was a human name more exquisitely sung than in these +perfect stanzas.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Isles of Greece</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page286">286</a></span>.</h3> +<p>One really fine and poetic stanza—of course, the third; +three stanzas that are good eloquence—the fourth, fifth, +and seventh; and one that is a fair bit of argument—the +tenth—may together perhaps carry the rest.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Hellas</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page290">290</a></span>.</h3> +<p>The profounder spirit of Shelley’s poem yet leaves it a +careless piece of work in comparison with Byron’s. +The two false rhymes at the outset may not be of great +importance, but there is something annoying in the dissyllabic +rhymes of the second stanza. Dissyllabic rhymes are +beautiful and enriching when they fall in the right place; that +is, where there is a pause for the second little syllable to +stand. For example, they could not be better placed than +they would have been at the end of the shorter lines of this same +stanza, where they would have dropped into a part of the +pause. Another sin of sheer heedlessness—the lapse of +grammar in <i>The Skylark</i>, at the top of page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page296">296</a></span>—will +remind the reader of the special habitual error of Drummond of +Hawthornden.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Waning Moon</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page298">298</a></span>.</h3> +<p>In these few lines the Shelley spirit seems to be more intense +than in any other passage as brief.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Ode to the West Wind</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page299">299</a></span>.</h3> +<p>This magnificent poem is surely the greatest of a great +post’s writings, and one of the most splendid poems on +nature and on poetry in a literature resounding with odes on +these enormous themes.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">The Invitation</span>.—Page <span +class="indexpageno"><a href="#page303">303</a></span>.</h3> +<p>No need to point to a poem that so shines as does this lucent +verse.</p> +<h3><a name="page348"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +348</span><span class="smcap">La Belle Dame bans +Merci</span>.—Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page316">316</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Keats is here the magical poet, as he is the intellectual poet +in the great sonnet following; and it is his possession or +promise of both imaginations that proves him greater than +Coleridge. In his day they seem to have found Coleridge to +be a thinker in his poetry. To me he seems to have had +nothing but senses, magic, and simplicity, and these he had to +the utmost yet known to man. Keats was to have been a great +intellectual poet, besides all that in fact he was.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">Ode to a Nightingale</span>.—Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page320">320</a></span>.</h3> +<p>Of the five odes of Keats, the <i>Nightingale</i> is perhaps +the most perfect, and certainly the most imaginative. But +the <i>Grecian Urn</i> is the finest, even though it has fancy +rather than imagination, for never was fancy more +exquisite. The most conspicuous idea—the emptying of +the town because its folk are away at play in the tale of the +antique urn—is merely a fancy, and a most antic +fancy—a prank; it is an irony of man, a rallying of art, a +mockery of time, a burlesque of poetry, divine with +tenderness. The six lines in which this fancy sports are +amongst the loveliest in all literature: the ‘little +town,’ the ‘peaceful citadel,’—were ever +simple adjectives more happy? But John Keats’s final +moral here is undeniably a failure; it says so much and means so +little. The <i>Ode to Autumn</i> is an exterior ode, and +not in so high a rank, but lovely and perfect. The +<i>Psyche</i> I love the least, because its fancy is rather weak +and its sentiment effusive. It has a touch of the deadly +sickliness of <i>Endymion</i>. None the less does it remain +just within the group of the really fine odes of English +poets. The eloquent <i>Melancholy</i> more narrowly escapes +exclusion from that group.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to Her Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote168"></a><a href="#citation168" +class="footnote">[168]</a> Evidently of love.</p> +<p><a name="footnote244"></a><a href="#citation244" +class="footnote">[244]</a> In several parts of the north of +England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of +boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin +is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily +takes a sprig of this boxwood, and throws it into the grave of +the deceased.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLOWER OF THE MIND***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2080-h.htm or 2080-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/8/2080 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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