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diff --git a/old/66619-0.txt b/old/66619-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 71e9cb2..0000000 --- a/old/66619-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,42443 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Oxford Book of English Verse; 1250-1900, -by Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Oxford Book of English Verse; 1250-1900 - -Author: Various - -Editor: Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch - -Release Date: October 27, 2021 [eBook #66619] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE; -1250-1900 *** - - - - - The - Oxford Book - Of English Verse - - 1250-1900 - - - - - _Impression of 1931_ - _First edition, 1900_ - - - - - The - Oxford Book - Of English Verse - 1250-1900 - - Chosen & Edited by - Arthur Quiller-Couch - - Oxford - At the Clarendon Press - - - - - PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN - - TO - - THE PRESIDENT - - FELLOWS AND SCHOLARS - - OF - - TRINITY COLLEGE OXFORD - - A HOUSE OF LEARNING - - ANCIENT LIBERAL HUMANE - - AND MY MOST KINDLY NURSE - - - - -PREFACE - - -For this Anthology I have tried to range over the whole field of English -Verse from the beginning, or from the Thirteenth Century to this closing -year of the Nineteenth, and to choose the best. Nor have I sought in -these Islands only, but wheresoever the Muse has followed the tongue -which among living tongues she most delights to honour. To bring home -and render so great a spoil compendiously has been my capital -difficulty. It is for the reader to judge if I have so managed it as to -serve those who already love poetry and to implant that love in some -young minds not yet initiated. - -My scheme is simple. I have arranged the poets as nearly as possible in -order of birth, with such groupings of anonymous pieces as seemed -convenient. For convenience, too, as well as to avoid a dispute-royal, I -have gathered the most of the Ballads into the middle of the Seventeenth -Century; where they fill a languid interval between two winds of -inspiration--the Italian dying down with Milton and the French following -at the heels of the restored Royalists. For convenience, again, I have -set myself certain rules of spelling. In the very earliest poems -inflection and spelling are structural, and to modernize is to destroy. -But as old inflections fade into modern the old spelling becomes less -and less vital, and has been brought (not, I hope, too abruptly) into -line with that sanctioned by use and familiar. To do this seemed wiser -than to discourage many readers for the sake of diverting others by a -scent of antiquity which--to be essential--should breathe of something -rarer than an odd arrangement of type. But there are scholars whom I -cannot expect to agree with me; and to conciliate them I have excepted -Spenser and Milton from the rule. - -Glosses of archaic and otherwise difficult words are given at the foot -of the page: but the text has not been disfigured with reference-marks. -And rather than make the book unwieldy I have eschewed -notes--reluctantly when some obscure passage or allusion seemed to ask -for a timely word; with more equanimity when the temptation was to -criticize or ‘appreciate.’ For the function of the anthologist includes -criticizing in silence. - -Care has been taken with the texts. But I have sometimes thought it -consistent with the aim of the book to prefer the more beautiful to the -better attested reading. I have often excised weak or superfluous -stanzas when sure that excision would improve; and have not hesitated to -extract a few stanzas from a long poem when persuaded that they could -stand alone as a lyric. The apology for such experiments can only lie in -their success: but the risk is one which, in my judgement, the -anthologist ought to take. A few small corrections have been made, but -only when they were quite obvious. - -The numbers chosen are either lyrical or epigrammatic. Indeed I am -mistaken if a single epigram included fails to preserve at least some -faint thrill of the emotion through which it had to pass before the -Muse’s lips let it fall, with however exquisite deliberation. But the -lyrical spirit is volatile and notoriously hard to bind with -definitions; and seems to grow wilder with the years. With the -anthologist--as with the fisherman who knows the fish at the end of his -sea-line--the gift, if he have it, comes by sense, improved by practice. -The definition, if he be clever enough to frame one, comes by -after-thought. I don’t know that it helps, and am sure that it may -easily mislead. - -Having set my heart on choosing the best, I resolved not to be dissuaded -by common objections against anthologies--that they repeat one another -until the proverb δὶς ἢ τρὶς τὰ καλά loses all application--or perturbed -if my judgement should often agree with that of good critics. The best -is the best, though a hundred judges have declared it so; nor had it -been any feat to search out and insert the second-rate merely because it -happened to be recondite. To be sure, a man must come to such a task as -mine haunted by his youth and the favourites he loved in days when he -had much enthusiasm but little reading. - - A deeper import - Lurks in the legend told my infant years - Than lies upon that truth we live to learn. - -Few of my contemporaries can erase--or would wish to erase--the dye -their minds took from the late Mr. Palgrave’s _Golden Treasury_: and he -who has returned to it again and again with an affection born of -companionship on many journeys must remember not only what the _Golden -Treasury_ includes, but the moment when this or that poem appealed to -him, and even how it lies on the page. To Mr. Bullen’s _Lyrics from the -Elizabethan Song Books_ and his other treasuries I own a more advised -debt. Nor am I free of obligation to anthologies even more recent--to -Archbishop Trench’s _Household Book of Poetry_, Mr. Locker-Lampson’s -_Lyra Elegantiarum_, Mr. Miles’ _Poets and Poetry of the Century_, Mr. -Beeching’s _Paradise of English Poetry_, Mr. Henley’s _English Lyrics_, -Mrs. Sharp’s _Lyra Celtica_, Mr. Yeats’ _Book of Irish Verse_, and Mr. -Churton Collins’ _Treasury of Minor British Poetry_: though my rule has -been to consult these after making my own choice. Yet I can claim that -the help derived from them--though gratefully owned--bears but a -trifling proportion to the labour, special and desultory, which has gone -to the making of my book. - -For the anthologist’s is not quite the _dilettante_ business for which -it is too often and ignorantly derided. I say this, and immediately -repent; since my wish is that the reader should in his own pleasure -quite forget the editor’s labour, which too has been pleasant: that, -standing aside, I may believe this book has made the Muses’ access -easier when, in the right hour, they come to him to uplift or to -console-- - - ἄκλητος μὲν ἔγωγε μὲνοιμί κεν ἐς δὲ καλεύντων - θαρσήσας Μοίσαισι σὺν ἁμετέραισιν ἱκοίμαν - -My thanks are here tendered to those who have helped me with permission -to include recent poems: to Mr. A. C. Benson, Mr. Laurence Binyon, Mr. -Wilfrid Blunt, Mr. Robert Bridges, Mr. John Davidson, Mr. Austin Dobson, -Mr. Aubrey de Vere, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. Bret Harte, Mr. W. E. Henley, -Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson, Mr. W. D. Howells, Dr. Douglas Hyde, Mr. -Rudyard Kipling, Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Richard Le Gallienne, Mr. George -Meredith, Mrs. Meynell, Mr. T. Sturge Moore, Mr. Henry Newbolt, Mr. -Gilbert Parker, Mr. T. W. Rolleston, Mr. George Russell (‘A. E.’), Mrs. -Clement Shorter (Dora Sigerson), Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Francis Thompson, -Dr. Todhunter, Mr. William Watson, Mr. Watts-Dunton, Mrs. Woods, and Mr. -W. B. Yeats; to the Earl of Crewe for a poem by the late Lord Houghton; -to Lady Ferguson, Mrs. Allingham, Mrs. A. H. Clough, Mrs. -Locker-Lampson, Mrs. Coventry Patmore; to the Lady Betty Balfour and the -Lady Victoria Buxton for poems by the late Earl of Lytton and the Hon. -Roden Noel; to the executors of Messrs. Frederic Tennyson (Captain -Tennyson and Mr. W. C. A. Ker), Charles Tennyson Turner (Sir Franklin -Lushington), Edward FitzGerald (Mr. Aldis Wright), William Bell Scott -(Mrs. Sydney Morse and Miss Boyd of Penkill Castle, who has added to her -kindness by allowing me to include an unpublished ‘Sonet’ by her -sixteenth-century ancestor, Mark Alexander Boyd), William Philpot (Mr. -Hamlet S. Philpot), William Morris (Mr. S. C. Cockerell), William -Barnes, and R. L. Stevenson; to the Rev. H. C. Beeching for two poems -from his own works, and leave to use his redaction of _Quia Amore -Langueo_; to Messrs. Macmillan for confirming permission for the -extracts from FitzGerald, Christina Rossetti, and T. E. Brown, and -particularly for allowing me to insert the latest emendations in Lord -Tennyson’s non-copyright poems; to the proprietors of Mr. and Mrs. -Browning’s copyrights and to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for a similar -favour, also for a copyright poem by Mrs. Browning; to Mr. George Allen -for extracts from Ruskin and the author of _Ionica_; to Messrs. G. Bell -& Sons for poems by Thomas Ashe; to Messrs. Chatto & Windus for poems by -Arthur O’Shaughnessy and Dr. George MacDonald, and for confirming Mr. -Bret Harte’s permission; to Mr. Elkin Mathews for a poem by Mr. Bliss -Carman; to Mr. John Lane for two poems by William Brighty Rands; to the -Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge for two extracts from -Christina Rossetti’s _Verses_; and to Mr. Bertram Dobell, who allows me -not only to select from James Thomson but to use a poem of Traherne’s, a -seventeenth-century singer rediscovered by him. To mention all who in -other ways have furthered me is not possible in this short Preface; -which, however, must not conclude without a word of special thanks to -Dr. W. Robertson Nicoll for many suggestions and some pains kindly -bestowed, and to Professor F. York Powell, whose help and wise counsel -have been as generously given as they were eagerly sought, adding me to -the number of those many who have found his learning to be his friends’ -good fortune. - - A.T.Q.C. - -_October 1900_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - -NUMBER PAGE - -1-7. Anonymous. XIII-XIV Century.....1-10 - -8. Robert Mannyng of Brunne. b. 1260, d. 1340......10 - -9. John Barbour. d. 1395.....10-11 - -10-12. Geoffrey Chaucer. b. ? 1340, d. 1400.....11-14 - -13. Thomas Hoccleve. b. 1368-9, d. ? 1450.....14-15 - -14. John Lydgate. b. ? 1370, d. ? 1450.....15 - -15. King James I of Scotland. b. 1394, d. 1437.....15 - -16-17. Robert Henryson. b. 1425, d. ? 1500.....16-25 - -18-21. William Dunbar. b. 1465, d. ? 1520.....25-33 - -22-29. Anonymous. XV-XVI Century.....33-57 - -30-31. John Skelton. b. ? 1460, d. 1529.....57-59 - -32-33. Stephen Hawes. d. 1523.....59-60 - -34-38. Sir Thomas Wyatt. b. 1503, d. 1542.....60-65 - -39-41. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey b. 1516, d. 1547.....65-68 - -42. Nicholas Grimald. b. 1519, d. 1562.....68-69 - -43-44. Alexander Scott. b. ? 1520, d. 158-.....69-71 - -45. Robert Wever. _c._ 1550.....72 - -46. Richard Edwardes. b. 1523, d. 1566.....72-73 - -47. George Gascoigne. b. 1523, d. 1566.....74-75 - -48. Alexander Mongtomerie. b. ? 1540, d. ? 1610.....75-77 - -49. William Stevenson. b. 1530, d. 1575.....77-78 - -50-72. Anonymous. XVI-XVII Century.....79-99 - -73-74. Nicholas Breton. b. 1542, d. 1626.....100-102 - -75-78. Sir Walter Raleigh. b. 1552, d. 1618.....102-104 - -79-84. Edmund Spenser. b. 1552, d. 1599.....104-129 - -85-86. John Lyly. b. 1533, d. 1606.....129-130 - -87. Anthony Munday. b. 1553, d. 1633.....130 - -88-95. Sir Philip Sidney. b. 1554, d. 1586.....131-136 - -96. Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. b. 1554, d. 1628.....136-137 - -97-100. Thomas Lodge. b. ? 1556, d. 1625.....137-141 - -101-102. George Peele. b. ? 1558, d. 1597.....141-143 - -103-105. Robert Greene. b. ? 1560, d. 1592.....143-145 - -106. Alexander Hume. b. 1560, d. 1609.....146-150 - -107. George Chapman. b. 1560, d. 1634.....150 - -108-109. Robert Southwell. b. 1561, d. 1595.....151-153 - -110. Henry Constable. b. ? 1562, d. ? 1613.....153 - -111-113. Samuel Daniel. b. 1562, d. 1619.....153-159 - -114. Mark Alexander Boyd. b. 1563, d. 1601.....160 - -115. Joshua Sylvester, b. 1563, d. 1618......160-161 - -116-120. Michael Drayton. b. 1563, d. 1631.....161-173 - -121. Christopher Marlowe. b. 1564, d. 1593.....173-174 - -122. Sir Walter Raleigh. b. 1552, d. 1618.....174-175 - -123-164. William Shakespeare. b. 1564, d. 1616.....175-200 - -165. Richard Rowlands. b. 1565, d. ? 1630.....200-201 - -166-167. Thomas Nashe. b. 1567, d. 1601.....201-203 - -168-176. Thomas Campion. b. ? 1567, d. 1619.....203-209 - -177. John Reynolds. XVI Century.....209-210 - -178-180. Sir Henry Wotton. b. 1568, d. 1639.....210-212 - -181. Sir John Davies. b. 1569, d. 1626.....212-213 - -182-183. Sir Robert Ayton. b. 1570, d. 1638.....213-215 - -184-194. Ben Jonson. b. 1573, d. 1637.....215-225 - -195-202. John Donne. b. 1573, d. 1631.....225-231 - -203. Richard Barnefield. b. 1574, d. 1627.....232 - -204. Thomas Dekker. b. 1575, d. 1641.....233 - -205-206. Thomas Heywood. b. ? 157-, d. 1650.....233-235 - -207-217. John Fletcher. b. 1579, d. 1625.....235-241 - -218-220. John Webster. d. ? 1630.....242-243 - -221. William Alexander, Earl of Stirling. b. ? 1580, -d. 1640.....243-244 - -222. Phineas Fletcher. b. 1580, d. 1650.....244 - -223. Sir John Beaumont. b. 1583, d. 1627.....245 - -224-232. William Drummond, of Hawthornden. b. 1585, -d. 1649.....245-250 - -233. Giles Fletcher. b. 158-, d. 1623.....250-252 - -234. Francis Beaumont. b. 1586, d. 1616.....252 - -235. John Ford. b. 1586, d. 1639.....253 - -236-239. George Wither. b. 1588, d. 1667.....253-260 - -240-246. William Browne, of Tavistock. b. 1588, d. 1643.....260-264 - -247-275. Robert Herrick. b. 1591, d. 1674.....264-284 - -276-277. Francis Quarles. b. 1592, d. 1644.....285 - -278-280. Henry King, Bishop of Chichester. b. 1592, -d. 1669.....286-290 - -281-286. George Herbert. b. 1593, d. 1632.....290-295 - -287-288. James Shirley. b. 1596, d. 1666.....295-296 - -289-295. Thomas Carew. b ? 1595, d. ? 1639.....297-301 - -296. Jasper Mayne. b. 1604, d. 1672.....301-302 - -297-298. William Habington. b. 1605, d. 1654.....302-304 - -299-300. Thomas Randolph. b. 1605, d. 1635.....305-308 - -301-303. Sir William Davenant. b. 1606, d. 1668.....308-309 - -304-306. Edmund Waller. b. 1606, d. 1687.....310-311 - -307-324. John Milton. b. 1608, d. 1674.....311-347 - -325-328. Sir John Suckling. b. 1609, d. 1642.....347-350 - -329. Sir Richard Fanshawe. b. 1608, d. 1666.....350 - -330-333. William Cartwright. b. 1611, d. 1643.....351-353 - -334. James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. b. 1612, -d. 1650.....353-354 - -335. Thomas Jordan. b. ? 1612, d. 1685.....354-355 - -336-342. Richard Crashaw. b. ? 1613, d. 1649.....355-370 - -343-348. Richard Lovelace. b. 1618, d. 1658.....370-374 - -349-353. Abraham Cowley. b. 1618, d. 1667.....374-380 - -354. Alexander Brome. b. 1620, d. 1666.....381 - -355-361. Andrew Marvell. b. 1621, d. 1678.....382-394 - -362-365. Henry Vaughan. b. 1621, d. 1695.....395-399 - -366. John Bunyan. b. 1628, d. 1688.....399 - -367-392. Anonymous: Ballads.....400-459 - -393. William Strode. b. 1602, d. 1645.....459 - -394. Thomas Stanley. b. 1625, d. 1678.....460 - -395. Thomas D’Urfey. b. 1653, d. 1723.....460-461 - -396. Charles Cotton. b. 1630, d. 1687.....461 - -397. Katherine Philips (‘Orinda’). b. 1631, d. 1664.....462 - -398-402. John Dryden. b. 1631, d. 1700.....462-471 - -403. Charles Webbe. c. 1678.....472 - -404-405. Sir George Etherege. b. 1635, d. 1691.....472-473 - -406. Thomas Traherne. b. ? 1637, d. 1674.....473-475 - -407. Thomas Flatman. b. 1637, d. 1688.....475-476 - -408. Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset. b. 1638, -d. 1706.....476-478 - -409-410. Sir Charles Sedley. b. 1639, d. 1701.....479-480 - -411-412. Aphra Behn. b. 1640, d. 1689.....480-481 - -413-416. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. b. 1647, -d. 1680.....481-484 - -417-418. John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. -b. 1649, d. 1720.....485-486 - -419. Thomas Otway. b. 1652, d. 1685.....486 - -420. John Oldham. b. 1653, d. 1683.....487 - -421. John Cutts, Lord Cutts. b. 1661, d. 1707.....487 - -422-428. Matthew Prior. b. 1664, d. 1721.....488-493 - -429. William Walsh. b. 1663, d. 1708.....493 - -430. Lady Grisel Baillie. b. 1665, d. 1746.....494-495 - -431-432. William Congreve. b. 1670, d. 1729.....495-496 - -433. Joseph Addison. b. 1672, d. 1719.....496-497 - -434-435. Isaac Watts. b. 1674, d. 1748.....497-500 - -436. Thomas Parnell. b. 1679, d. 1718.....501 - -437. Allan Ramsay. b. 1686, d. 1758.....501-502 - -438. William Oldys. b. 1687, d. 1761.....503 - -439. John Gay. b. 1688, d. 1732.....503 - -440-442. Alexander Pope. b. 1688, d. 1744.....504-507 - -443. George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe. -b. 1691, d. 1762.....508 - -444-445. Henry Carey. b. ? 1693, d. 1743.....509-511 - -446-447. William Broome. d. 1745.....511-512 - -448. James Thomson. b. 1700, d. 1748.....512 - -449. George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton. b. 1709, -d. 1773.....512-513 - -450-451. Samuel Johnson. b. 1709, d. 1784.....513-516 - -452. Richard Jago. b. 1715, d. 1781.....516 - -453-456. Thomas Gray. b. 1716, d. 1771.....516-528 - -457-460. William Collins. b. 1721, d. 1759.....528-533 - -461-463. Mark Akenside. b. 1721, d. 1770.....534-537 - -464. Tobias George Smollett. b. 1721, d. 1771.....538 - -465. Christopher Smart. b. 1722, d. 1770.....538-542 - -466. Jane Elliot. b. 1727, d. 1805.....542-543 - -467-468. Oliver Goldsmith. b. 1728, d. 1774.....543-544 - -469. Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore. -b. 1735, d. 1797.....544-545 - -470-471. William Cowper. b. 1731, d. 1800.....545-547 - -472. James Beattie. b. 1735, d. 1803.....548 - -473. Isobel Pagan. b. 1740, d. 1821.....548-549 - -474. Anna Lætitia Barbauld. b. 1743, d. 1825.....549-550 - -475. Fanny Greville. XVIII Century.....550-551 - -476. John Logan. b. 1748, d. 1788.....551-552 - -477. Lady Anne Lindsay. b. 1750, d. 1825.....552-553 - -478. Sir William Jones. b. 1746, d. 1794.....554 - -479. Thomas Chatterton. b. 1752, d. 1770.....554-556 - -480-482. George Crabbe. b. 1754, d. 1832.....556-557 - -483-492. William Blake. b. 1757, d. 1827.....558-566 - -493-506. Robert Burns. b. 1759, d. 1796.....566-577 - -507-508. Henry Rowe. b. 1750, d. 1819.....578-579 - -509. William Lisle Bowles. b. 1762, d. 1850.....579 - -510. Joanna Baillie. b. 1762, d. 1851.....580 - -511. Mary Lamb. b. 1765, d. 1847.....581 - -512. Carolina, Lady Nairne. b. 1766, d. 1845.....581-582 - -513-514. James Hogg. b. 1770, d. 1835.....582-594 - -515-541. William Wordsworth. b. 1770, d. 1850.....594-618 - -542-548. Sir Walter Scott. b. 1771, d. 1832.....619-628 - -549-555. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. b. 1772, d. 1834.....628-658 - -556. Robert Southey. b. 1774, d. 1843.....658-659 - -557-576. Walter Savage Landor. b. 1775, d. 1864.....659-667 - -577-579. Charles Lamb. b. 1775, d. 1834.....668-672 - -580-581. Thomas Campbell. b. 1777, d. 1844.....672-675 - -582-585. Thomas Moore. b. 1779, d. 1852.....675-678 - -586. Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow. b. 1781, -d. 1829.....678-679 - -587-588. Ebenezer Elliott. b. 1781, d. 1849.....679-681 - -589-591. Allan Cunningham. b. 1784, d. 1842.....681-683 - -592. Leigh Hunt. b. 1784, d. 1859.....683 - -593-595. Thomas Love Peacock. b. 1785, d. 1866.....684-687 - -596. Caroline Southey. b. 1787, d. 1854.....687-688 - -597-601. George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron. b. 1788, -d. 1824.....688-694 - -602. Sir Aubrey de Vere. b. 1788, d. 1846.....694-695 - -603-604. Charles Wolfe. b. 1791, d. 1823.....695-697 - -605-618. Percy Bysshe Shelley. b. 1792, d. 1822.....697-717 - -619. Hew Ainslie. b. 1792, d. 1878.....717 - -620. John Keble. b. 1792, d. 1866.....718-720 - -621. John Clare. b. 1793, d. 1864.....720 - -622. Felicia Dorothea Hemans. b. 1793, d. 1835.....721 - -623-637. John Keats. b. 1795, d. 1821.....721-744 - -638. Jeremiah Joseph Callanan. b. 1795, d. 1839.....745 - -639. William Sidney Walker. b. 1795, d. 1846.....746 - -640-642. George Darley. b. 1795, d. 1846.....746-749 - -643-646. Hartley Coleridge. b. 1796, d. 1849.....749-751 - -647-654. Thomas Hood. b. 1798, d. 1845.....752-762 - -655. William Thom. b. 1798, d. 1848.....762-764 - -656. Sir Henry Taylor. b. 1800, d. 1886.....764 - -657. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay. -b. 1800, d. 1859.....765 - -658-659. William Barnes. b. 1801, d. 1886.....765-767 - -660. Winthrop Mackworth Praed. b. 1802, d. 1839.....767-768 - -661-662. Sara Coleridge. b. 1802, d. 1850.....768-770 - -663. Gerald Griffin. b. 1803, d. 1840.....770-772 - -664-665. James Clarence Mangan. b. 1803. d. 1849.....772-776 - -666-668. Thomas Lovell Beddoes. b. 1803, d. 1849.....777-778 - -669-672. Ralph Waldo Emerson. b. 1803, d. 1882.....779-785 - -673. Richard Henry Horne. b. 1803, d. 1884.....785-786 - -674-675. Robert Stephen Hawker. b. 1804, d. 1875.....786-787 - -676. Thomas Wade. b. 1805, d. 1875.....787 - -677. Francis Mahony. b. 1805, d. 1866.....788-790 - -678-687. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. b. 1806, d. 1861.....790-800 - -688. Frederick Tennyson. b. 1807, d. 1898.....800 - -689. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. b. 1807, d. 1882.....801-803 - -690. John Greenleaf Whittier. b. 1807, d. 1892.....804 - -691. Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin. b. 1807, d. 1867.....805-807 - -692. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. b. 1808, -d. 1876.....807-808 - -693. Charles Tennyson Turner. b. 1808, d. 1879.....808 - -694-696. Edgar Allan Poe. b. 1809, d. 1849.....809-814 - -697-698. Edward Fitzgerald. b. 1809, d. 1883.....814-818 - -699-709. Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. b. 1809, -d. 1892.....819-847 - -710. Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton. -b. 1809, d. 1885.....848 - -711. Henry Alford. b. 1810, d. 1871.....849 - -712-714. Sir Samuel Ferguson. b. 1810, d. 1886.....849-851 - -715-730. Robert Browning. b. 1812, d. 1889.....852-867 - -731. William Bell Scott. b. 1812, d. 1890.....867-872 - -732-733. Aubrey De Vere. b. 1814, d. 1902.....872-873 - -734. George Fox. b. 1815.....874 - -735-738. Emily Brontë. b. 1818, d. 1848.....875-879 - -739-740. Charles Kingsley. b. 1819, d. 1875.....879-880 - -741. Arthur Hugh Clough. b. 1819, d. 1861.....880-881 - -742-743. Walt Whitman. b. 1819, d. 1892.....881-882 - -744. John Ruskin. b. 1819, d. 1900.....882 - -745. Ebenezer Jones. b. 1820, d. 1860.....883 - -746. Frederick Locker-Lampson. b. 1821, d. 1895.....884 - -747-754. Matthew Arnold. b. 1822, d. 1888.....885-903 - -755-756. William Brighty Rands. b. 1823, d. 1880.....904-905 - -757. William Philpot. b. 1823, d. 1880.....906-907 - -758-759. William (Johnson) Cory. b. 1823, d. 1892.....907-908 - -760-764. Coventry Patmore. b. 1823, d. 1896.....908-913 - -765-768. Sydney Dobell. b. 1824, d. 1874.....913-921 - -769. William Allingham. b. 1824, d. 1889.....921-923 - -770. George MacDonald. b. 1824, d. 1905.....923 - -771. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. b. 1828, d. 1882.....923-928 - -772-776. George Meredith. b. 1828, d. 1909.....929-942 - -777-778. Alexander Smith. b. 1829, d. 1867.....942-945 - -779-789. Christina Georgina Rossetti. b. 1830, d. 1894.....946-954 - -790-793. Thomas Edward Brown. b. 1830, d. 1897.....955-956 - -794-795. Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. -b. 1831, d. 1892.....957-962 - -796-799. James Thomson. b. 1834, d. 1882.....963-964 - -800-802. William Morris. b. 1834, d. 1896.....965-967 - -803-804. Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. b. 1834, -d. 1894.....967-969 - -805-806. Thomas Ashe. b. 1836, d. 1889.....969-970 - -807. Theodore Watts-Dunton. b. 1836, d. 1914.....970-972 - -808-811. Algernon Charles Swinburne. b. 1837, d. 1909.....972-991 - -812. William Dean Howells. b. 1837.....991 - -813. Bret Harte. b. 1839, d. 1902.....992 - -814-815. John Todhunter. b. 1839, d. 1916.....993-995 - -816-823. Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840.....995-1002 - -824-826. Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840.....1002-1004 - -827. Henry Clarence Kendall. b. 1841, d. 1882.....1004-1006 - -828-830. Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy. b. 1844, -d. 1881.....1006-1010 - -831. John Boyle O’Reilly. b. 1844, d. 1890.....1010 - -832-840. Robert Bridges. b. 1844.....1011-1018 - -841. Andrew Lang. b. 1844, d. 1912.....1018 - -842-844. William Ernest Henley. b. 1849, d. 1903.....1019-1022 - -845. Edmund Gosse. b. 1849.....1022-1023 - -846-848. Robert Louis Stevenson. b. 1850, d. 1894.....1023-1025 - -849. T. W. Rolleston. b. 1857.....1025-1026 - -850-851. John Davidson. b. 1857, d. 1909.....1026-1028 - -852-854. William Watson. b. 1858.....1028-1031 - -855-856. Henry Charles Beeching. b. 1859.....1031-1033 - -857. Bliss Carman. b. 1861.....1033-1034 - -858. Douglas Hyde. b. 1861.....1034-1035 - -859. Arthur Christopher Benson. b. 1862.....1035-1036 - -860. Henry Newbolt. b. 1862.....1036-1037 - -861. Gilbert Parker. b. 1862.....1038 - -862-864. William Butler Yeats. b. 1865.....1038-1039 - -865-867. Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865.....1040-1045 - -868-869. Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866.....1045-1047 - -870-871. Laurence Binyon. b. 1869.....1047 - -872-873. ‘A. E.’ (George William Russell).....1048-1049 - -874. T. Sturge Moore. b. 1870.....1049 - -875. Francis Thompson, b. 1859, d. 1907.....1050-1052 - -876. Henry Cust. b. 1861, d. 1917.....1053 - -877. Katharine Tynan Hinkson. b. 1861.....1053-1054 - -878. Frances Bannerman.....1054-1055 - -879-880. Alice Meynell. b. 1850.....1055-1056 - -881. Dora Sigerson. d. 1918.....1056-1057 - -882. Margaret L. Woods. b. 1856.....1057 - -883. Anonymous.....1058 - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -_1._ _Cuckoo Song_ - -c. 1250 - - Sumer is icumen in, - Lhude sing cuccu! - Groweth sed, and bloweth med, - And springth the wude nu-- - Sing cuccu! - - Awe bleteth after lomb, - Lhouth after calve cu; - Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth, - Murie sing cuccu! - - Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu: - Ne swike thu naver nu; - Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu, - Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu! - - lhude] loud. awe] ewe. lhouth] loweth. sterteth] leaps. swike] - cease. - - - - -ANONYMOUS - - -_2._ _Alison_ - -c. 1300 - - Bytuene Mershe ant Averil - When spray biginneth to spring, - The lutel foul hath hire wyl - On hyre kid to synge: - Ich libbe in love-longinge - For semlokest of alle thynge, - He may me blisse bringe, - Icham in hire bandoun. - An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent, - Ichot from hevene it is me sent, - From alle wymmen my love is lent - Ant lyht on Alisoun. - - On heu hire her is fayr ynoh, - Hire browe broune, hire eye blake; - With lossum chere he on me loh; - With middel smal ant wel y-make; - Bote he me wolle to hire take - For to buen hire owen make, - Long to lyven ichulle forsake - Ant feye fallen adoun. - An hendy hap, etc. - - Nihtes when I wende and wake, - For-thi myn wonges waxeth won; - - on hyre lud] in her language. ich libbe] I live. semlokest] - seemliest. he] she. bandoun] thraldom. hendy] gracious. y hent] - seized, enjoyed. ichot] I wot. lyht] alighted. hire her] her hair. - lossum] lovesome. loh] laughed. bote he] unless she. buen] be. - make] mate. feye] like to die. nihtes] at night. wende] turn. - for-thi] on that account. wonges waxeth won] cheeks grow wan. - - Levedi, al for thine sake - Longinge is y-lent me on. - In world his non so wyter mon - That al hire bountè telle con; - Hire swyre is whittore than the swon, - Ant feyrest may in toune. - An hendy hap, etc. - - Icham for wowyng al for-wake, - Wery so water in wore; - Lest eny reve me my make - Ichabbe y-yerned yore. - Betere is tholien whyle sore - Then mournen evermore. - Geynest under gore, - Herkne to my roun-- - An hendy hap, etc. - - _2._ levedi] lady. y-lent me on] arrived to me. so wyter mon] so - wise a man. swyre] neck. may] maid. for-wake] worn out with vigils. - so water in wore] as water in a weir. reve] rob. y-yerned yore] - long been distressed. tholien] to endure. geynest under gore] - comeliest under woman’s apparel. roun] tale, lay. - - -_3._ _Spring-tide_ - -c. 1300 - - Lenten ys come with love to toune, - With blosmen ant with briddes roune, - That al this blisse bryngeth; - Dayes-eyes in this dales, - Notes suete of nyhtegales, - Vch foul song singeth; - - _3._ to toune] in its turn. - - The threstlecoc him threteth oo, - Away is huere wynter wo, - When woderove springeth; - This foules singeth ferly fele, - Ant wlyteth on huere winter wele, - That al the wode ryngeth. - - The rose rayleth hire rode, - The leves on the lyhte wode - Waxen al with wille; - The mone mandeth hire bleo, - The lilie is lossom to seo, - The fenyl ant the fille; - Wowes this wilde drakes, - Miles murgeth huere makes; - Ase strem that striketh stille, - Mody meneth; so doth mo - (Ichot ycham on of tho) - For loue that likes ille. - - The mone mandeth hire lyht, - So doth the semly sonne bryht. - When briddes singeth breme; - Deowes donketh the dounes, - Deores with huere derne rounes - Domes forte deme; - - him threteth oo] is aye chiding them. huere] their. woderove] - woodruff. ferly fele] marvellous many. wlyteth] whistle, or look. - rayleth hire rode] clothes herself in red. mandeth hire bleo] sends - forth her light. lossom to seo] lovesome to see. fille] thyme. - wowes] woo. miles] males. murgeth] make merry. makes] mates. - striketh] flows, trickles. mody meneth] the moody man makes moan. - so doth mo] so do many. on of tho] one of them. breme] lustily. - deowes] dews. donketh] make dank. deores] dears, lovers. huere - derne rounes] their secret tales. domes forte deme] for to give - (decide) their decisions. - - Wormes woweth under cloude, - Wymmen waxeth wounder proude, - So wel hit wol hem seme, - Yef me shal wonte wille of on, - This wunne weole y wole forgon - Ant wyht in wode be fleme. - - _3._ cloude] clod. wunne weole] wealth of joy. y wole forgon] I - will forgo. wyht] wight. fleme] banished. - - -_4._ _Blow, Northern Wind_ - -c. 1300 - - Ichot a burde in boure bryht, - That fully semly is on syht, - Menskful maiden of myht; - Feir ant fre to fonde; - In al this wurhliche won - A burde of blod ant of bon - Never yete y nuste non - Lussomore in londe. - Blou northerne wynd! - Send thou me my suetyng! - Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou! - - With lokkes lefliche ant longe, - With frount ant face feir to fonge, - With murthes monie mote heo monge, - That brid so breme in boure. - - _4._ Ichot] I know. burde] maiden. menskful] worshipful. feir] - fair. fonde] take, prove. wurhliche] noble. won] multitude. y - nuste] I knew not. lussomore in londe] lovelier on earth. suetyng] - sweetheart. lefliche] lovely. fonge] take between hands. murthes] - mirths, joys. mote heo monge] may she mingle. brid] bird. breme] - full of life. - - With lossom eye grete ant gode, - With browen blysfol under hode, - He that reste him on the Rode, - That leflych lyf honoure. - Blou northerne wynd, etc. - - Hire lure lumes liht, - Ase a launterne a nyht, - Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht, - So feyr heo is ant fyn. - A suetly swyre heo hath to holde. - With armes shuldre ase mon wolde, - Ant fingres feyre forte folde, - God wolde hue were myn! - Blou northerne wynd, etc. - - Heo is coral of godnesse, - Heo is rubie of ryhtfulnesse, - Heo is cristal of clannesse, - Ant baner of bealtè. - Heo is lilie of largesse, - Heo is parvenke of prouesse, - Heo is solsecle of suetnesse, - Ant lady of lealtè. - - For hire love y carke ant care, - For hire love y droupne ant dare, - For hire love my blisse is bare - Ant al ich waxe won, - - Rode] the Cross. lure] face. lumes] beams. bleo] colour. suetly - swyre] darling neck. forte] for to. hue, heo] she. clannesse] - cleanness, purity. parvenke] periwinkle. solsecle] sunflower. won] - wan. - - For hire love in slep y slake, - For hire love al nyht ich wake, - For hire love mournynge y make - More then eny mon. - Blou northerne wynd! - Send thou me my suetyng! - Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou! - - -_5._ _This World’s Joy_ - -c. 1300 - - Wynter wakeneth al my care, - Nou this leves waxeth bare; - Ofte I sike ant mourne sare - When hit cometh in my thoht - Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht. - - Nou hit is, and nou hit nys, - Al so hit ner nere, ywys; - That moni mon seith, soth hit ys: - Al goth bote Godes wille: - Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle. - - Al that gren me graueth grene, - Nou hit faleweth albydene: - Jesu, help that hit be sene - Ant shild us from helle! - For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle. - - _5._ this leves] these leaves. sike] sigh. nys] is not. also hit - ner nere] as though it had never been. soth] sooth. bote] but, - except. thah] though. faleweth] fadeth. albydene] altogether. y not - whider] I know not whither. her duelle] here dwell. - - -_6._ _A Hymn to the Virgin_ - -c. 1300 - - Of on that is so fayr and bright - _Velut maris stella_, - Brighter than the day is light, - _Parens et puella_: - Ic crie to the, thou see to me, - Levedy, preye thi Sone for me, - _Tam pia_, - That ic mote come to thee - _Maria_. - - Al this world was for-lore - _Eva peccatrice_, - Tyl our Lord was y-bore - _De te genetrice_. - With _ave_ it went away - Thuster nyth and comz the day - _Salutis_; - The welle springeth ut of the, - _Virtutis_. - - Levedy, flour of alle thing, - _Rosa sine spina_, - Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king, - _Gratia divina_: - Of alle thu ber’st the pris, - Levedy, quene of paradys - _Electa_: - Mayde milde, moder es - _Effecta_. - - on] one. levedy] lady. thuster] dark. pris] prize. - - - _7._ _Of a rose, a lovely rose,_ - _Of a rose is al myn song._ - -c. 1350 - - Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge, - How this rose began to sprynge; - Swych a rose to myn lykynge - In al this word ne knowe I non. - - The Aungil came fro hevene tour, - To grete Marye with gret honour, - And seyde sche xuld bere the flour - That xulde breke the fyndes bond. - - The flour sprong in heye Bedlem, - That is bothe bryht and schen: - The rose is Mary hevene qwyn, - Out of here bosum the blosme sprong. - - The ferste braunche is ful of myht, - That sprang on Cyrstemesse nyht, - The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht - That is bothe brod and long. - - The secunde braunche sprong to helle, - The fendys power doun to felle: - Therein myht non sowle dwelle; - Blyssid be the time the rose sprong! - - The thredde braunche is good and swote, - It sprang to hevene crop and rote, - Therein to dwellyn and ben our bote; - Every day it schewit in prystes hond. - - lestenyt] listen. word] world. xuld] should. schen] beautiful. - hevene qwyn] heaven’s queen. bote] salvation. - - Prey we to here with gret honour, - Che that bar the blyssid flowr, - Che be our helpe and our socour - And schyd us fro the fyndes bond. - - - - -ROBERT MANNYNG OF BRUNNE - -1260-1340 - - -_8._ _Praise of Women_ - - No thyng ys to man so dere - As wommanys love in gode manere. - A gode womman is mannys blys, - There her love right and stedfast ys. - There ys no solas under hevene - Of alle that a man may nevene - That shulde a man so moche glew - As a gode womman that loveth true. - Ne derer is none in Goddis hurde - Than a chaste womman with lovely worde. - - _8._ nevene] name. glew] gladden. hurde] flock. - - - - -JOHN BARBOUR - -d. 1395 - - -_9._ _Freedom_ - - A! Fredome is a noble thing! - Fredome mays man to haiff liking; - Fredome all solace to man giffis, - He levys at ese that frely levys! - A noble hart may haiff nane ese, - Na ellys nocht that may him plese, - - _9._ liking] liberty. na ellys nocht] nor aught else. - - Gyff fredome fail; for fre liking - Is yarnyt our all othir thing. - Na he that ay has levyt fre - May nocht knaw weill the propyrtè, - The angyr, na the wretchyt dome - That is couplyt to foule thyrldome. - Bot gyff he had assayit it, - Than all perquer he suld it wyt; - And suld think fredome mar to prise - Than all the gold in warld that is. - Thus contrar thingis evirmar - Discoweryngis off the tothir ar. - - _9._ yarnyt] yearned for. perquer] thoroughly, by heart. - - - - -GEOFFREY CHAUCER - -1340?-1400 - - -_10._ _The Love Unfeigned_ - - O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she, - In which that love up groweth with your age, - Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee, - And of your herte up-casteth the visage - To thilke god that after his image - Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre - This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre. - - And loveth him, the which that right for love - Upon a cros, our soules for to beye, - First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove; - For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye, - That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye. - And sin he best to love is, and most meke, - What nedeth feyned loves for to seke? - - _10._ repeyreth] repair ye. starf] died. - - -_11._ _Balade_ - - Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere; - Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun; - Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere; - Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun, - Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun; - Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne; - My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne. - - Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere, - Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun, - And Polixene, that boghten love so dere, - And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun, - Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun; - And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne; - My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne. - - Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere, - And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun, - And Canace, espyed by thy chere, - Ysiphile, betraysed with Jasoun, - Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun; - Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne; - My lady cometh, that al this may distevne. - - _11._ disteyne] bedim. y-fere] together. - - -_12._ _Merciles Beaute_ - -A TRIPLE ROUNDEL - - -1. CAPTIVITY - - Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, - I may the beautè of hem not sustene, - So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. - - And but your word wol helen hastily - My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene, - Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, - I may the beautè of hem not sustene. - - Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully, - That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene; - For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene. - Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, - I may the beautè of hem not sustene, - So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. - - -2. REJECTION - - So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced - Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; - For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. - - Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced; - I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne; - So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced - Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne. - - Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed - So greet beautè, that no man may atteyne - To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. - So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced - Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; - For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. - - -3. ESCAPE - - Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, - I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; - Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. - - halt] holdeth. - - He may answere, and seye this or that; - I do no fors, I speke right as I mene. - Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, - I never thenk to ben in his prison lene. - - Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, - And he is strike out of my bokes clene - For ever-mo; ther is non other mene. - Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, - I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; - Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. - - _12._ sclat] slate - - - - -THOMAS HOCCLEVE - -1368-9?-1450? - - -_13._ _Lament for Chaucer_ - - Allas! my worthi maister honorable, - This landes verray tresor and richesse! - Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable - Unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse - Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse - Of rethorik; for unto Tullius - Was never man so lyk amonges us. - - Also who was hier in philosophie - To Aristotle in our tonge but thou? - The steppes of Virgile in poesie - Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow. - That combre-worlde that the my maister slow-- - Wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf - To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf ... - - _13._ hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew. - - She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while - Til that sum man had egal to the be; - Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle - May never man forth brynge lyk to the, - And hir office needes do mot she: - God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste; - O maister, maister, God thi soule reste! - - - - -JOHN LYDGATE - -1370?-1450? - - -_14._ _Vox ultima Crucis_ - - Tarye no lenger; toward thyn heritage - Hast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere. - Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage; - Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here. - Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere, - Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse. - Come on, my frend, my brother most entere! - For the I offered my blood in sacryfice. - - _14._ bygged] built. palys] palace. - - - - -KING JAMES I OF SCOTLAND - -1394-1437 - - -_15._ _Spring Song of the Birds_ - - Worschippe ye that loveris bene this May, - For of your blisse the Kalendis are begonne, - And sing with us, Away, Winter, away! - Cum, Somer, cum, the suete sesoùn and sonne! - Awake for schame! that have your hevynnis wonne, - And amorously lift up your hedis all, - Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call! - - _15._ suete] sweet. Lufe] Love. - - - - -ROBERT HENRYSON - -1425-1500 - - -_16._ _Robin and Makyne_ - - Robin sat on gude green hill, - Kepand a flock of fe: - Mirry Makyne said him till - ‘Robin, thou rew on me: - I haif thee luvit, loud and still, - Thir yeiris twa or thre; - My dule in dern bot gif thou dill, - Doutless but dreid I de.’ - - Robin answerit ‘By the Rude - Na thing of luve I knaw, - But keipis my scheip undir yon wud: - Lo, quhair they raik on raw. - Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude, - Makyne, to me thou shaw; - Or quhat is luve, or to be lude? - Fain wad I leir that law.’ - - ‘At luvis lair gif thou will leir - Tak thair ane A B C; - Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir, - Wyse, hardy, and free: - So that no danger do thee deir - Quhat dule in dern thou dre; - Preiss thee with pain at all poweir - Be patient and previe.’ - - kepand] keeping. fe] sheep, cattle. him till] to him. dule in dern] - sorrow in secret. dill] soothe. but dreid] without dread, i. e. - there is no fear or doubt. raik on raw] range in row. lude] loved. - leir] learn. lair] lore. heynd] gentle. feir] demeanour. deir] - daunt. dre] endure. preiss] endeavour. - - Robin answerit hir agane, - ‘I wat nocht quhat is lufe; - But I haif mervel in certaine - Quhat makis thee this wanrufe: - The weddir is fair, and I am fain; - My scheip gois haill aboif; - And we wald pley us in this plane, - They wald us baith reproif.’ - - ‘Robin, tak tent unto my tale, - And wirk all as I reid, - And thou sall haif my heart all haill, - Eik and my maiden-heid: - Sen God sendis bute for baill, - And for murnyng remeid, - In dern with thee bot gif I daill - Dowtles I am bot deid.’ - - ‘Makyne, to-morn this ilka tyde - And ye will meit me heir, - Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde, - Quhyle we haif liggit full neir; - But mawgre haif I, and I byde, - Fra they begin to steir; - Quhat lyis on heart I will nocht hyd; - Makyn, then mak gude cheir.’ - - ‘Robin, thou reivis me roiff and rest; - I luve bot thee allane.’ - ‘Makyne, adieu! the sone gois west, - The day is neir-hand gane.’ - - wanrufe] unrest. haill] healthy, whole. aboif] above, up yonder. - and] if. tak tent] give heed. reid] advise. bute for baill] remedy - for hurt. bot gif] but if, unless. daill] deal. mawgre haif I] I am - uneasy. reivis] robbest. roiff] quiet. - - ‘Robin, in dule I am so drest - That luve will be my bane.’ - ‘Ga luve, Makyne, quhair-evir thow list, - For lemman I luve nane.’ - - ‘Robin, I stand in sic a styll, - I sicht and that full sair.’ - ‘Makyne, I haif been here this quhyle; - At hame God gif I wair.’ - ‘My huny, Robin, talk ane quhyll, - Gif thow will do na mair.’ - ‘Makyn, sum uthir man begyle, - For hamewart I will fair.’ - - Robin on his wayis went - As light as leif of tre; - Makyne murnit in hir intent, - And trowd him nevir to se. - Robin brayd attour the bent: - Then Makyne cryit on hie, - ‘Now may thow sing, for I am schent! - Quhat alis lufe at me?’ - - Makyne went hame withowttin fail, - Full wery eftir cowth weip; - Then Robin in a ful fair daill - Assemblit all his scheip. - Be that sum part of Makynis aill - Out-throw his hairt cowd creip; - He fallowit hir fast thair till assaill, - And till her tuke gude keip. - - drest] beset. lemman] mistress. sicht] sigh. in hir intent] in her - inward thought. brayd] strode. bent] coarse grass. schent] - destroyed. alis] ails. be that] by the time that. till] to. tuke - keip] paid attention. - - ‘Abyd, abyd, thow fair Makyne, - A word for ony thing; - For all my luve, it sall be thyne, - Withowttin departing. - All haill thy hairt for till haif myne - Is all my cuvating; - My scheip to-morn, quhyle houris nyne, - Will neid of no keping.’ - - ‘Robin, thow hes hard soung and say, - In gestis and storeis auld, - The man that will nocht quhen he may - Sall haif nocht quhen he wald. - I pray to Jesu every day, - Mot eik thair cairis cauld - That first preissis with thee to play - Be firth, forrest, or fauld.’ - - ‘Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, - The weddir is warme and fair, - And the grene woid rycht neir us by - To walk attour all quhair: - Thair ma na janglour us espy, - That is to lufe contrair; - Thairin, Makyne, baith ye and I, - Unsene we ma repair.’ - - ‘Robin, that warld is all away, - And quyt brocht till ane end: - And nevir agane thereto, perfay, - Sall it be as thow wend; - - hard] heard. gestis] romances. mot eik] may add to. be] by. - janglour] talebearer. wend] weened. - - For of my pane thow maid it play; - And all in vane I spend: - As thow hes done, sa sall I say, - “Murne on, I think to mend.”’ - - ‘Makyne, the howp of all my heill, - My hairt on thee is sett; - And evirmair to thee be leill - Quhill I may leif but lett; - Never to faill as utheris feill, - Quhat grace that evir I gett.’ - ‘Robin, with thee I will nocht deill; - Adieu! for thus we mett.’ - - Makyne went hame blyth anneuche - Attour the holttis hair; - Robin murnit, and Makyne leuche; - Scho sang, he sichit sair: - And so left him baith wo and wreuch, - In dolour and in cair, - Kepand his hird under a huche - Amangis the holttis hair. - - _16._ howp] hope. but lett] without hindrance. anneuche] enough. - holttis hair] grey woodlands. leuche] laughed. wreuch] peevish. - huche] heuch, cliff. - - -_17._ _The Bludy Serk_ - - This hinder yeir I hard be tald - Thair was a worthy King; - Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald, - He had at his bidding. - - _17._ hinder yeir] last year. - - The Lord was ancean and ald, - And sexty yeiris cowth ring; - He had a dochter fair to fald, - A lusty Lady ying. - - Off all fairheid scho bur the flour, - And eik hir faderis air; - Off lusty laitis and he honour, - Meik bot and debonair: - Scho wynnit in a bigly bour, - On fold wes nane so fair, - Princis luvit hir paramour - In cuntreis our allquhair. - - Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King - A foull Gyand of ane; - Stollin he has the Lady ying, - Away with hir is gane, - And kest her in his dungering - Quhair licht scho micht se nane; - Hungir and cauld and grit thristing - Scho fand into hir waine. - - He wes the laithliest on to luk - That on the grund mycht gang: - His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk, - Thairwith fyve quarteris lang; - - ring] reign. fald] enfold. ying] young. fairheid] beauty. air] - heir. laitis] manners. bot and] and also. scho wynnit] she dwelt. - bigly] well-built. fold] earth. paramour] lovingly. our allquhair] - all the world over. a lyt besyde] a little, (i. e. close) beside. - of ane] as any. kest] cast. dungering] dungeon. into hir waine] in - her lodging. hellis cruk] hell-claw. - - Thair wes nane that he ourtuk, - In rycht or yit in wrang, - Bot all in schondir he thame schuk, - The Gyand wes so strang. - - He held the Lady day and nycht - Within his deip dungeoun, - He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht - For gold nor yit ransoun-- - Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht, - To fecht with his persoun, - To fecht with him beth day and nycht, - Quhill ane wer dungin doun. - - The King gart seik baith fer and neir, - Beth be se and land, - Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir - Wald fecht with that Gyand: - A worthy Prince, that had no peir, - Hes tane the deid on hand - For the luve of the Lady cleir, - And held full trew cunnand. - - That Prince come prowdly to the toun - Of that Gyand to heir, - And fawcht with him, his awin persoun, - And tuke him presoneir, - And kest him in his awin dungeoun - Allane withouten feir, - With hungir, cauld, and confusioun, - As full weill worthy weir. - - quhill] until. dungin doun] beaten down. his awin persoun] himself. - withouten feir] without companion. - - Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht - Unto her fadir fre. - Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht - That he behuvit to de; - Unlusum was his likame dicht, - His sark was all bludy; - In all the world was thair a wicht - So peteouss for to se? - - The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane, - With all her mekill mycht-- - ‘I luvit nevir lufe bot ane, - That dulfully now is dicht; - God sen my lyfe were fra me tane - Or I had seen yone sicht, - Or ellis in begging evir to gane - Furth with yone curtass knycht.’ - - He said ‘Fair lady, now mone I - De, trestly ye me trow; - Take ye my serk that is bludy, - And hing it forrow yow; - First think on it, and syne on me, - Quhen men cumis yow to wow.’ - The Lady said ‘Be Mary fre, - Thairto I mak a vow.’ - - Quhen that scho lukit to the sark - Scho thocht on the persoun, - And prayit for him with all hir hart - That lowsit hir of bandoun, - - the bricht] the fair one. likame] body. lowsit hir of. bandoun] - loosed her from thraldom. - - Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk - Into that deip dungeoun; - And evir quhill scho wes in quert, - That was hir a lessoun. - - Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht - That no man wald scho tak: - Sa suld we do our God of micht - That did all for us mak; - Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht, - For sinfull manis sak, - Sa suld we do beth day and nycht, - With prayaris to him mak. - - This King is lyk the Trinitie, - Baith in hevin and heir; - The manis saule to the Lady, - The Gyand to Lucefeir, - The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre - And coft our synnis deir; - The pit to Hele with panis fell, - The Syn to the woweir. - - The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay - With men that wald hir wed; - Sa suld we wryth all sin away - That in our breist is bred. - I pray to Jesu Chryst verray, - For ws his blud that bled, - To be our help on domisday - Quhair lawis ar straitly led. - - quert] prison. coft] bought. straitly led] strictly carried out. - - The saule is Godis dochtir deir, - And eik his handewerk, - That was betrayit with Lucefeir, - Quha sittis in hell full merk: - Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir, - Hend men, will ye nocht herk? - And for his lufe that bocht us deir - Think on the BLUDY SERK! - - _17._ hend] gentle. - - - - -WILLIAM DUNBAR - -1465-1520? - - -_18._ _To a Lady_ - - Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness, - Delytsum lily of everie lustynes, - Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear, - And everie vertew that is wenit dear, - Except onlie that ye are mercyless. - - Into your garth this day I did persew; - There saw I flowris that fresche were of hew; - Baith quhyte and reid most lusty were to seyne, - And halesome herbis upon stalkis greene; - Yet leaf nor flowr find could I nane of rew. - - I doubt that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne, - Has slain this gentil herb, that I of mene; - Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine - That I would make to plant his root againe,-- - So confortand his levis unto me bene. - - _18._ rois] rose. wenit] weened, esteemed. garth] garden-close. to - seyne] to see. that I of mene] that I complain of, mourn for. - - -_19._ _In Honour of the City of London_ - - London, thou art of townes _A per se_. - Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight, - Of high renoun, riches and royaltie; - Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght; - Of most delectable lusty ladies bright; - Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall; - Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght: - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troynovaunt, - Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy; - In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant, - Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure and of joy, - A richer restith under no Christen roy; - For manly power, with craftis naturall, - Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy: - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie, - Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour; - Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie; - Of royall cities rose and geraflour; - Empress of townes, exalt in honour; - In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall; - Swete paradise precelling in pleasure; - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne, - Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare, - Under thy lusty wallys renneth down, - Where many a swan doth swymme with wyngis fair; - - gladdith] rejoice. Troynovaunt] Troja nova or Trinovantum. - fourmeth] appeareth. geraflour] gillyflower. - - Where many a barge doth saile and row with are; - Where many a ship doth rest with top-royall. - O, towne of townes! patrone and not compare, - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white - Been merchauntis full royall to behold; - Upon thy stretis goeth many a semely knyght - In velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold. - By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old - May be the hous of Mars victoryall, - Whose artillary with tonge may not be told: - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - Strong be thy wallis that about thee standis; - Wise be the people that within thee dwellis; - Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis; - Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis; - Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis; - Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small; - Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis: - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce, - With sword of justice thee ruleth prudently. - No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce - In dignitye or honour goeth to hym nigh. - He is exampler, loode-ster, and guye; - Principall patrone and rose orygynalle, - Above all Maires as maister most worthy: - London, thou art the flour of Cities all. - - are] oar. small] slender. kellis] hoods, head-dresses. guye] guide. - - -_20._ _On the Nativity of Christ_ - - _Rorate coeli desuper_! - Hevins, distil your balmy schouris! - For now is risen the bricht day-ster, - Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris: - The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris, - Surmounting Phebus in the Est, - Is cumin of his hevinly touris: - _Et nobis Puer natus est_. - - Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis, - Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir, - And all ye hevinly operationis, - Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir, - Fire, erd, air, and water cleir, - To Him gife loving, most and lest, - That come in to so meik maneir; - _Et nobis Puer natus est_. - - Synnaris be glad, and penance do, - And thank your Maker hairtfully; - For he that ye micht nocht come to - To you is cumin full humbly - Your soulis with his blood to buy - And loose you of the fiendis arrest-- - And only of his own mercy; - _Pro nobis Puer natus est_. - - All clergy do to him inclyne, - And bow unto that bairn benyng, - And do your observance divyne - To him that is of kingis King: - - schouris] showers. cumin] come, entered. seir] various. erd] earth. - lest] least. synnaris] sinners. benyng] benign. - - Encense his altar, read and sing - In holy kirk, with mind degest, - Him honouring attour all thing - _Qui nobis Puer natus est_. - - Celestial foulis in the air, - Sing with your nottis upon hicht, - In firthis and in forrestis fair - Be myrthful now at all your mycht; - For passit is your dully nicht, - Aurora has the cloudis perst, - The Sone is risen with glaidsum licht, - _Et nobis Puer natus est_. - - Now spring up flouris fra the rute, - Revert you upward naturaly, - In honour of the blissit frute - That raiss up fro the rose Mary; - Lay out your levis lustily, - Fro deid take life now at the lest - In wirschip of that Prince worthy - _Qui nobis Puer natus est_. - - Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht! - Regions of air mak armony! - All fish in flud and fowl of flicht - Be mirthful and mak melody! - All Gloria in excelsis cry! - Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,-- - He that is crownit abone the sky - _Pro nobis Puer natus est_! - - attour] over, above. perst] pierced. raiss] rose. best] beast. - - -_21._ _Lament for the Makers_ - - I that in heill was and gladnèss - Am trublit now with great sickness - And feblit with infirmitie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Our plesance here is all vain glory, - This fals world is but transitory, - The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - The state of man does change and vary, - Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, - Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - No state in Erd here standis sicker; - As with the wynd wavis the wicker - So wannis this world’s vanitie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Unto the Death gois all Estatis, - Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, - Baith rich and poor of all degree:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He takis the knichtis in to the field - Enarmit under helm and scheild; - Victor he is at all mellie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - heill] health. bruckle] brittle, feeble. slee] sly. dansand] - dancing. sicker] sure. wicker] willow. wannis] wanes. mellie] - mellay. - - That strong unmerciful tyrand - Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, - The babe full of benignitie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He takis the campion in the stour, - The captain closit in the tour, - The lady in bour full of bewtie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He spairis no lord for his piscence, - Na clerk for his intelligence; - His awful straik may no man flee:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Art-magicianis and astrologgis, - Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, - Them helpis no conclusionis slee:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - In medecine the most practicianis, - Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, - Themself from Death may not supplee:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - I see that makaris amang the lave - Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; - Sparit is nocht their facultie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He has done petuously devour - The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, - The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me._ - - sowkand] sucking. campion] champion. stour] fight. piscence] - puissance. straik] stroke. supplee] save. makaris] poets. the lave] - the leave, the rest. padyanis] pageants. - - The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun, - Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, - He has tane out of this cuntrie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - That scorpion fell has done infeck - Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek, - Fra ballat-making and tragedie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Holland and Barbour he has berevit; - Alas! that he not with us levit - Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, - That made the anteris of Gawaine; - Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill - Slain with his schour of mortal hail, - Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He has reft Merseir his endite, - That did in luve so lively write, - So short, so quick, of sentence hie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - He has tane Rowll of Aberdene, - And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; - Two better fallowis did no man see:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - anteris] adventures. schour] shower. endite] inditing. fallowis] - fellows. - - In Dunfermline he has tane Broun - With Maister Robert Henrysoun; - Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - And he has now tane, last of a, - Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, - Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Good Maister Walter Kennedy - In point of Death lies verily; - Great ruth it were that so suld be:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Sen he has all my brether tane, - He will naught let me live alane; - Of force I man his next prey be:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - Since for the Death remeid is none, - Best is that we for Death dispone, - After our death that live may we:-- - _Timor Mortis conturbat me_. - - _21._ wichtis] wights, persons. man] must. dispone] make - disposition. - - - - -ANONYMOUS - -15th Cent. - - -_22._ _May in the Green-Wood_ - - In somer when the shawes be sheyne, - And leves be large and long, - Hit is full merry in feyre foreste - To here the foulys song. - - _22._ sheyne] bright. - - To se the dere draw to the dale - And leve the hilles hee, - And shadow him in the leves grene - Under the green-wode tree. - - Hit befell on Whitsontide - Early in a May mornyng, - The Sonne up faire can shyne, - And the briddis mery can syng. - - ‘This is a mery mornyng,’ said Litulle Johne, - ‘Be Hym that dyed on tre; - A more mery man than I am one - Lyves not in Christiantè. - - ‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’ - Litulle Johne can say, - ‘And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme - In a mornynge of May.’ - - -_23._ _Carol_ - -15th Cent. - - I sing of a maiden - That is makeles; - King of all kings - To her son she ches. - - He came al so still - There his mother was, - As dew in April - That falleth on the grass. - - _23._ makeles] matchless. ches] chose. - - He came al so still - To his mother’s bour, - As dew in April - That falleth on the flour. - - He came al so still - There his mother lay, - As dew in April - That falleth on the spray. - - Mother and maiden - Was never none but she; - Well may such a lady - Goddes mother be. - - -_24._ _Quia Amore Langueo_ - -15th Cent. (?) - - In a valley of this restles mind - I sought in mountain and in mead, - Trusting a true love for to find. - Upon an hill then took I heed; - A voice I heard (and near I yede) - In great dolour complaining tho: - See, dear soul, how my sides bleed - _Quia amore langueo_. - - Upon this hill I found a tree, - Under a tree a man sitting; - From head to foot wounded was he; - His hearte blood I saw bleeding: - A seemly man to be a king, - A gracious face to look unto. - I askèd why he had paining; - [He said,] _Quia amore langueo_. - - _24._ yede] went. - - I am true love that false was never; - My sister, man’s soul, I loved her thus. - Because we would in no wise dissever - I left my kingdom glorious. - I purveyed her a palace full precious; - She fled, I followed, I loved her so - That I suffered this pain piteous - _Quia amore langueo_. - - My fair love and my spouse bright! - I saved her from beating, and she hath me bet; - I clothed her in grace and heavenly light; - This bloody shirt she hath on me set; - For longing of love yet would I not let; - Sweete strokes are these: lo! - I have loved her ever as I her het - _Quia amore langueo_. - - I crowned her with bliss and she me with thorn; - I led her to chamber and she me to die; - I brought her to worship and she me to scorn; - I did her reverence and she me villany. - To love that loveth is no maistry; - Her hate made never my love her foe: - Ask me then no question why-- - _Quia amore langueo_. - - Look unto mine handes, man! - These gloves were given me when I her sought; - They be not white, but red and wan; - Embroidered with blood my spouse them brought. - They will not off; I loose hem nought: - - het] promised. - - I woo her with hem wherever she go. - These hands for her so friendly fought - _Quia amore langueo_. - - Marvel not, man, though I sit still. - See, love hath shod me wonder strait: - Buckled my feet, as was her will, - With sharpe nails (well thou may’st wait!) - In my love was never desait; - All my membres I have opened her to; - My body I made her herte’s bait - _Quia amore langueo_. - - In my side I have made her nest; - Look in, how weet a wound is here! - This is her chamber, here shall she rest, - That she and I may sleep in fere. - Here may she wash, if any filth were; - Here is seat for all her woe; - Come when she will, she shall have cheer - _Quia amore langueo_. - - I will abide till she be ready, - I will her sue if she say nay; - If she be retchless I will be greedy, - If she be dangerous I will her pray; - If she weep, then bide I ne may: - Mine arms ben spread to clip her me to. - Cry once, I come: now, soul, assay - _Quia amore langueo_. - - Fair love, let us go play: - Apples ben ripe in my gardayne. - - bait] resting-place. weet] wet. in fere] together. - - I shall thee clothe in a new array, - Thy meat shall be milk, honey and wine. - Fair love, let us go dine: - Thy sustenance is in my crippe, lo! - Tarry thou not, my fair spouse mine, - _Quia amore langueo_. - - If thou be foul, I shall thee make clean; - If thou be sick, I shall thee heal; - If thou mourn ought, I shall thee mene; - Why wilt thou not, fair love, with me deal? - Foundest thou ever love so leal? - What wilt thou, soul, that I shall do? - I may not unkindly thee appeal - _Quia amore langueo_. - - What shall I do now with my spouse - But abide her of my gentleness, - Till that she look out of her house - Of fleshly affection? love mine she is; - Her bed is made, her bolster is bliss, - Her chamber is chosen; is there none mo. - Look out on me at the window of kindeness - _Quia amore langueo_. - - My love is in her chamber: hold your peace! - Make ye no noise, but let her sleep. - My babe I would not were in disease, - I may not hear my dear child weep. - With my pap I shall her keep; - Ne marvel ye not though I tend her to: - This wound in my side had ne’er be so deep - But _Quia amore langueo_. - - crippe] scrip. mene] care for. - - Long thou for love never so high, - My love is more than thine may be. - Thou weepest, thou gladdest, I sit thee by: - Yet wouldst thou once, love, look unto me! - Should I always feede thee - With children meat? Nay, love, not so! - I will prove thy love with adversitè - _Quia amore langueo_. - - Wax not weary, mine own wife! - What mede is aye to live in comfort? - In tribulation I reign more rife - Ofter times than in disport. - In weal and in woe I am aye to support: - Mine own wife, go not me fro! - Thy mede is marked, when thou art mort: - _Quia amore langueo_. - - -_25._ _The Nut-Brown Maid_ - -15th Cent. - - _He._ _Be it right or wrong, these men among_ - _On women do complain;_ - _Affirming this, how that it is_ - _A labour spent in vain_ - _To love them wele; for never a dele_ - _They love a man again:_ - _For let a man do what he can_ - _Their favour to attain,_ - _Yet if a new to them pursue,_ - _Their first true lover than_ - _Laboureth for naught; for from her thought_ - _He is a banished man._ - - _25._ never a dele] never a bit. than] then. - - _She._ _I say not nay, but that all day_ - _It is both written and said_ - _That woman’s faith is, as who saith,_ - _All utterly decayd:_ - _But nevertheless, right good witnèss_ - _In this case might be laid_ - _That they love true and continue:_ - _Record the Nut-brown Maid,_ - _Which, when her love came her to prove,_ - _To her to make his moan,_ - _Would not depart; for in her heart_ - _She loved but him alone._ - - _He._ _Then between us let us discuss_ - _What was all the manere_ - _Between them two: we will also_ - _Tell all the pain in fere_ - _That she was in. Now I begin,_ - _So that ye me answere:_ - _Wherefore all ye that present be,_ - _I pray you, give an ear._ - _I am the Knight. I come by night,_ - _As secret as I can,_ - _Saying_, Alas! thus standeth the case, - I am a banished man. - - _She._ _And I your will for to fulfil_ - _In this will not refuse;_ - _Trusting to show, in wordes few,_ - _That men have an ill use--_ - _To their own shame--women to blame,_ - _And causeless them accuse._ - - in fere] in company together. - - _Therefore to you I answer now,_ - _All women to excuse--_ - Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer? - I pray you, tell anone; - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ It standeth so: a deed is do - Whereof great harm shall grow: - My destiny is for to die - A shameful death, I trow; - Or else to flee. The t’ one must be. - None other way I know - But to withdraw as an outlàw, - And take me to my bow. - Wherefore adieu, mine own heart true! - None other rede I can: - For I must to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ O Lord, what is this worldis bliss, - That changeth as the moon! - My summer’s day in lusty May - Is darked before the noon. - I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay, - We dèpart not so soon. - Why say ye so? whither will ye go? - Alas! what have ye done? - All my welfàre to sorrow and care - Should change, if ye were gone: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - rede I can] counsel I know. - - _He._ I can believe it shall you grieve, - And somewhat you distrain; - But afterward, your paines hard - Within a day or twain - Shall soon aslake; and ye shall take - Comfort to you again. - Why should ye ought? for, to make thought, - Your labour were in vain. - And thus I do; and pray you to, - As hartely as I can: - For I must to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Now, sith that ye have showed to me - The secret of your mind, - I shall be plain to you again, - Like as ye shall me find. - Sith it is so that ye will go, - I will not live behind. - Shall never be said the Nut-brown Maid - Was to her love unkind. - Make you readý, for so am I, - Although it were anone: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ Yet I you rede to take good heed - What men will think and say: - Of young, of old, it shall be told - That ye be gone away - Your wanton will for to fulfil, - In green-wood you to play; - And that ye might for your delight - No longer make delay - Rather than ye should thus for me - Be called an ill womàn - Yet would I to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Though it be sung of old and young - That I should be to blame, - Theirs be the charge that speak so large - In hurting of my name: - For I will prove that faithful love - It is devoid of shame; - In your distress and heaviness - To part with you the same: - And sure all tho that do not so - True lovers are they none: - For in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ I counsel you, Remember how - It is no maiden’s law - Nothing to doubt, but to run out - To wood with an outlàw. - For ye must there in your hand bear - A bow readý to draw; - And as a thief thus must you live - Ever in dread and awe; - Whereby to you great harm might grow: - Yet had I liever than - That I had to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - part with] share with. tho] those. - - _She._ I think not nay but as ye say; - It is no maiden’s lore; - But love may make me for your sake, - As I have said before, - To come on foot, to hunt and shoot, - To get us meat and store; - For so that I your company - May have, I ask no more. - From which to part it maketh my heart - As cold as any stone; - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ For an outlàw this is the law, - That men him take and bind: - Without pitie, hangèd to be, - And waver with the wind. - If I had need (as God forbede!) - What socours could ye find? - Forsooth I trow, you and your bow - For fear would draw behind. - And no mervail; for little avail - Were in your counsel than: - Wherefore I’ll to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Right well know ye that women be - But feeble for to fight; - No womanhede it is, indeed, - To be bold as a knight: - Yet in such fear if that ye were - With enemies day and night, - I would withstand, with bow in hand, - To grieve them as I might, - And you to save; as women have - From death men many one: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ Yet take good hede; for ever I drede - That ye could not sustain - The thorny ways, the deep vallèys, - The snow, the frost, the rain, - The cold, the heat; for dry or wete, - We must lodge on the plain; - And, us above, no other roof - But a brake bush or twain: - Which soon should grieve you, I believe; - And ye would gladly than - That I had to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Sith I have here been partynere - With you of joy and bliss, - I must alsò part of your woe - Endure, as reason is: - Yet I am sure of one pleasùre, - And shortly it is this-- - That where ye be, me seemeth, pardé, - I could not fare amiss. - Without more speech I you beseech - That we were shortly gone; - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - - _He._ If ye go thyder, ye must consider, - When ye have lust to dine, - There shall no meat be for to gete, - Nether bere, ale, ne wine, - Ne shetès clean, to lie between, - Made of thread and twine; - None other house, but leaves and boughs, - To cover your head and mine. - Lo, mine heart sweet, this ill diète - Should make you pale and wan: - Wherefore I’ll to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Among the wild deer such an archère, - As men say that ye be, - Ne may not fail of good vitayle - Where is so great plentè: - And water clear of the rivere - Shall be full sweet to me; - With which in hele I shall right wele - Endure, as ye shall see; - And, or we go, a bed or two - I can provide anone; - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ Lo yet, before, ye must do more, - If ye will go with me: - As, cut your hair up by your ear, - Your kirtle by the knee; - With bow in hand for to withstand - Your enemies, if need be: - - hele] health. - - And this same night, before daylight, - To woodward will I flee. - If that ye will all this fulfil, - Do it shortly as ye can: - Else will I to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ I shall as now do more for you - Than ’longeth to womanhede; - To short my hair, a bow to bear, - To shoot in time of need. - O my sweet mother! before all other - For you I have most drede! - But now, adieu! I must ensue - Where fortune doth me lead. - All this make ye: Now let us flee; - The day cometh fast upon: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ Nay, nay, not so; ye shall not go, - And I shall tell you why-- - Your appetite is to be light - Of love, I well espy: - For, right as ye have said to me, - In likewise hardily - Ye would answere whosoever it were, - In way of companý: - It is said of old, Soon hot, soon cold; - And so is a womàn: - Wherefore I to the wood will go, - Alone, a banished man. - - - _She._ If ye take heed, it is no need - Such words to say to me; - For oft ye prayed, and long assayed, - Or I loved you, pardè: - And though that I of ancestry - A baron’s daughter be, - Yet have you proved how I you loved, - A squire of low degree; - And ever shall, whatso befall - To die therefore anone; - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ A baron’s child to be beguiled, - It were a cursèd deed! - To be felàw with an outlaw-- - Almighty God forbede! - Yet better were the poor squyere - Alone to forest yede - Than ye shall say another day - That by my cursèd rede - Ye were betrayed. Wherefore, good maid, - The best rede that I can, - Is, that I to the green-wood go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Whatever befall, I never shall - Of this thing be upbraid: - But if ye go, and leave me so, - Then have ye me betrayed. - Remember you wele, how that ye dele; - For if ye, as ye said, - - yede] went. - - Be so unkind to leave behind - Your love, the Nut-brown Maid, - Trust me trulý that I shall die - Soon after ye be gone: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ If that ye went, ye should repent; - For in the forest now - I have purveyed me of a maid - Whom I love more than you: - Another more fair than ever ye were - I dare it well avow; - And of you both each should be wroth - With other, as I trow: - It were mine ease to live in peace; - So will I, if I can: - Wherefore I to the wood will go, - Alone, a banished man. - - _She._ Though in the wood I understood - Ye had a paramour, - All this may nought remove my thought, - But that I will be your’: - And she shall find me soft and kind - And courteis every hour; - Glad to fulfil all that she will - Command me, to my power: - For had ye, lo, an hundred mo, - Yet would I be that one: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - - _He._ Mine own dear love, I see the prove - That ye be kind and true; - Of maid, of wife, in all my life, - The best that ever I knew. - Be merry and glad; be no more sad; - The case is changèd new; - For it were ruth that for your truth - Ye should have cause to rue. - Be not dismayed, whatsoever I said - To you when I began: - I will not to the green-wood go; - I am no banished man. - - _She._ These tidings be more glad to me - Than to be made a queen, - If I were sure they should endure; - But it is often seen - When men will break promise they speak - The wordis on the splene. - Ye shape some wile me to beguile, - And steal from me, I ween: - Then were the case worse than it was, - And I more wo-begone: - For, in my mind, of all mankind - I love but you alone. - - _He._ Ye shall not nede further to drede: - I will not disparàge - You (God defend), sith you descend - Of so great a linàge. - Now understand: to Westmoreland, - Which is my heritage, - - on the splene] that is, in haste. - - I will you bring; and with a ring, - By way of marriàge - I will you take, and lady make, - As shortly as I can: - Thus have you won an Earles son, - And not a banished man. - - _Here may ye see that women be_ - _In love meek, kind, and stable;_ - _Let never man reprove them than,_ - _Or call them variable;_ - _But rather pray God that we may_ - _To them be comfortable;_ - _Which sometime proveth such as He loveth,_ - _If they be charitable._ - _For sith men would that women should_ - _Be meek to them each one;_ - _Much more ought they to God obey,_ - _And serve but Him alone._ - - -_26._ _As ye came from the Holy Land_ - -16th Cent. - - As ye came from the holy land - Of Walsinghame, - Met you not with my true love - By the way as you came? - - How should I know your true love, - That have met many a one - As I came from the holy land, - That have come, that have gone? - - - She is neither white nor brown, - But as the heavens fair; - There is none hath her form divine - In the earth or the air. - - Such a one did I meet, good sir, - Such an angelic face, - Who like a nymph, like a queen, did appear - In her gait, in her grace. - - She hath left me here alone - All alone, as unknown, - Who sometime did me lead with herself, - And me loved as her own. - - What’s the cause that she leaves you alone - And a new way doth take, - That sometime did love you as her own, - And her joy did you make? - - I have loved her all my youth, - But now am old, as you see: - Love likes not the falling fruit, - Nor the withered tree. - - Know that Love is a careless child, - And forgets promise past: - He is blind, he is deaf when he list, - And in faith never fast. - - His desire is a dureless content, - And a trustless joy; - He is won with a world of despair, - And is lost with a toy. - - Of womenkind such indeed is the love, - Or the word love abusèd, - Under which many childish desires - And conceits are excusèd. - - But true love is a durable fire, - In the mind ever burning, - Never sick, never dead, never cold, - From itself never turning. - - -_27._ _The Lover in Winter Plaineth for the Spring_ - -16th Cent.(?) - - O western wind, when wilt thou blow - That the small rain down can rain? - Christ, that my love were in my arms - And I in my bed again! - - -_28._ _Balow_ - -16th Cent. - - Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep! - It grieves me sore to see thee weep. - Wouldst thou be quiet I’se be glad, - Thy mourning makes my sorrow sad: - Balow my boy, thy mother’s joy, - Thy father breeds me great annoy-- - Balow, la-low! - - When he began to court my love, - And with his sugred words me move, - His faynings false and flattering cheer - To me that time did not appear: - But now I see most cruellye - He cares ne for my babe nor me-- - Balow, la-low! - - Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile, - And when thou wak’st thou’le sweetly smile: - But smile not as thy father did, - To cozen maids: nay, God forbid! - But yet I fear thou wilt go near - Thy father’s heart and face to bear-- - Balow, la-low! - - I cannot choose but ever will - Be loving to thy father still; - Where’er he go, where’er he ride, - My love with him doth still abide; - In weal or woe, where’er he go, - My heart shall ne’er depart him fro-- - Balow, la-low! - - But do not, do not, pretty mine, - To faynings false thy heart incline! - Be loyal to thy lover true, - And never change her for a new: - If good or fair, of her have care - For women’s banning’s wondrous sare-- - Balow, la-low! - - Bairn, by thy face I will beware; - Like Sirens’ words, I’ll come not near; - My babe and I together will live; - He’ll comfort me when cares do grieve. - My babe and I right soft will lie, - And ne’er respect man’s crueltye-- - Balow, la-low! - - - Farewell, farewell, the falsest youth - That ever kist a woman’s mouth! - I wish all maids be warn’d by me - Never to trust man’s curtesye; - For if we do but chance to bow, - They’ll use us then they care not how-- - Balow, la-low! - - -_29._ _The Old Cloak_ - -16th Cent.(?) - - This winter’s weather it waxeth cold, - And frost it freezeth on every hill, - And Boreas blows his blast so bold - That all our cattle are like to spill. - Bell, my wife, she loves no strife; - She said unto me quietlye, - Rise up, and save cow Crumbock’s life! - Man, put thine old cloak about thee! - - _He._ O Bell my wife, why dost thou flyte? - Thou kens my cloak is very thin: - It is so bare and over worn, - A crickè thereon cannot renn. - Then I’ll no longer borrow nor lend; - For once I’ll new apparell’d be; - To-morrow I’ll to town and spend; - For I’ll have a new cloak about me. - - _She._ Cow Crumbock is a very good cow: - She has been always true to the pail; - She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow, - And other things she will not fail. - - _29._ flyte] scold. - - I would be loth to see her pine. - Good husband, counsel take of me: - It is not for us to go so fine-- - Man, take thine old cloak about thee! - - _He._ My cloak it was a very good cloak, - It hath been always true to the wear; - But now it is not worth a groat: - I have had it four and forty year’. - Sometime it was of cloth in grain: - ’Tis now but a sigh clout, as you may see: - It will neither hold out wind nor rain; - And I’ll have a new cloak about me. - - _She._ It is four and forty years ago - Sine the one of us the other did ken; - And we have had, betwixt us two, - Of children either nine or ten: - We have brought them up to women and men: - In the fear of God I trow they be. - And why wilt thou thyself misken? - Man, take thine old cloak about thee! - - _He._ O Bell my wife, why dost thou flyte? - Now is now, and then was then: - Seek now all the world throughout, - Thou kens not clowns from gentlemen: - They are clad in black, green, yellow and blue, - So far above their own degree. - Once in my life I’ll take a view; - For I’ll have a new cloak about me. - - cloth in grain] scarlet cloth. sigh clout] a rag for straining. - - _She._ King Stephen was a worthy peer; - His breeches cost him but a crown; - He held them sixpence all too dear, - Therefore he called the tailor ‘lown.’ - He was a king and wore the crown, - And thou’se but of a low degree: - It’s pride that puts this country down: - Man, take thy old cloak about thee! - - _He._ Bell my wife, she loves not strife, - Yet she will lead me, if she can; - And to maintain an easy life - I oft must yield, though I’m good-man. - It’s not for a man with a woman to threap, - Unless he first give o’er the plea: - As we began, so will we keep, - And I’ll take my old cloak about me. - - _29._ threap] argue. - - - - -JOHN SKELTON - -1460?-1529 - - -_30._ _To Mistress Margery Wentworth_ - - With margerain gentle, - The flower of goodlihead, - Embroidered the mantle - Is of your maidenhead. - Plainly I cannot glose; - Ye be, as I divine, - The pretty primrose, - The goodly columbine. - - _30._ margerain] marjoram. - - Benign, courteous, and meek, - With wordes well devised; - In you, who list to seek, - Be virtues well comprised. - With margerain gentle, - The flower of goodlihead, - Embroidered the mantle - Is of your maidenhead. - - -_31._ _To Mistress Margaret Hussey_ - - Merry Margaret - As midsummer flower, - Gentle as falcon - Or hawk of the tower: - With solace and gladness, - Much mirth and no madness, - All good and no badness; - So joyously, - So maidenly, - So womanly - Her demeaning - In every thing, - Far, far passing - That I can indite, - Or suffice to write - Of Merry Margaret - As midsummer flower, - Gentle as falcon - Or hawk of the tower. - As patient and still - And as full of good will - As fair Isaphill, - Coliander, - Sweet pomander, - Good Cassander; - Steadfast of thought, - Well made, well wrought, - Far may be sought, - Ere that ye can find - So courteous, so kind - As merry Margaret, - This midsummer flower, - Gentle as falcon - Or hawk of the tower. - - _31._ Isaphill] Hypsipyle. coliander] coriander seed, an aromatic. - pomander] a ball of perfume. Cassander] Cassandra. - - - - -STEPHEN HAWES - -d. 1523 - - -_32._ _The True Knight_ - - For knighthood is not in the feats of warre, - As for to fight in quarrel right or wrong, - But in a cause which truth can not defarre: - He ought himself for to make sure and strong, - Justice to keep mixt with mercý among: - And no quarrell a knight ought to take - But for a truth, or for the common’s sake. - - _32._ defarre] undo. - - -_33._ _An Epitaph_ - - O mortal folk, you may behold and see - How I lie here, sometime a mighty knight; - The end of joy and all prosperitee - Is death at last, thorough his course and might: - After the day there cometh the dark night, - For though the daye be never so long, - At last the bells ringeth to evensong. - - - - -SIR THOMAS WYATT - -1503-1542 - - -_34._ _Forget not yet_ - -_The Lover Beseecheth his Mistress not to Forget his Steadfast Faith and -True Intent_ - - Forget not yet the tried intent - Of such a truth as I have meant; - My great travail so gladly spent, - Forget not yet! - - Forget not yet when first began - The weary life ye know, since whan - The suit, the service, none tell can; - Forget not yet! - - Forget not yet the great assays, - The cruel wrong, the scornful ways, - The painful patience in delays, - Forget not yet! - - Forget not! O, forget not this!-- - How long ago hath been, and is, - The mind that never meant amiss-- - Forget not yet! - - - Forget not then thine own approved, - The which so long hath thee so loved, - Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: - Forget not this! - - -_35._ _The Appeal_ - -_An Earnest Suit to his Unkind Mistress, not to Forsake him_ - - And wilt thou leave me thus! - Say nay, say nay, for shame! - --To save thee from the blame - Of all my grief and grame. - And wilt thou leave me thus? - Say nay! say nay! - - And wilt thou leave me thus, - That hath loved thee so long - In wealth and woe among: - And is thy heart so strong - As for to leave me thus? - Say nay! say nay! - - And wilt thou leave me thus, - That hath given thee my heart - Never for to depart - Neither for pain nor smart: - And wilt thou leave me thus? - Say nay! say nay! - - _35._ grame] sorrow. - - And wilt thou leave me thus, - And have no more pitye - Of him that loveth thee? - Alas, thy cruelty! - And wilt thou leave me thus? - Say nay! say nay! - - -_36._ _A Revocation_ - - What should I say? - --Since Faith is dead. - And Truth away - From you is fled? - Should I be led - With doubleness? - Nay! nay! mistress. - - I promised you, - And you promised me, - To be as true - As I would be. - But since I see - Your double heart, - Farewell my part! - - Thought for to take - ’Tis not my mind; - But to forsake - One so unkind; - And as I find - So will I trust. - Farewell, unjust! - - - Can ye say nay - But that you said - That I alway - Should be obeyed? - And--thus betrayed - Or that I wist! - Farewell, unkist! - - -_37._ _Vixi Puellis Nuper Idoneus ..._ - - They flee from me that sometime did me seek, - With naked foot stalking within my chamber: - Once have I seen them gentle, tame, and meek, - That now are wild, and do not once remember - That sometime they have put themselves in danger - To take bread at my hand; and now they range, - Busily seeking in continual change. - - Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise - Twenty times better; but once especial-- - In thin array: after a pleasant guise, - When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall, - And she me caught in her arms long and small, - And therewithal so sweetly did me kiss, - And softly said, ‘_Dear heart, how like you this?_’ - - It was no dream; for I lay broad awaking: - But all is turn’d now, through my gentleness, - Into a bitter fashion of forsaking; - And I have leave to go of her goodness; - And she also to use new-fangleness. - But since that I unkindly so am servèd, - ‘_How like you this?_’--what hath she now deservèd? - - -_38._ _To His Lute_ - - My lute, awake! perform the last - Labour that thou and I shall waste, - And end that I have now begun; - For when this song is said and past, - My lute, be still, for I have done. - - As to be heard where ear is none, - As lead to grave in marble stone, - My song may pierce her heart as soon: - Should we then sing, or sigh, or moan? - No, no, my lute! for I have done. - - The rocks do not so cruelly - Repulse the waves continually, - As she my suit and affectiòn; - So that I am past remedy: - Whereby my lute and I have done. - - Proud of the spoil that thou hast got - Of simple hearts thorough Love’s shot, - By whom, unkind, thou hast them won; - Think not he hath his bow forgot, - Although my lute and I have done. - - Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, - That makest but game of earnest pain: - Trow not alone under the sun - Unquit to cause thy lover’s plain, - Although my lute and I have done. - - - May chance thee lie wither’d and old - The winter nights that are so cold, - Plaining in vain unto the moon: - Thy wishes then dare not be told: - Care then who list! for I have done. - - And then may chance thee to repent - The time that thou has lost and spent - To cause thy lover’s sigh and swoon: - Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, - And wish and want as I have done. - - Now cease, my lute! this is the last - Labour that thou and I shall waste, - And ended is that we begun: - Now is this song both sung and past-- - My lute, be still, for I have done. - - - - -HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY - -1516-47 - - -_39._ _Description of Spring_ - -_Wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover_ - - The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, - With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale: - The nightingale with feathers new she sings; - The turtle to her make hath told her tale. - Summer is come, for every spray now springs: - The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; - The buck in brake his winter coat he flings; - The fishes flete with new repairèd scale. - - _39._ make] mate. - - The adder all her slough away she slings; - The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; - The busy bee her honey now she mings; - Winter is worn that was the flowers’ bale. - - And thus I see among these pleasant things - Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. - - _39._ mings] mingles, mixes. - - -_40._ _Complaint of the Absence of Her Lover being upon the Sea_ - - O happy dames! that may embrace - The fruit of your delight, - Help to bewail the woful case - And eke the heavy plight - Of me, that wonted to rejoice - The fortune of my pleasant choice: - Good ladies, help to fill my mourning voice. - - In ship, freight with rememberance - Of thoughts and pleasures past, - He sails that hath in governance - My life while it will last: - With scalding sighs, for lack of gale, - Furthering his hope, that is his sail, - Toward me, the swete port of his avail, - - Alas! how oft in dreams I see - Those eyes that were my food; - Which sometime so delighted me, - That yet they do me good: - Wherewith I wake with his return - Whose absent flame did make me burn: - But when I find the lack, Lord! how I mourn! - - When other lovers in arms across - Rejoice their chief delight, - Drownèd in tears, to mourn my loss - I stand the bitter night - In my window where I may see - Before the winds how the clouds flee: - Lo! what a mariner love hath made me! - - And in green waves when the salt flood - Doth rise by rage of wind, - A thousand fancies in that mood - Assail my restless mind. - Alas! now drencheth my sweet foe, - That with the spoil of my heart did go, - And left me; but alas! why did he so? - - And when the seas wax calm again - To chase fro me annoy, - My doubtful hope doth cause me plain; - So dread cuts off my joy. - Thus is my wealth mingled with woe - And of each thought a doubt doth grow; - --Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no. - - _40._ drencheth] i.e. is drenched or drowned. - - -_41._ _The Means to attain Happy Life_ - - Martial, the things that do attain - The happy life be these, I find:-- - The richesse left, not got with pain; - The fruitful ground, the quiet mind; - The equal friend; no grudge, no strife; - No charge of rule, nor governance; - Without disease, the healthful life; - The household of continuance; - - The mean diet, no delicate fare; - True wisdom join’d with simpleness; - The night dischargèd of all care, - Where wine the wit may not oppress. - - The faithful wife, without debate; - Such sleeps as may beguile the night: - Contented with thine own estate - Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. - - - - -NICHOLAS GRIMALD - -1519-62 - - -_42._ _A True Love_ - - What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see, - What dear delight the blooms to bees, my true love is to me! - As fresh and lusty Ver foul Winter doth exceed-- - As morning bright, with scarlet sky, doth pass the evening’s weed-- - As mellow pears above the crabs esteemèd be-- - So doth my love surmount them all, whom yet I hap to see! - The oak shall olives bear, the lamb the lion fray, - The owl shall match the nightingale in tuning of her lay, - - _42._ fray] affright. - - Or I my love let slip out of mine entire heart, - So deep reposèd in my breast is she for her desart! - For many blessèd gifts, O happy, happy land! - Where Mars and Pallas strive to make their glory most to stand! - Yet, land, more is thy bliss that, in this cruel age, - A Venus’ imp thou hast brought forth, so steadfast and so sage. - Among the Muses Nine a tenth if Jove would make, - And to the Graces Three a fourth, her would Apollo take. - Let some for honour hunt, and hoard the massy gold: - With her so I may live and die, my weal cannot be told. - - - - -ALEXANDER SCOTT - -1520?-158- - - -_43._ _A Bequest of His Heart_ - - Hence, heart, with her that must depart, - And hald thee with thy soverane! - For I had liever want ane heart. - Nor have the heart that dois me pain. - Therefore, go, with thy luve remain, - And let me leif thus unmolest; - And see that thou come not again, - But bide with her thou luvis best. - - Sen she that I have servit lang - Is to depart so suddenly, - Address thee now, for thou sall gang - And bear thy lady company. - - _43._ hald] keep. sen] since. - - Fra she be gone, heartless am I, - For quhy? thou art with her possest. - Therefore, my heart, go hence in high, - And bide with her thou luvis best. - - Though this belappit body here - Be bound to servitude and thrall, - My faithful heart is free entier - And mind to serve my lady at all. - Would God that I were perigall - Under that redolent rose to rest! - Yet at the least, my heart, thou sall - Abide with her thou luvis best. - - Sen in your garth the lily quhyte - May not remain amang the laif, - Adieu the flower of whole delite! - Adieu the succour that may me saif! - Adieu the fragrant balme suaif, - And lamp of ladies lustiest! - My faithful heart she shall it haif - To bide with her it luvis best. - - Deploir, ye ladies cleir of hue, - Her absence, sen she must depart! - And, specially, ye luveris true - That wounded bene with Luvis dart. - For some of you sall want ane heart - As well as I; therefore at last - Do go with mine, with mind inwart, - And bide with her thou luvis best! - - belappit] downtrodden. perigall] made equal to, privileged. garth] - garden-close. laif] rest. with mind inwart] with inner mind, i.e. - in spirit. - - -_44._ _A Rondel of Love_ - - Lo, quhat it is to love - Learn ye that list to prove, - By me, I say, that no ways may - The ground of grief remove, - But still decay both nicht and day: - Lo, quhat it is to love! - - Love is ane fervent fire - Kindlit without desire, - Short pleasure, long displeasure, - Repentance is the hire; - Ane pure tressour without measour; - Love is ane fervent fire. - - To love and to be wise, - To rage with good advice; - Now thus, now than, so gois the game, - Incertain is the dice; - There is no man, I say, that can - Both love and to be wise. - - Flee always from the snare, - Learn at me to beware; - It is ane pain, and double trane - Of endless woe and care; - For to refrain that danger plain, - Flee always from the snare. - - - - -ROBERT WEVER - -c. 1550 - - -_45._ _In Youth is Pleasure_ - - In a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay, - The byrdes sang swete in the middes of the day, - I dreamèd fast of mirth and play: - In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. - - Methought I walked still to and fro, - And from her company I could not go-- - But when I waked it was not so: - In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. - - Therefore my hart is surely pyght - Of her alone to have a sight - Which is my joy and hartes delight: - In youth is pleasure, in youth is pleasure. - - - - -RICHARD EDWARDES - -1523-66 - - -_46._ _Amantium Iræ_ - - In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, - I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept; - She sighèd sore and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, - That would not cease but crièd still, in sucking at her breast. - She was full weary of her watch, and grievèd with her child, - She rockèd it and rated it, till that on her it smiled. - Then did she say, Now have I found this proverb true to prove, - The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love. - - Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, - In register for to remain of such a worthy wight: - As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, - Much matter utter’d she of weight, in place whereas she sat: - And provèd plain there was no beast, nor creature bearing life, - Could well be known to live in love without discord and strife: - Then kissèd she her little babe, and sware by God above, - The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love. - - She said that neither king nor prince nor lord could live aright, - Until their puissance they did prove, their manhood and their might. - When manhood shall be matched so that fear can take no place, - Then weary works make warriors each other to embrace, - And left their force that failèd them, which did consume the rout, - That might before have lived their time, their strength and nature out: - Then did she sing as one that thought no man could her reprove, - The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love. - - She said she saw no fish nor fowl, nor beast within her haunt, - That met a stranger in their kind, but could give it a taunt: - Since flesh might not endure, but rest must wrath succeed, - And force the fight to fall to play in pasture where they feed, - So noble nature can well end the work she hath begun, - And bridle well that will not cease her tragedy in some: - Thus in song she oft rehearsed, as did her well behove, - The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love. - - I marvel much pardy (quoth she) for to behold the rout, - To see man, woman, boy and beast, to toss the world about: - Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some check, and some can smoothly smile, - And some embrace others in arm, and there think many a wile, - Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble and some stout, - Yet are they never friends in deed until they once fall out: - Thus ended she her song and said, before she did remove, - The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love. - - - - -GEORGE GASCOIGNE - -1525?-77 - - -_47._ _A Lover’s Lullaby_ - - Sing lullaby, as women do, - Wherewith they bring their babes to rest; - And lullaby can I sing too, - As womanly as can the best. - With lullaby they still the child; - And if I be not much beguiled, - Full many a wanton babe have I, - Which must be still’d with lullaby. - - First lullaby my youthful years, - It is now time to go to bed: - For crookèd age and hoary hairs - Have won the haven within my head. - With lullaby, then, youth be still; - With lullaby content thy will; - Since courage quails and comes behind, - Go sleep, and so beguile thy mind! - - Next lullaby my gazing eyes, - Which wonted were to glance apace; - For every glass may now suffice - To show the furrows in thy face. - With lullaby then wink awhile; - With lullaby your looks beguile; - Let no fair face, nor beauty bright, - Entice you eft with vain delight. - - And lullaby my wanton will; - Let reason’s rule now reign thy thought; - Since all too late I find by skill - How dear I have thy fancies bought; - With lullaby now take thine ease, - With lullaby thy doubts appease; - For trust to this, if thou be still, - My body shall obey thy will. - - Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes, - My will, my ware, and all that was: - I can no more delays devise; - But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. - With lullaby now take your leave; - With lullaby your dreams deceive; - And when you rise with waking eye, - Remember then this lullaby. - - - - -ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE - -1540?-1610? - - -_48._ _The Night is Near Gone_ - - Hey! now the day dawis; - The jolly cock crawis; - Now shroudis the shawis - Thro’ Nature anon. - The thissel-cock cryis - On lovers wha lyis: - Now skaillis the skyis; - The nicht is neir gone. - - The fieldis ouerflowis - With gowans that growis, - Quhair lilies like low is - As red as the rone. - - _48._ shroudis] dress themselves. shawis] woods. skaillis] clears. - gowans] daisies. low] flame. rone] rowan. - - The turtle that true is, - With notes that renewis, - Her pairty pursuis: - The nicht is neir gone. - - Now hairtis with hindis - Conform to their kindis, - Hie tursis their tyndis - On ground quhair they grone. - Now hurchonis, with hairis, - Aye passis in pairis; - Quhilk duly declaris - The nicht is neir gone. - - The season excellis - Through sweetness that smellis; - Now Cupid compellis - Our hairtis echone - On Venus wha waikis, - To muse on our maikis, - Syne sing for their saikis-- - ‘The nicht is neir gone!’ - - All courageous knichtis - Aganis the day dichtis - The breist-plate that bright is - To fight with their fone. - The stonèd steed stampis - Through courage, and crampis, - Syne on the land lampis: - The nicht is neir gone. - - pairty] partner, mate. tursis] carry. tyndis] antlers. grone] - groan, bell. hurchonis] hedgehogs, ‘urchins.’ maikis] mates. fone] - foes. stonèd steed] stallion. crampis] prances. lampis] gallops. - - The freikis on feildis - That wight wapins weildis - With shyning bright shieldis - At Titan in trone; - Stiff speiris in reistis - Ouer corseris crestis - Are broke on their breistis: - The nicht is neir gone. - - So hard are their hittis, - Some sweyis, some sittis, - And some perforce flittis - On ground quhile they grone. - Syne groomis that gay is - On blonkis that brayis - With swordis assayis:-- - The nicht is neir gone. - - _48._ freikis] men, warriors. wight wapins] stout weapons. at - Titan] over against Titan (the sun), or read ‘as.’ flittis] are - cast. blonkis] white palfreys. - - - - -WILLIAM STEVENSON - -1530?-1575 - - -_49._ _Jolly Good Ale and Old_ - - I cannot eat but little meat, - My stomach is not good; - But sure I think that I can drink - With him that wears a hood. - Though I go bare, take ye no care, - I nothing am a-cold; - I stuff my skin so full within - Of jolly good ale and old. - Back and side go bare, go bare; - Both foot and hand go cold; - But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, - Whether it be new or old. - - I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, - And a crab laid in the fire; - A little bread shall do me stead; - Much bread I not desire. - No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow, - Can hurt me if I wold; - I am so wrapp’d and thoroughly lapp’d - Of jolly good ale and old. - Back and side go bare, go bare, &c. - - And Tib, my wife, that as her life - Loveth well good ale to seek, - Full oft drinks she till ye may see - The tears run down her cheek: - Then doth she trowl to me the bowl - Even as a maltworm should, - And saith, ‘Sweetheart, I took my part - Of this jolly good ale and old.’ - Back and side go bare, go bare, &c. - - Now let them drink till they nod and wink, - Even as good fellows should do; - They shall not miss to have the bliss - Good ale doth bring men to; - And all poor souls that have scour’d bowls - Or have them lustily troll’d, - God save the lives of them and their wives, - Whether they be young or old. - Back and side go bare, go bare; - Both foot and hand go cold; - But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, - Whether it be new or old. - - - - -ANONYMOUS (SCOTTISH) - -16th Cent. - - -_50._ _When Flora had O’erfret the Firth_ - - Quhen Flora had o’erfret the firth - In May of every moneth queen; - Quhen merle and mavis singis with mirth - Sweet melling in the shawis sheen; - Quhen all luvaris rejoicit bene - And most desirous of their prey, - I heard a lusty luvar mene - --‘I luve, but I dare nocht assay!’ - - ‘Strong are the pains I daily prove, - But yet with patience I sustene, - I am so fetterit with the luve - Only of my lady sheen, - Quhilk for her beauty micht be queen, - Nature so craftily alway - Has done depaint that sweet serene: - --Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay. - - ‘She is so bricht of hyd and hue, - I luve but her alone, I ween; - Is none her luve that may eschew, - That blinkis of that dulce amene; - So comely cleir are her twa een - That she mae luvaris dois affray - Than ever of Greece did fair Helene: - --Quhom I luve I dare nocht assay!’ - - o’erfret] adorned. shawis] woods. sheen] beautiful. mene] mourn. - hyd] skin. blinkis] gets a glimpse. dulce amene] gentle and - pleasant one. mae] more. - - -_51._ _Lusty May_ - -16th Cent. - - O lusty May, with Flora queen! - The balmy dropis from Phoebus sheen - Preluciand beams before the day: - By that Diana growis green - Through gladness of this lusty May. - - Then Esperus, that is so bricht, - Til woful hairtis castis his light, - With bankis that bloomis on every brae; - And schouris are shed forth of their sicht - Through gladness of this lusty May. - - Birdis on bewis of every birth, - Rejoicing notis makand their mirth - Richt plesantly upon the spray, - With flourishingis o’er field and firth - Through gladness of this lusty May. - - All luvaris that are in care - To their ladies they do repair - In fresh morningis before the day, - And are in mirth ay mair and mair - Through gladness of this lusty May. - - _51._ sheen] bright. til] into. schouris] showers. bewis] boughs. - birth] kind. 52. wiss] wish. - - -_52._ _My Heart is High Above_ - -16th Cent. - - My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss, - For I am set in luve as well as I would wiss - I luve my lady pure and she luvis me again, - I am her serviture, she is my soverane; - She is my very heart, I am her howp and heill, - She is my joy invart, I am her luvar leal; - I am her bond and thrall, she is at my command; - I am perpetual her man, both foot and hand; - The thing that may her please my body sall fulfil; - Quhatever her disease, it does my body ill. - My bird, my bonny ane, my tender babe venust, - My luve, my life alane, my liking and my lust! - We interchange our hairtis in others armis soft, - Spriteless we twa depairtis, usand our luvis oft. - We mourn when licht day dawis, we plain the nicht is short, - We curse the cock that crawis, that hinderis our disport. - I glowffin up aghast, quhen I her miss on nicht, - And in my oxter fast I find the bowster richt; - Then languor on me lies like Morpheus the mair, - Quhilk causes me uprise and to my sweet repair. - And then is all the sorrow forth of remembrance - That ever I had a-forrow in luvis observance. - Thus never I do rest, so lusty a life I lead, - Quhen that I list to test the well of womanheid. - Luvaris in pain, I pray God send you sic remeid - As I have nicht and day, you to defend from deid! - Therefore be ever true unto your ladies free, - And they will on you rue as mine has done on me. - - heill] health. invart] inward. venust] delightful. glowffin] blink - on awaking. oxter] armpit. a-forrow] aforetime. - - - - -NUMBERS - -FROM - -ELIZABETHAN MISCELLANIES & SONG-BOOKS - -BY UNNAMED OR UNCERTAIN AUTHORS - - -_53._ _A Praise of His Lady_ - -Tottel’s Miscellany, 1557 - - Give place, you ladies, and begone! - Boast not yourselves at all! - For here at hand approacheth one - Whose face will stain you all. - - The virtue of her lively looks - Excels the precious stone; - I wish to have none other books - To read or look upon. - - In each of her two crystal eyes - Smileth a naked boy; - It would you all in heart suffice - To see that lamp of joy. - - I think Nature hath lost the mould - Where she her shape did take; - Or else I doubt if Nature could - So fair a creature make. - - She may be well compared - Unto the Phœnix kind, - Whose like was never seen or heard, - That any man can find. - - - In life she is Diana chaste, - In troth Penelopey; - In word and eke in deed steadfast. - --What will you more we say? - - If all the world were sought so far, - Who could find such a wight? - Her beauty twinkleth like a star - Within the frosty night. - - Her rosial colour comes and goes - With such a comely grace, - More ruddier, too, than doth the rose, - Within her lively face. - - At Bacchus’ feast none shall her meet, - Ne at no wanton play, - Nor gazing in an open street, - Nor gadding as a stray. - - The modest mirth that she doth use - Is mix’d with shamefastness; - All vice she doth wholly refuse, - And hateth idleness. - - O Lord! it is a world to see - How virtue can repair, - And deck in her such honesty, - Whom Nature made so fair. - - Truly she doth so far exceed - Our women nowadays, - As doth the jeliflower a weed; - And more a thousand ways. - - - How might I do to get a graff - Of this unspotted tree? - --For all the rest are plain but chaff, - Which seem good corn to be. - - This gift alone I shall her give; - When death doth what he can, - Her honest fame shall ever live - Within the mouth of man. - -? by _John Heywood_ - - -_54._ _To Her Sea-faring Lover_ - -Tottel’s Miscellany, 1557 - - Shall I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare? - And shall I still complain to thee, the which me will not hear? - Alas! say nay! say nay! and be no more so dumb, - But open thou thy manly mouth and say that thou wilt come: - Whereby my heart may think, although I see not thee, - That thou wilt come--thy word so sware--if thou a live man be. - The roaring hugy waves they threaten my poor ghost, - And toss thee up and down the seas in danger to be lost. - Shall they not make me fear that they have swallowed thee? - --But as thou art most sure alive, so wilt thou come to me. - Whereby I shall go see thy ship ride on the strand, - And think and say _Lo where he comes_ and _Sure here will he land:_ - - _54._ neare] nearer. - - And then I shall lift up to thee my little hand, - And thou shalt think thine heart in ease, in health to see me stand. - And if thou come indeed (as Christ thee send to do!) - Those arms which miss thee now shall then embrace [and hold] thee too: - Each vein to every joint the lively blood shall spread - Which now for want of thy glad sight doth show full pale and dead. - But if thou slip thy troth, and do not come at all, - As minutes in the clock do strike so call for death I shall: - To please both thy false heart and rid myself from woe, - That rather had to die in troth than live forsaken so! - - -_55._ _The Faithless Shepherdess_ - -William Byrd’s _Songs of -Sundry Natures_, 1589 - - While that the sun with his beams hot - Scorchèd the fruits in vale and mountain, - Philon the shepherd, late forgot, - Sitting beside a crystal fountain - In shadow of a green oak tree, - Upon his pipe this song play’d he: - Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love! - Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! - Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. - - So long as I was in your sight - I was your heart, your soul, your treasure; - And evermore you sobb’d and sigh’d - Burning in flames beyond all measure: - --Three days endured your love to me, - And it was lost in other three! - Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love! - Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! - Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. - - Another shepherd you did see, - To whom your heart was soon enchainèd; - Full soon your love was leapt from me, - Full soon my place he had obtainèd. - Soon came a third your love to win, - And we were out and he was in. - Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love! - Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! - Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. - - Sure you have made me passing glad - That you your mind so soon removèd, - Before that I the leisure had - To choose you for my best belovèd: - For all my love was pass’d and done - Two days before it was begun. - Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love! - Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love! - Your mind is light, soon lost for new love. - - -_56._ _Crabbed Age and Youth_ - -_The Passionate Pilgrim_, 1599 - - Crabbèd Age and Youth - Cannot live together: - Youth is full of pleasance, - Age is full of care; - Youth like summer morn, - Age like winter weather; - Youth like summer brave, - Age like winter bare. - Youth is full of sport, - Age’s breath is short; - Youth is nimble, Age is lame; - Youth is hot and bold, - Age is weak and cold; - Youth is wild, and Age is tame. - Age, I do abhor thee; - Youth, I do adore thee; - O, my Love, my Love is young! - Age, I do defy thee: - O, sweet shepherd, hie thee! - For methinks thou stay’st too long. - -? by _William Shakespeare_ - - -_57._ _Phyllida’s Love-Call_ - -_England’s Helicon_, 1600 - - _Phyllida._ Corydon, arise, my Corydon! - Titan shineth clear. - _Corydon._ Who is it that calleth Corydon? - Who is it that I hear? - _Phyl._ Phyllida, thy true love, calleth thee, - Arise then, arise then, - Arise and keep thy flock with me! - _Cor._ Phyllida, my true love, is it she? - I come then, I come then, - I come and keep my flock with thee. - - _Phyl._ Here are cherries ripe for my Corydon; - Eat them for my sake. - _Cor._ Here’s my oaten pipe, my lovely one, - Sport for thee to make. - - _Phyl._ Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk, - To knit thee, to knit thee, - A pair of stockings white as milk. - _Cor._ Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat, - To make thee, to make thee, - A bonnet to withstand the heat. - - _Phyl._ I will gather flowers, my Corydon, - To set in thy cap. - _Cor._ I will gather pears, my lovely one, - To put in thy lap. - _Phyl._ I will buy my true love garters gay, - For Sundays, for Sundays, - To wear about his legs so tall. - _Cor._ I will buy my true love yellow say, - For Sundays, for Sundays, - To wear about her middle small. - - _Phyl._ When my Corydon sits on a hill - Making melody-- - _Cor._ When my lovely one goes to her wheel, - Singing cheerily-- - _Phyl._ Sure methinks my true love doth excel - For sweetness, for sweetness, - Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight. - _Cor._ And methinks my true love bears the bell - For clearness, for clearness, - Beyond the nymphs that be so bright. - - _Phyl._ Had my Corydon, my Corydon, - Been, alack! her swain-- - _Cor._ Had my lovely one, my lovely one, - Been in Ida plain-- - - say] _soie_, silk. - - _Phyl._ Cynthia Endymion had refused, - Preferring, preferring, - My Corydon to play withal. - _Cor._ The Queen of Love had been excused - Bequeathing, bequeathing, - My Phyllida the golden ball. - - _Phyl._ Yonder comes my mother, Corydon! - Whither shall I fly? - _Cor._ Under yonder beech, my lovely one, - While she passeth by. - _Phyl._ Say to her thy true love was not here; - Remember, remember, - To-morrow is another day. - _Cor._ Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear; - Farewell then, farewell then! - Heaven keep our loves alway! - - -_58._ _A Pedlar_ - -John Dowland’s _Second Book of -Songs or Airs_, 1600 - - Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new, - Good pennyworths--but money cannot move: - I keep a fair but for the Fair to view-- - A beggar may be liberal of love. - Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true, - The heart is true. - - Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again; - My trifles come as treasures from my mind: - It is a precious jewel to be plain; - Sometimes in shell the orient’st pearls we find:-- - Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain! - Of me a grain! - -_59._ _Hey nonny no!_ - -Christ Church MS. - - Hey nonny no! - Men are fools that wish to die! - Is’t not fine to dance and sing - When the bells of death do ring? - Is’t not fine to swim in wine, - And turn upon the toe, - And sing hey nonny no! - When the winds blow and the seas flow? - Hey nonny no! - - -_60._ _Preparations_ - -Christ Church MS. - - Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, - Should of his own accord - Friendly himself invite, - And say ‘I’ll be your guest to-morrow night,’ - How should we stir ourselves, call and command - All hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand! - - ‘Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall; - See they be fitted all; - Let there be room to eat - And order taken that there want no meat. - See every sconce and candlestick made bright, - That without tapers they may give a light. - - ‘Look to the presence: are the carpets spread, - The dazie o’er the head, - The cushions in the chairs, - And all the candles lighted on the stairs? - Perfume the chambers, and in any case - Let each man give attendance in his place!’ - - Thus, if a king were coming, would we do; - And ’twere good reason too; - For ’tis a duteous thing - To show all honour to an earthly king, - And after all our travail and our cost, - So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. - - But at the coming of the King of Heaven - All’s set at six and seven; - We wallow in our sin, - Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. - We entertain Him always like a stranger, - And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger. - - -_61._ _The New Jerusalem_ - -_Song of Mary the Mother of -Christ_ (London: E. Alide), 1601 - - Hierusalem, my happy home, - When shall I come to thee? - When shall my sorrows have an end, - Thy joys when shall I see? - - O happy harbour of the Saints! - O sweet and pleasant soil! - In thee no sorrow may be found, - No grief, no care, no toil. - - There lust and lucre cannot dwell, - There envy bears no sway; - There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, - But pleasure every way. - - Thy walls are made of precious stones, - Thy bulwarks diamonds square; - Thy gates are of right orient pearl, - Exceeding rich and rare. - - Thy turrets and thy pinnacles - With carbuncles do shine; - Thy very streets are paved with gold, - Surpassing clear and fine. - - Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem, - Would God I were in thee! - Would God my woes were at an end, - Thy joys that I might see! - - Thy gardens and thy gallant walks - Continually are green; - There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers - As nowhere else are seen. - - Quite through the streets, with silver sound, - The flood of Life doth flow; - Upon whose banks on every side - The wood of Life doth grow. - - There trees for evermore bear fruit, - And evermore do spring; - There evermore the angels sit, - And evermore do sing. - - Our Lady sings _Magnificat_ - With tones surpassing sweet; - And all the virgins bear their part, - Sitting about her feet. - - Hierusalem, my happy home, - Would God I were in thee! - Would God my woes were at an end, - Thy joys that I might see! - -_62._ _Icarus_ - -Robert Jones’s _Second Book of -Songs and Airs_, 1601 - - Love wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to fly - Far from base earth, but not to mount too high: - For true pleasure - Lives in measure, - Which if men forsake, - Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure take. - - But my vain Hopes, proud of their new-taught flight, - Enamour’d sought to woo the sun’s fair light, - Whose rich brightness - Moved their lightness - To aspire so high - That all scorch’d and consumed with fire now drown’d in woe they lie. - - And none but Love their woeful hap did rue, - For Love did know that their desires were true; - Though fate frownèd, - And now drownèd - They in sorrow dwell, - It was the purest light of heav’n for whose fair love they fell. - - -_63._ _Madrigal_ - -Davison’s _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602 - - My Love in her attire doth show her wit, - It doth so well become her; - For every season she hath dressings fit, - For Winter, Spring, and Summer. - No beauty she doth miss - When all her robes are on: - But Beauty’s self she is - When all her robes are gone. - -_64._ _How can the Heart forget her?_ - -Davison’s _Poetical Rhapsody_, 1602 - - At her fair hands how have I grace entreated - With prayers oft repeated! - Yet still my love is thwarted: - Heart, let her go, for she’ll not be converted-- - Say, shall she go? - O no, no, no, no, no! - She is most fair, though she be marble-hearted. - - How often have my sighs declared my anguish, - Wherein I daily languish! - Yet still she doth procure it: - Heart, let her go, for I can not endure it-- - Say, shall she go? - O no, no, no, no, no! - She gave the wound, and she alone must cure it. - - But shall I still a true affection owe her, - Which prayers, sighs, tears do show her, - And shall she still disdain me? - Heart, let her go, if they no grace can gain me-- - Say, shall she go? - O no, no, no, no, no! - She made me hers, and hers she will retain me. - - But if the love that hath and still doth burn me - No love at length return me, - Out of my thoughts I’ll set her: - Heart, let her go, O heart I pray thee, let her! - Say, shall she go? - O no, no, no, no, no! - Fix’d in the heart, how can the heart forget her? - -? _F._ or _W. Davison_ - -_65._ _Tears_ - -John Dowland’s _Third and Last -Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603 - - Weep you no more, sad fountains; - What need you flow so fast? - Look how the snowy mountains - Heaven’s sun doth gently waste! - But my Sun’s heavenly eyes - View not your weeping, - That now lies sleeping - Softly, now softly lies - Sleeping. - - Sleep is a reconciling, - A rest that peace begets; - Doth not the sun rise smiling - When fair at even he sets? - Rest you then, rest, sad eyes! - Melt not in weeping, - While she lies sleeping - Softly, now softly lies - Sleeping. - - -_66._ _My Lady’s Tears_ - -John Dowland’s _Third and Last -Book of Songs or Airs_, 1603 - - I saw my Lady weep, - And Sorrow proud to be advancèd so - In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. - Her face was full of woe; - But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts - Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts. - - Sorrow was there made fair, - And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing; - Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare: - She made her sighs to sing, - And all things with so sweet a sadness move - As made my heart at once both grieve, and love. - - O fairer than aught else - The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! - Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: - Tears kill the heart, believe. - O strive not to be excellent in woe, - Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow. - - -_67._ _Sister, Awake!_ - -Thomas Bateson’s _First Set of -English Madrigals_, 1604 - - Sister, awake! close not your eyes! - The day her light discloses, - And the bright morning doth arise - Out of her bed of roses. - - See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye, - In at our window peeping: - Lo, how he blusheth to espy - Us idle wenches sleeping! - - Therefore awake! make haste, I say, - And let us, without staying, - All in our gowns of green so gay - Into the Park a-maying! - -_68._ _Devotion_ - -Captain Tobias Hume’s _The First -Part of Airs, &c._, 1605 - - Fain would I change that note - To which fond Love hath charm’d me - Long, long to sing by rote, - Fancying that that harm’d me: - Yet when this thought doth come, - ‘Love is the perfect sum - Of all delight,’ - I have no other choice - Either for pen or voice - To sing or write. - - O Love! they wrong thee much - That say thy sweet is bitter, - When thy rich fruit is such - As nothing can be sweeter. - Fair house of joy and bliss, - Where truest pleasure is, - I do adore thee: - I know thee what thou art, - I serve thee with my heart, - And fall before thee. - - -_69._ _Since First I saw your Face_ - -Thomas Ford’s _Music of -Sundry Kinds_, 1607 - - Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye; - If now I be disdainèd I wish my heart had never known ye. - What? I that loved and you that liked, shall we begin to wrangle? - No, no, no, my heart is fast, and cannot disentangle. - - If I admire or praise you too much, that fault you may forgive me; - Or if my hands had stray’d but a touch, then justly might you leave me. - I ask’d you leave, you bade me love; is’t now a time to chide me? - No, no, no, I’ll love you still what fortune e’er betide me. - - The Sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no beholder, - And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor eyes the bolder: - Where beauty moves and wit delights and signs of kindness bind me, - There, O there! where’er I go I’ll leave my heart behind me! - - -_70._ _There is a Lady sweet and kind_ - -Thomas Ford’s _Music of -Sundry Kinds_, 1607 - - There is a Lady sweet and kind, - Was never face so pleased my mind; - I did but see her passing by, - And yet I love her till I die. - - Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, - Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, - Beguiles my heart, I know not why, - And yet I love her till I die. - - Cupid is wingèd and doth range, - Her country so my love doth change: - But change she earth, or change she sky, - Yet will I love her till I die. - -_71._ _Love not me for comely grace_ - -John Wilbye’s _Second Set of Madrigals_, 1609 - - Love not me for comely grace, - For my pleasing eye or face, - Nor for any outward part, - No, nor for a constant heart: - For these may fail or turn to ill, - So thou and I shall sever: - Keep, therefore, a true woman’s eye, - And love me still but know not why-- - So hast thou the same reason still - To doat upon me ever! - - -_72._ _The Wakening_ - -John Attye’s _First Book of Airs_, 1622 - - On a time the amorous Silvy - Said to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do ye? - Kiss me this once and then God be with ye, - My sweetest dear! - Kiss me this once and then God be with ye, - For now the morning draweth near.’ - With that, her fairest bosom showing, - Op’ning her lips, rich perfumes blowing, - She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going, - My sweetest dear! - Kiss me this once and then be going, - For now the morning draweth near.’ - With that the shepherd waked from sleeping, - And spying where the day was peeping, - He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping, - My sweetest dear! - Kiss me and take my soul in keeping, - Since I must go, now day is near.’ - - - - -NICHOLAS BRETON - -1542-1626 - - -_73._ _Phillida and Coridon_ - - In the merry month of May, - In a morn by break of day. - Forth I walk’d by the wood-side - When as May was in his pride: - There I spièd all alone - Phillida and Coridon. - Much ado there was, God wot! - He would love and she would not. - She said, Never man was true; - He said, None was false to you. - He said, He had loved her long; - She said, Love should have no wrong. - Coridon would kiss her then; - She said, Maids must kiss no men - Till they did for good and all; - Then she made the shepherd call - All the heavens to witness truth - Never loved a truer youth. - Thus with many a pretty oath, - Yea and nay, and faith and troth, - Such as silly shepherds use - When they will not Love abuse, - Love, which had been long deluded, - Was with kisses sweet concluded; - And Phillida, with garlands gay, - Was made the Lady of the May. - - - - -NICHOLAS BRETON? - - -_74._ _A Cradle Song_ - -_The Arbor of Amorous -Devices_, 1593-4 - - Come little babe, come silly soul, - Thy father’s shame, thy mother’s grief, - Born as I doubt to all our dole, - And to thyself unhappy chief: - Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, - Poor soul that thinks no creature harm. - - Thou little think’st and less dost know - The cause of this thy mother’s moan; - Thou want’st the wit to wail her woe, - And I myself am all alone: - Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail? - And know’st not yet what thou dost ail. - - Come, little wretch--ah, silly heart! - Mine only joy, what can I more? - If there be any wrong thy smart, - That may the destinies implore: - ’Twas I, I say, against my will, - I wail the time, but be thou still. - - And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face! - Would God Himself He might thee see!-- - No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, - I know right well, for thee and me: - But come to mother, babe, and play, - For father false is fled away. - - Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance - Thy father home again to send, - If death do strike me with his lance, - Yet mayst thou me to him commend: - If any ask thy mother’s name, - Tell how by love she purchased blame. - - Then will his gentle heart soon yield: - I know him of a noble mind: - Although a lion in the field, - A lamb in town thou shalt him find: - Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid, - His sugar’d words hath me betray’d. - - Then mayst thou joy and be right glad; - Although in woe I seem to moan, - Thy father is no rascal lad, - A noble youth of blood and bone: - His glancing looks, if he once smile, - Right honest women may beguile. - - Come, little boy, and rock asleep; - Sing lullaby and be thou still; - I, that can do naught else but weep, - Will sit by thee and wail my fill: - God bless my babe, and lullaby - From this thy father’s quality. - - - - -SIR WALTER RALEIGH - -1552-1618 - - -_The Silent Lover_ - - -_75._ _i_ - - Passions are liken’d best to floods and streams: - The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb; - So, when affection yields discourse, it seems - The bottom is but shallow whence they come. - They that are rich in words, in words discover - That they are poor in that which makes a lover. - - -_76._ _ii_ - - Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, - The merit of true passion, - With thinking that he feels no smart, - That sues for no compassion. - - Silence in love bewrays more woe - Than words, though ne’er so witty: - A beggar that is dumb, you know, - May challenge double pity. - - Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, - My true, though secret passion; - He smarteth most that hides his smart, - And sues for no compassion. - - -_77._ _His Pilgrimage_ - - Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, - My staff of faith to walk upon, - My scrip of joy, immortal diet, - My bottle of salvation, - My gown of glory, hope’s true gage; - And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage. - - Blood must be my body’s balmer; - No other balm will there be given; - Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, - Travelleth towards the land of heaven; - Over the silver mountains, - Where spring the nectar fountains; - There will I kiss - The bowl of bliss; - And drink mine everlasting fill - Upon every milken hill. - My soul will be a-dry before; - But, after, it will thirst no more. - - -_78._ _The Conclusion_ - - Even such is Time, that takes in trust - Our youth, our joys, our all we have, - And pays us but with earth and dust; - Who in the dark and silent grave, - When we have wander’d all our ways, - Shuts up the story of our days; - But from this earth, this grave, this dust, - My God shall raise me up, I trust. - - - - -EDMUND SPENSER - -1552-1599 - - -_79._ _Whilst it is prime_ - - Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king, - In whose cote-armour richly are displayd - All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring. - In goodly colours gloriously arrayd-- - Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd, - Yet in her winters bowre not well awake; - Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid, - Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take; - Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, - To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew; - Where every one, that misseth then her make, - Shall be by him amearst with penance dew. - Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime; - For none can call againe the passèd time. - - _79._ make] mate. - - -_80._ _A Ditty_ - -_In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds_ - - See where she sits upon the grassie greene, - (O seemely sight!) - Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene, - And ermines white: - Upon her head a Cremosin coronet - With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set: - Bay leaves betweene, - And primroses greene, - Embellish the sweete Violet. - - Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face - Like Phœbe fayre? - Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace, - Can you well compare? - The Redde rose medled with the White yfere, - In either cheeke depeincten lively chere: - Her modest eye, - Her Majestie, - Where have you seene the like but there? - - I see Calliope speede her to the place, - Where my Goddesse shines; - And after her the other Muses trace - With their Violines. - Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare, - All for Elisa in her hand to weare? - So sweetely they play, - And sing all the way, - That it a heaven is to heare. - - medled] mixed. yfere] together. - - Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote - To the Instrument: - They dauncen deffly, and singen soote, - In their meriment. - Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even? - Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven. - She shal be a Grace, - To fyll the fourth place, - And reigne with the rest in heaven. - - Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine, - With Gelliflowres; - Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine - Worne of Paramoures: - Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies, - And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies: - The pretie Pawnce, - And the Chevisaunce, - Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice. - - Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art - In royall aray; - And now ye daintie Damsells may depart - Eche one her way. - I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe: - Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song: - And if you come hether - When Damsines I gether, - I will part them all you among. - - soote] sweet. coronations] carnations. sops-in-wine] striped pinks. - pawnce] pansy. chevisaunce] wallflower. flowre delice] iris. - - -_81._ _Prothalamion_ - - Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre - Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play - A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay - Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre; - When I, (whom sullein care, - Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay - In Princes Court, and expectation vayne - Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away, - Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,) - Walkt forth to ease my payne - Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes; - Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes, - Was paynted all with variable flowers, - And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes - Fit to decke maydens bowres, - And crowne their Paramours - Against the Brydale day, which is not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side, - A Flocke of Nymphes I chauncèd to espy, - All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby, - With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde, - As each had bene a Bryde; - And each one had a little wicker basket, - Made of fine twigs, entraylèd curiously, - In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket, - And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously - The tender stalkes on hye. - Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew, - They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew, - - The little Dazie, that at evening closes, - The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew, - With store of vermeil Roses, - To decke their Bridegromes posies - Against the Brydale day, which was not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe - Come softly swimming downe along the Lee; - Two fairer Birds I yet did never see; - The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, - Did never whiter shew; - Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be, - For love of Leda, whiter did appeare; - Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he, - Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare; - So purely white they were, - That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, - Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare - To wet their silken feathers, least they might - Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre, - And marre their beauties bright, - That shone as heavens light, - Against their Brydale day, which was not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill, - Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, - As they came floating on the Christal Flood; - Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd still, - Their wondring eyes to fill; - Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre, - Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme - Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre - Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme; - For sure they did not seeme - To be begot of any earthly Seede, - But rather Angels, or of Angels breede; - Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, - In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede - The earth did fresh aray; - So fresh they seem’d as day, - Even as their Brydale day, which was not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - Then forth they all out of their baskets drew - Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field, - That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, - All which upon those goodly Birds they threw - And all the Waves did strew, - That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme, - When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore, - Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme, - That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store, - Like a Brydes Chamber flore. - Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound - Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found, - The which presenting all in trim Array, - Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd, - Whil’st one did sing this Lay, - Prepared against that Day, - Against their Brydale day, which was not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - ‘Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament, - And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower - Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower, - Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content - Of your loves couplement; - And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, - With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile, - Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove - All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile - For ever to assoile. - Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord, - And blessèd Plentie wait upon your bord; - And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, - That fruitfull issue may to you afford, - Which may your foes confound, - And make your joyes redound - Upon your Brydale day, which is not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.’ - - So ended she; and all the rest around - To her redoubled that her undersong, - Which said their brydale daye should not be long: - And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground - Their accents did resound. - So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along, - Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low, - As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, - Yet did by signes his glad affection show, - Making his streame run slow. - And all the foule which in his flood did dwell - Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell - The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend - The lesser starres. So they, enrangèd well, - Did on those two attend, - And their best service lend - Against their wedding day, which was not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - - At length they all to mery London came, - To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse, - That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse, - Though from another place I take my name, - An house of auncient fame: - There when they came, whereas those bricky towres - The which on Themmes brode agèd backe doe ryde, - Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers, - There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde, - Till they decayd through pride: - Next whereunto there standes a stately place, - Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace - Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell, - Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case; - But ah! here fits not well - Olde woes, but joyes, to tell - Against the Brydale daye, which is not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer, - Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder, - Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder, - And Hercules two pillors standing neere - Did make to quake and feare: - Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie! - That fillest England with thy triumphes fame, - Joy have thou of thy noble victorie, - And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name - That promiseth the same; - That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes, - Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes; - And great Elisaes glorious name may ring - Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes, - Which some brave muse may sing - To ages following, - Upon the Brydale day, which is not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly till I end my Song. - - From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing, - Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre - In th’ Ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre, - Descended to the Rivers open vewing, - With a great traine ensuing. - Above the rest were goodly to bee seene - Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature, - Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene, - With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, - Fit for so goodly stature, - That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight, - Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright; - They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side, - Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight; - Which, at th’ appointed tyde, - Each one did make his Bryde - Against their Brydale day, which is not long: - Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song. - - -_82._ _Epithalamion_ - - Ye learnèd sisters, which have oftentimes - Beene to me ayding, others to adorne, - Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes, - That even the greatest did not greatly scorne - To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, - But joyèd in theyr praise; - And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, - Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, - Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, - And teach the woods and waters to lament - Your dolefull dreriment: - Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside; - And, having all your heads with girlands crownd, - Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound; - Ne let the same of any be envide: - So Orpheus did for his owne bride! - So I unto my selfe alone will sing; - The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring. - - Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe - His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, - Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe, - Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed, - Go to the bowre of my belovèd love, - My truest turtle dove; - Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, - And long since ready forth his maske to move, - With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, - And many a bachelor to waite on him, - In theyr fresh garments trim. - Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, - For lo! the wishèd day is come at last, - That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past, - Pay to her usury of long delight: - And, whylest she doth her dight, - Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, - That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. - - Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare - Both of the rivers and the forrests greene, - - tead] torch. - - And of the sea that neighbours to her neare: - Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. - And let them also with them bring in hand - Another gay girland - For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, - Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband. - And let them make great store of bridale poses, - And let them eeke bring store of other flowers, - To deck the bridale bowers. - And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, - For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong, - Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, - And diapred lyke the discolored mead. - Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt, - For she will waken strayt; - The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, - The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring. - - Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed - The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well, - And greedy pikes which use therein to feed; - (Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;) - And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake, - Where none doo fishes take; - Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light, - And in his waters, which your mirror make, - Behold your faces as the christall bright, - That when you come whereas my love doth lie, - No blemish she may spie. - And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere, - That on the hoary mountayne used to towre; - And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure, - With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer; - Be also present heere, - - To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing, - That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. - - Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time; - The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, - All ready to her silver coche to clyme; - And Phœbus gins to shew his glorious hed. - Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies - And carroll of Loves praise. - The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft; - The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes; - The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft; - So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, - To this dayes merriment. - Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long? - When meeter were that ye should now awake, - T’ awayt the comming of your joyous make, - And hearken to the birds love-learnèd song, - The deawy leaves among! - Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing, - That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. - My love is now awake out of her dreames, - And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmèd were - With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams - More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. - Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight, - Helpe quickly her to dight: - But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot - In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night; - Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot, - And al, that ever in this world is fayre, - Doe make and still repayre: - - ruddock] redbreast. - - And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, - The which doe still adorne her beauties pride, - Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride: - And, as ye her array, still throw betweene - Some graces to be seene; - And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, - The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring. - - Now is my love all ready forth to come: - Let all the virgins therefore well awayt: - And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome, - Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt. - Set all your things in seemely good aray, - Fit for so joyfull day: - The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see. - Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray, - And let thy lifull heat not fervent be, - For feare of burning her sunshyny face, - Her beauty to disgrace. - O fayrest Phœbus! father of the Muse! - If ever I did honour thee aright, - Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, - Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse; - But let this day, let this one day, be myne; - Let all the rest be thine. - Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, - That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. - - Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud - Their merry Musick that resounds from far, - The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud, - That well agree withouten breach or jar. - - croud] violin. - - But, most of all, the Damzels doe delite - When they their tymbrels smyte, - And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet, - That all the sences they doe ravish quite; - The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street, - Crying aloud with strong confusèd noyce, - As if it were one voyce, - Hymen, iö Hymen, Hymen, they do shout; - That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill - Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; - To which the people standing all about, - As in approvance, doe thereto applaud, - And loud advaunce her laud; - And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing, - That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. - - Loe! where she comes along with portly pace, - Lyke Phœbe, from her chamber of the East, - Arysing forth to run her mighty race, - Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. - So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene - Some angell she had beene. - Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, - Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, - Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre; - And, being crownèd with a girland greene, - Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. - Her modest eyes, abashèd to behold - So many gazers as on her do stare, - Upon the lowly ground affixèd are; - Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, - But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, - So farre from being proud. - Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, - That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. - - Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see - So fayre a creature in your towne before; - So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, - Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store? - Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright, - Her forehead yvory white, - Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded, - Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, - Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded, - Her paps lyke lyllies budded, - Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre; - And all her body like a pallace fayre, - Ascending up, with many a stately stayre, - To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. - Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze, - Upon her so to gaze, - Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, - To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring? - - But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, - The inward beauty of her lively spright, - Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree, - Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, - And stand astonisht lyke to those which red - Medusaes mazeful hed. - There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity, - Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood, - Regard of honour, and mild modesty; - There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne, - And giveth lawes alone, - The which the base affections doe obay, - And yeeld theyr services unto her will; - Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may - Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. - Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures, - And unrevealèd pleasures, - Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing, - That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring. - - Open the temple gates unto my love, - Open them wide that she may enter in, - And all the postes adorne as doth behove, - And all the pillours deck with girlands trim, - For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew, - That commeth in to you. - With trembling steps, and humble reverence, - She commeth in, before th’ Almighties view; - Of her ye virgins learne obedience, - When so ye come into those holy places, - To humble your proud faces: - Bring her up to th’ high altar, that she may - The sacred ceremonies there partake, - The which do endlesse matrimony make; - And let the roring Organs loudly play - The praises of the Lord in lively notes; - The whiles, with hollow throates, - The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing, - That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring. - - Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, - Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, - And blesseth her with his two happy hands, - How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, - And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne - Like crimsin dyde in grayne: - That even th’ Angels, which continually - About the sacred Altare doe remaine, - Forget their service and about her fly, - Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre, - The more they on it stare. - But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, - Are governèd with goodly modesty, - That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, - Which may let in a little thought unsownd. - Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, - The pledge of all our band! - Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, - That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring. - - Now al is done: bring home the bride againe; - Bring home the triumph of our victory: - Bring home with you the glory of her gaine; - With joyance bring her and with jollity. - Never had man more joyfull day then this, - Whom heaven would heape with blis, - Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; - This day for ever to me holy is. - Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, - Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, - Poure out to all that wull, - And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, - That they may sweat, and drunken be withall. - Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall, - And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine; - And let the Graces daunce unto the rest, - For they can doo it best: - The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, - To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring. - - - Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, - And leave your wonted labors for this day: - This day is holy; doe ye write it downe, - That ye for ever it remember may. - This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, - With Barnaby the bright, - From whence declining daily by degrees, - He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, - When once the Crab behind his back he sees. - But for this time it ill ordainèd was, - To chose the longest day in all the yeare, - And shortest night, when longest fitter weare: - Yet never day so long, but late would passe. - Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, - And bonefiers make all day; - And daunce about them, and about them sing, - That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. - - Ah! when will this long weary day have end, - And lende me leave to come unto my love? - How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend? - How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? - Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home, - Within the Westerne fome: - Thy tyrèd steedes long since have need of rest. - Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, - And the bright evening-star with golden creast - Appeare out of the East. - Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love! - That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead, - And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread, - How chearefully thou lookest from above, - And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light, - As joying in the sight - Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing, - That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring! - - Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore-past; - Enough it is that all the day was youres: - Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast, - Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures. - The night is come, now soon her disaray, - And in her bed her lay; - Lay her in lillies and in violets, - And silken courteins over her display, - And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets. - Behold how goodly my faire love does ly, - In proud humility! - Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took - In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras, - Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was, - With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. - Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon, - And leave my love alone, - And leave likewise your former lay to sing: - The woods no more shall answere, nor your echo ring. - - Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected, - That long daies labour doest at last defray, - And all my cares, which cruell Love collected, - Hast sumd in one, and cancellèd for aye: - Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, - That no man may us see; - And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, - From feare of perrill and foule horror free. - Let no false treason seeke us to entrap, - Nor any dread disquiet once annoy - The safety of our joy; - But let the night be calme, and quietsome, - Without tempestuous storms or sad afray: - Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay, - When he begot the great Tirynthian groome: - Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie - And begot Majesty. - And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing; - Ne let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring. - - Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares, - Be heard all night within, nor yet without: - Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, - Breake gentle sleepe with misconceivèd dout. - Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights, - Make sudden sad affrights; - Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes, - Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights, - Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes, - Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not, - Fray us with things that be not: - Let not the shriech Oule nor the Storke be heard, - Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels; - Nor damnèd ghosts, cald up with mighty spels, - Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard: - Ne let th’ unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking - Make us to wish theyr choking. - Let none of these theyr drery accents sing; - Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. - - But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe, - That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne, - And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe, - May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne; - The whiles an hundred little wingèd loves, - Like divers-fethered doves, - Shall fly and flutter round about your bed, - And in the secret darke, that none reproves, - Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread - To filch away sweet snatches of delight, - Conceald through covert night. - Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will! - For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, - Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes, - Then what ye do, albe it good or ill. - All night therefore attend your merry play, - For it will soone be day: - Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing; - Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring. - - Who is the same, which at my window peepes? - Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright? - Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes, - But walkes about high heaven al the night? - O! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy - My love with me to spy: - For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, - And for a fleece of wooll, which privily - The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, - His pleasures with thee wrought. - Therefore to us be favorable now; - And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge, - And generation goodly dost enlarge, - Encline thy will t’effect our wishfull vow, - And the chast wombe informe with timely seed - That may our comfort breed: - Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing; - Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring. - - - And thou, great Juno! which with awful might - The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize; - And the religion of the faith first plight - With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize; - And eeke for comfort often callèd art - Of women in their smart; - Eternally bind thou this lovely band, - And all thy blessings unto us impart. - And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand - The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, - Without blemish or staine; - And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight - With secret ayde doest succour and supply, - Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny; - Send us the timely fruit of this same night. - And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free! - Grant that it may so be. - Til which we cease your further prayse to sing; - Ne any woods shall answer, nor your Eccho ring. - - And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, - In which a thousand torches flaming bright - Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods - In dreadful darknesse lend desirèd light - And all ye powers which in the same remayne, - More then we men can fayne! - Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, - And happy influence upon us raine, - That we may raise a large posterity, - Which from the earth, which they may long possesse - With lasting happinesse, - Up to your haughty pallaces may mount; - And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, - May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, - Of blessèd Saints for to increase the count. - So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, - And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing: - The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring! - - _Song! made in lieu of many ornaments._ - _With which my love should duly have been dect,_ - _Which cutting off through hasty accidents,_ - _Ye would not stay your dew time to expect_ - _But promist both to recompens;_ - _Be unto her a goodly ornament,_ - _And for short time an endlesse moniment._ - - -_83._ _From ‘Daphnaïda’_ - -_An Elegy_ - - SHE fell away in her first ages spring, - Whil’st yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde, - And whil’st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring, - She fell away against all course of kinde. - For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong; - She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde. - Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong. - - Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye, - Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent, - But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye, - So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went, - And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse; - The whiles soft death away her spirit hent, - And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse. - - - How happie was I when I saw her leade - The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd! - How trimly would she trace and softly tread - The tender grasse, with rosie garland crownd! - And when she list advance her heavenly voyce, - Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd, - And flocks and shepheards causèd to rejoyce. - - But now, ye Shepheard lasses! who shall lead - Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes? - Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead - That was the Lady of your holy-dayes? - Let now your blisse be turnèd into bale, - And into plaints convert your joyous playes, - And with the same fill every hill and dale. - - For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage, - Throughout the world from one to other end, - And in affliction wast my better age: - My bread shall be the anguish of my mind, - My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine, - My bed the ground that hardest I may finde; - So will I wilfully increase my paine. - - Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights) - Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more; - Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights, - Nor failing force to former strength restore: - But I will wake and sorrow all the night - With Philumene, my fortune to deplore; - With Philumene, the partner of my plight. - - And ever as I see the starres to fall, - And under ground to goe to give them light - Which dwell in darknes, I to minde will call - How my fair Starre (that shinde on me so bright) - Fell sodainly and faded under ground; - Since whose departure, day is turnd to night, - And night without a Venus starre is found. - - And she, my love that was, my Saint that is, - When she beholds from her celestiall throne - (In which shee joyeth in eternall blis) - My bitter penance, will my case bemone, - And pitie me that living thus doo die; - For heavenly spirits have compassion - On mortall men, and rue their miserie. - - So when I have with sorowe satisfide - Th’ importune fates, which vengeance on me seeke, - And th’ heavens with long languor pacifide, - She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke, - Will send for me; for which I daylie long: - And will till then my painful penance eeke. - Weep, Shepheard! weep, to make my undersong! - - -_84._ _Easter_ - - MOST glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day, - Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin; - And, having harrowd hell, didst bring away - Captivity thence captive, us to win: - This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin; - And grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye, - Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin, - May live for ever in felicity! - And that Thy love we weighing worthily, - May likewise love Thee for the same againe; - And for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy, - With love may one another entertayne! - So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought, - --Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. - - - - -JOHN LYLY - -1553-1606 - - -_85._ _Cards and Kisses_ - - Cupid and my Campaspe play’d - At cards for kisses--Cupid paid: - He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, - His mother’s doves, and team of sparrows; - Loses them too; then down he throws - The coral of his lips, the rose - Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how); - With these, the crystal of his brow, - And then the dimple of his chin: - All these did my Campaspe win. - At last he set her both his eyes-- - She won, and Cupid blind did rise. - O Love! has she done this for thee? - What shall, alas! become of me? - - -_86._ _Spring’s Welcome_ - - WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail? - O ’tis the ravish’d nightingale. - _Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu!_ she cries, - And still her woes at midnight rise. - Brave prick-song! Who is’t now we hear? - None but the lark so shrill and clear; - Now at heaven’s gate she claps her wings, - The morn not waking till she sings. - Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat - Poor robin redbreast tunes his note! - Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing - _Cuckoo!_ to welcome in the spring! - _Cuckoo!_ to welcome in the spring! - - - - -ANTHONY MUNDAY - -1553-1633 - - -_87._ _Beauty Bathing_ - - BEAUTY sat bathing by a spring, - Where fairest shades did hide her; - The winds blew calm, the birds did sing, - The cool streams ran beside her. - My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye - To see what was forbidden: - But better memory said Fie; - So vain desire was chidden-- - Hey nonny nonny O! - Hey nonny nonny! - - Into a slumber then I fell, - And fond imagination - Seemèd to see, but could not tell, - Her feature or her fashion: - But ev’n as babes in dreams do smile, - And sometimes fall a-weeping, - So I awaked as wise that while - As when I fell a-sleeping. - - - - -SIR PHILIP SIDNEY - -1554-86 - - -_88._ _The Bargain_ - - My true love hath my heart, and I have his, - But just exchange one for another given: - I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, - There never was a better bargain driven: - My true love hath my heart, and I have his. - - His heart in me keeps him and me in one, - My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: - He loves my heart, for once it was his own, - I cherish his because in me it bides: - My true love hath my heart, and I have his. - - -_89._ _Song_ - - Who hath his fancy pleasèd - With fruits of happy sight, - Let here his eyes be raisèd - On Nature’s sweetest light; - A light which doth dissever - And yet unite the eyes, - A light which, dying never, - Is cause the looker dies. - - She never dies, but lasteth - In life of lover’s heart; - He ever dies that wasteth - In love his chiefest part: - Thus is her life still guarded - In never-dying faith; - Thus is his death rewarded, - Since she lives in his death. - - - Look then, and die! The pleasure - Doth answer well the pain: - Small loss of mortal treasure, - Who may immortal gain! - Immortal be her graces, - Immortal is her mind; - They, fit for heavenly places-- - This, heaven in it doth bind. - - But eyes these beauties see not, - Nor sense that grace descries; - Yet eyes deprivèd be not - From sight of her fair eyes-- - Which, as of inward glory - They are the outward seal, - So may they live still sorry, - Which die not in that weal. - - But who hath fancies pleasèd - With fruits of happy sight, - Let here his eyes be raisèd - On Nature’s sweetest light! - - -_90._ _Voices at the Window_ - - _Who is it that, this dark night,_ - _Underneath my window plaineth?_ - It is one who from thy sight - Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth - Every other vulgar light. - - _Why, alas, and are you he?_ - _Be not yet those fancies changèd?_ - Dear, when you find change in me, - Though from me you be estrangèd, - Let my change to ruin be. - - - _Well, in absence this will die:_ - _Leave to see, and leave to wonder._ - Absence sure will help, if I - Can learn how myself to sunder - From what in my heart doth lie. - - _But time will these thoughts remove;_ - _Time doth work what no man knoweth._ - Time doth as the subject prove: - With time still the affection groweth - In the faithful turtle-dove. - - _What if you new beauties see?_ - _Will not they stir new affection?_ - I will think they pictures be - (Image-like, of saints’ perfection) - Poorly counterfeiting thee. - - _But your reason’s purest light_ - _Bids you leave such minds to nourish._ - Dear, do reason no such spite! - Never doth thy beauty flourish - More than in my reason’s sight. - - _90._ leave] cease. - - -_91._ _Philomela_ - - The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth - Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, - While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, - Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; - And mournfully bewailing, - Her throat in tunes expresseth - What grief her breast oppresseth, - For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing. - - - _O Philomela fair, O take some gladness_ - _That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!_ - _Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;_ - _Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth._ - - Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish - But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken; - Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, - Full womanlike complains her will was broken - But I, who, daily craving, - Cannot have to content me, - Have more cause to lament me, - Since wanting is more woe than too much having. - - _O Philomela fair, O take some gladness_ - _That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!_ - _Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;_ - _Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth._ - - -_92._ _The Highway_ - - Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, - And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, - Tempers her words to trampling horses’ feet - More oft than to a chamber-melody,-- - Now blessèd you bear onward blessèd me - To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet; - My Muse and I must you of duty greet - With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully; - Be you still fair, honour’d by public heed; - By no encroachment wrong’d, nor time forgot; - Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed; - And that you know I envy you no lot - Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, - Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss! - - -_93._ _His Lady’s Cruelty_ - - With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies! - How silently, and with how wan a face! - What! may it be that even in heavenly place - That busy archer his sharp arrows tries? - Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes - Can judge of love, thou feel’st a lover’s case: - I read it in thy looks; thy languish’d grace - To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. - Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, - Is constant love deem’d there but want of wit? - Are beauties there as proud as here they be? - Do they above love to be loved, and yet - Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? - Do they call ‘virtue’ there--ungratefulness? - - -_94._ _Sleep_ - - Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, - The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, - The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, - Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low; - With shield of proof shield me from out the prease - Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: - O make in me those civil wars to cease; - I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. - Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, - A chamber deaf to noise and blind of light, - A rosy garland and a weary head; - And if these things, as being thine by right, - Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, - Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see. - - _94._ prease] press. - - -_95._ _Splendidis longum valedico Nugis_ - - Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust, - And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things! - Grow rich in that which never taketh rust: - Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. - Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might - To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; - Which breaks the clouds and opens forth the light - That doth both shine and give us sight to see. - O take fast hold! let that light be thy guide - In this small course which birth draws out to death, - And think how evil becometh him to slide - Who seeketh Heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. - Then farewell, world! thy uttermost I see: - Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me! - - - - -FULKE GREVILLE, LORD BROOKE - -1554-1628 - - -_96._ _Myra_ - - I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head, - I, that ware posies of her own hand-making, - I, that mine own name in the chimneys read - By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking: - Must I look on, in hope time coming may - With change bring back my turn again to play? - - I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found - A garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers, - Which I to wear about mine arms was bound - That each of us might know that all was ours: - Must I lead now an idle life in wishes, - And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes? - - _96._ chimneys] _cheminées_, chimney-screens of tapestry work. - - I, that did wear the ring her mother left, - I, for whose love she gloried to be blamèd, - I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft, - I, who did make her blush when I was namèd: - Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, - Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd? - - Was it for this that I might Myra see - Washing the water with her beauty’s white? - Yet would she never write her love to me. - Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight? - Mad girls may safely love as they may leave; - No man can _print_ a kiss: lines may deceive. - - _96._ deceive] betray. - - - - -THOMAS LODGE - -1556?-1625 - - -_97._ _Rosalind’s Madrigal_ - - Love in my bosom like a bee - Doth suck his sweet: - Now with his wings he plays with me, - Now with his feet. - Within mine eyes he makes his nest, - His bed amidst my tender breast; - My kisses are his daily feast, - And yet he robs me of my rest: - Ah! wanton, will ye? - - And if I sleep, then percheth he - With pretty flight, - And makes his pillow of my knee - The livelong night. - Strike I my lute, he tunes the string; - He music plays if so I sing; - He lends me every lovely thing, - Yet cruel he my heart doth sting: - Whist, wanton, still ye! - - Else I with roses every day - Will whip you hence, - And bind you, when you long to play, - For your offence. - I’ll shut mine eyes to keep you in; - I’ll make you fast it for your sin; - I’ll count your power not worth a pin. - --Alas! what hereby shall I win - If he gainsay me? - - What if I beat the wanton boy - With many a rod? - He will repay me with annoy, - Because a god. - Then sit thou safely on my knee; - Then let thy bower my bosom be; - Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee; - O Cupid, so thou pity me, - Spare not, but play thee! - - -_98._ _Phillis_ I - - My Phillis hath the morning sun - At first to look upon her; - And Phillis hath morn-waking birds - Her risings still to honour. - My Phillis hath prime-feather’d flowers, - That smile when she treads on them; - And Phillis hath a gallant flock, - That leaps since she doth own them. - But Phillis hath too hard a heart, - Alas that she should have it! - It yields no mercy to desert, - Nor grace to those that crave it. - - -_99._ _Phillis_ 2 - - Love guards the roses of thy lips - And flies about them like a bee; - If I approach he forward skips, - And if I kiss he stingeth me. - - Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, - And sleeps within their pretty shine; - And if I look the boy will lower, - And from their orbs shoot shafts divine. - - Love works thy heart within his fire, - And in my tears doth firm the same; - And if I tempt it will retire, - And of my plaints doth make a game. - - Love, let me cull her choicest flowers; - And pity me, and calm her eye; - Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers - Then will I praise thy deity. - - But if thou do not, Love, I’ll truly serve her - In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her. - - -_100._ _Rosaline_ - - Like to the clear in highest sphere - Where all imperial glory shines, - Of selfsame colour is her hair - Whether unfolded or in twines: - Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! - Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, - Resembling heaven by every wink; - The gods do fear whenas they glow, - And I do tremble when I think - Heigh ho, would she were mine! - - Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud - That beautifies Aurora’s face, - Or like the silver crimson shroud - That Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace. - Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! - Her lips are like two budded roses - Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, - Within whose bounds she balm encloses - Apt to entice a deity: - Heigh ho, would she were mine! - - Her neck like to a stately tower - Where Love himself imprison’d lies, - To watch for glances every hour - From her divine and sacred eyes: - Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! - Her paps are centres of delight, - Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, - Where Nature moulds the dew of light - To feed perfection with the same: - Heigh ho, would she were mine! - - - With orient pearl, with ruby red, - With marble white, with sapphire blue, - Her body every way is fed, - Yet soft to touch and sweet in view: - Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! - Nature herself her shape admires; - The gods are wounded in her sight; - And Love forsakes his heavenly fires - And at her eyes his brand doth light: - Heigh ho, would she were mine! - - Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan - The absence of fair Rosaline, - Since for a fair there’s fairer none, - Nor for her virtues so divine: - Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! - Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine! - - - - -GEORGE PEELE - -1558?-97 - - -_101._ _Fair and Fair_ - - _Œnone._ Fair and fair, and twice so fair, - As fair as any may be; - The fairest shepherd on our green, - A love for any lady. - - _Paris._ Fair and fair, and twice so fair, - As fair as any may be; - Thy love is fair for thee alone - And for no other lady. - - _Œnone._ My love is fair, my love is gay, - As fresh as bin the flowers in May - And of my love my roundelay, - My merry, merry, merry roundelay, - Concludes with Cupid’s curse,-- - ‘They that do change old love for new - Pray gods they change for worse!’ - _Ambo Simul._ They that do change old love for new, - Pray gods they change for worse! - - _Œnone._ Fair and fair, etc. - _Paris._ Fair and fair, etc. - Thy love is fair, etc. - _Œnone._ My love can pipe, my love can sing, - My love can many a pretty thing, - And of his lovely praises ring - My merry, merry, merry roundelays - Amen to Cupid’s curse,-- - ‘They that do change,’ etc. - _Paris._ They that do change, etc. - _Ambo._ Fair and fair, etc. - - -_102._ _A Farewell to Arms_ - -(TO QUEEN ELIZABETH) - - His golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d; - O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! - His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d, - But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing: - Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; - Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. - - His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; - And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms, - A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, - And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: - But though from court to cottage he depart, - His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. - - - And when he saddest sits in homely cell, - He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,-- - ‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, - Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’ - Goddess, allow this agèd man his right - To be your beadsman now that was your knight. - - - - -ROBERT GREENE - -1560-92 - - -_103._ _Samela_ - - Like to Diana in her summer weed, - Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye, - Goes fair Samela. - Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed - When wash’d by Arethusa faint they lie, - Is fair Samela. - As fair Aurora in her morning grey, - Deck’d with the ruddy glister of her love - Is fair Samela; - Like lovely Thetis on a calmèd day - Whenas her brightness Neptune’s fancy move, - Shines fair Samela. - - Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, - Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory - Of fair Samela; - Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams; - Her brows bright arches framed of ebony. - Thus fair Samela - Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue, - And Juno in the show of majesty - (For she’s Samela!), - Pallas in wit,--all three, if you well view, - For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity, - Yield to Samela. - - -_104._ _Fawnia_ - - Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, - Or but as mild as she is seeming so, - Then were my hopes greater than my despair, - Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. - Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand, - That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, - Then knew I where to seat me in a land - Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. - So as she shows she seems the budding rose, - Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; - Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows; - Compass’d she is with thorns and canker’d flower. - Yet were she willing to be pluck’d and worn, - She would be gather’d, though she grew on thorn. - - Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, - For none must be comparèd to her note; - Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill, - Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat. - Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed - She comforts all the world as doth the sun, - And at her sight the night’s foul vapour’s fled; - When she is set the gladsome day is done. - O glorious sun, imagine me the west, - Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast! - - -_105._ _Sephestia’s Lullaby_ - - Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; - When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. - Mother’s wag, pretty boy, - Father’s sorrow, father’s joy; - When thy father first did see - Such a boy by him and me, - He was glad, I was woe; - Fortune changèd made him so, - When he left his pretty boy, - Last his sorrow, first his joy. - - Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; - When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. - Streaming tears that never stint, - Like pearl-drops from a flint, - Fell by course from his eyes, - That one another’s place supplies; - Thus he grieved in every part, - Tears of blood fell from his heart, - When he left his pretty boy, - Father’s sorrow, father’s joy. - - Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee; - When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. - The wanton smiled, father wept, - Mother cried, baby leapt; - More he crow’d, more we cried, - Nature could not sorrow hide: - He must go, he must kiss - Child and mother, baby bliss, - For he left his pretty boy, - Father’s sorrow, father’s joy. - - Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, - When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. - - - - -ALEXANDER HUME - -1560-1609 - - -_106._ _A Summer Day_ - - O perfect Light, which shaid away - The darkness from the light, - And set a ruler o’er the day, - Another o’er the night-- - - Thy glory, when the day forth flies, - More vively doth appear - Than at mid day unto our eyes - The shining sun is clear. - - The shadow of the earth anon - Removes and drawis by, - While in the East, when it is gone, - Appears a clearer sky. - - Which soon perceive the little larks, - The lapwing and the snipe, - And tune their songs, like Nature’s clerks, - O’er meadow, muir, and stripe. - - Our hemisphere is polisht clean, - And lighten’d more and more, - While everything is clearly seen - Which seemit dim before: - - Except the glistering astres bright, - Which all the night were clear, - Offuskit with a greater light - No longer do appear. - - shaid] parted. stripe] rill. offuskit] darkened. - - The golden globe incontinent - Sets up his shining head, - And o’er the earth and firmament - Displays his beams abread. - - For joy the birds with boulden throats - Against his visage sheen - Take up their kindly musick notes - In woods and gardens green. - - The dew upon the tender crops, - Like pearlis white and round, - Or like to melted silver drops, - Refreshis all the ground. - - The misty reek, the clouds of rain, - From tops of mountains skails, - Clear are the highest hills and plain, - The vapours take the vales. - - The ample heaven of fabrick sure - In cleanness does surpass - The crystal and the silver pure, - Or clearest polisht glass. - - The time so tranquil is and still - That nowhere shall ye find, - Save on a high and barren hill, - An air of peeping wind. - - All trees and simples, great and small, - That balmy leaf do bear, - Than they were painted on a wall - No more they move or steir. - - boulden] swollen. sheen] bright. skails] clears. simples] herbs. - - Calm is the deep and purple sea, - Yea, smoother than the sand; - The waves that weltering wont to be - Are stable like the land. - - So silent is the cessile air - That every cry and call - The hills and dales and forest fair - Again repeats them all. - - The flourishes and fragrant flowers, - Through Phoebus’ fostering heat, - Refresht with dew and silver showers - Cast up an odour sweet. - - The cloggit busy humming bees, - That never think to drone, - On flowers and flourishes of trees - Collect their liquor brown. - - The Sun, most like a speedy post - With ardent course ascends; - The beauty of the heavenly host - Up to our zenith tends. - - The burning beams down from his face - So fervently can beat, - That man and beast now seek a place - To save them from the heat. - - The herds beneath some leafy tree - Amidst the flowers they lie; - The stable ships upon the sea - Tend up their sails to dry. - - cessile] yielding, ceasing. flourishes] blossoms. - - With gilded eyes and open wings - The cock his courage shows; - With claps of joy his breast he dings, - And twenty times he crows. - - The dove with whistling wings so blue - The winds can fast collect; - Her purple pens turn many a hue - Against the sun direct. - - Now noon is went; gone is midday, - The heat doth slake at last; - The sun descends down West away, - For three of clock is past. - - The rayons of the sun we see - Diminish in their strength; - The shade of every tower and tree - Extendit is in length. - - Great is the calm, for everywhere - The wind is setting down; - The reek throws right up in the air - From every tower and town. - - The gloming comes; the day is spent; - The sun goes out of sight; - And painted is the occident - With purple sanguine bright. - - Our west horizon circular - From time the sun be set - Is all with rubies, as it were, - Or roses red o’erfret. - - - What pleasure were to walk and see, - Endlong a river clear, - The perfect form of every tree - Within the deep appear. - - O then it were a seemly thing, - While all is still and calm, - The praise of God to play and sing - With cornet and with shalm! - - All labourers draw home at even, - And can to other say, - Thanks to the gracious God of heaven, - Which sent this summer day. - - - - -GEORGE CHAPMAN - -1560-1634 - - -_107._ _Bridal Song_ - - O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! - Come, naked Virtue’s only tire, - The reapèd harvest of the light - Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire. - Love calls to war: - Sighs his alarms, - Lips his swords are, - The field his arms. - - Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand - On glorious Day’s outfacing face; - And all thy crownèd flames command - For torches to our nuptial grace. - Love calls to war: - Sighs his alarms, - Lips his swords are, - The field his arms. - - - - -ROBERT SOUTHWELL - -1561-95 - - -_108._ _Times go by Turns_ - - The loppèd tree in time may grow again, - Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; - The sorest wight may find release of pain, - The driest soil suck in some moist’ning shower; - Times go by turns and chances change by course, - From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. - - The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, - She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; - Her tides hath equal times to come and go, - Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; - No joy so great but runneth to an end, - No hap so hard but may in fine amend. - - Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, - No endless night yet not eternal day; - The saddest birds a season find to sing, - The roughest storm a calm may soon allay: - Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, - That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. - - A chance may win that by mischance was lost; - The net that holds no great, takes little fish; - In some things all, in all things none are crost, - Few all they need, but none have all they wish; - Unmeddled joys here to no man befall: - Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. - - unmeddled] unmixed. - - -_109._ _The Burning Babe_ - - As I in hoary winter’s night - Stood shivering in the snow, - Surprised I was with sudden heat - Which made my heart to glow; - And lifting up a fearful eye - To view what fire was near, - A pretty babe all burning bright - Did in the air appear; - Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, - Such floods of tears did shed, - As though His floods should quench His flames, - Which with His tears were bred: - ‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly born - In fiery heats I fry, - Yet none approach to warm their hearts - Or feel my fire but I! - - ‘My faultless breast the furnace is; - The fuel, wounding thorns; - Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke; - The ashes, shames and scorns; - The fuel Justice layeth on, - And Mercy blows the coals, - The metal in this furnace wrought - Are men’s defilèd souls: - For which, as now on fire I am - To work them to their good, - So will I melt into a bath, - To wash them in my blood.’ - With this He vanish’d out of sight - And swiftly shrunk away, - And straight I callèd unto mind - That it was Christmas Day. - - - - -HENRY CONSTABLE - -1562?-1613? - - -_110._ _On the Death of Sir Philip Sidney_ - - Give pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries, - If they, importune, interrupt thy song, - Which now with joyful notes thou sing’st among - The angel-quiristers of th’ heavenly skies. - Give pardon eke, sweet soul, to my slow eyes, - That since I saw thee now it is so long, - And yet the tears that unto thee belong - To thee as yet they did not sacrifice. - I did not know that thou wert dead before; - I did not feel the grief I did sustain; - The greater stroke astonisheth the more; - Astonishment takes from us sense of pain; - I stood amazed when others’ tears begun, - And now begin to weep when they have done. - - - - -SAMUEL DANIEL - -1562-1619 - - -_111._ _Love is a Sickness_ - - LOVE is a sickness full of woes, - All remedies refusing; - A plant that with most cutting grows, - Most barren with best using. - Why so? - More we enjoy it, more it dies; - If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries-- - Heigh ho! - - Love is a torment of the mind, - A tempest everlasting; - And Jove hath made it of a kind - Not well, nor full nor fasting. - Why so? - More we enjoy it, more it dies; - If not enjoy’d, it sighing cries-- - Heigh ho! - - -_112._ _Ulysses and the Siren_ - - _Siren._ Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come, - Possess these shores with me: - The winds and seas are troublesome, - And here we may be free. - Here may we sit and view their toil - That travail in the deep, - And joy the day in mirth the while, - And spend the night in sleep. - - _Ulysses._ Fair Nymph, if fame or honour were - To be attain’d with ease, - Then would I come and rest me there, - And leave such toils as these. - But here it dwells, and here must I - With danger seek it forth: - To spend the time luxuriously - Becomes not men of worth. - - _Siren._ Ulysses, O be not deceived - With that unreal name; - This honour is a thing conceived, - And rests on others’ fame: - Begotten only to molest - Our peace, and to beguile - The best thing of our life--our rest, - And give us up to toil. - - - _Ulysses._ Delicious Nymph, suppose there were - No honour nor report, - Yet manliness would scorn to wear - The time in idle sport: - For toil doth give a better touch - To make us feel our joy, - And ease finds tediousness as much - As labour yields annoy. - - _Siren._ Then pleasure likewise seems the shore - Whereto tends all your toil, - Which you forgo to make it more, - And perish oft the while. - Who may disport them diversely - Find never tedious day, - And ease may have variety - As well as action may. - - _Ulysses._ But natures of the noblest frame - These toils and dangers please; - And they take comfort in the same - As much as you in ease; - And with the thought of actions past - Are recreated still: - When Pleasure leaves a touch at last - To show that it was ill. - - _Siren._ That doth _Opinion_ only cause - That’s out of _Custom_ bred, - Which makes us many other laws - Than ever _Nature_ did. - No widows wail for our delights, - Our sports are without blood; - The world we see by warlike wights - Receives more hurt than good. - - - _Ulysses._ But yet the state of things require - These motions of unrest: - And these great Spirits of high desire - Seem born to turn them best: - To purge the mischiefs that increase - And all good order mar: - For oft we see a wicked peace - To be well changed for war. - - _Siren._ Well, well, Ulysses, then I see - I shall not have thee here: - And therefore I will come to thee, - And take my fortune there. - I must be won, that cannot win, - Yet lost were I not won; - For beauty hath created been - T’ undo, or be undone. - - -_113._ _Beauty, Time, and Love_ - - -SONNETS. I - - Fair is my Love and cruel as she’s fair; - Her brow-shades frown, although her eyes are sunny, - Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, - And her disdains are gall, her favours honey: - A modest maid, deck’d with a blush of honour, - Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; - The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, - Sacred on earth, design’d a Saint above. - Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes, - Live reconcilèd friends within her brow; - And had she Pity to conjoin with those, - Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? - For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, - My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind. - - -II - - My spotless love hovers with purest wings, - About the temple of the proudest frame, - Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things, - Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame. - My ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face, - Affect no honour but what she can give; - My hopes do rest in limits of her grace; - I weigh no comfort unless she relieve. - For she, that can my heart imparadise, - Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is; - My Fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes, - Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss. - All my life’s sweet consists in her alone; - So much I love the most Unloving one. - - -III - - And yet I cannot reprehend the flight - Or blame th’ attempt presuming so to soar; - The mounting venture for a high delight - Did make the honour of the fall the more. - For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore? - Danger hath honour, great designs their fame; - Glory doth follow, courage goes before; - And though th’ event oft answers not the same-- - Suffice that high attempts have never shame. - The mean observer, whom base safety keeps, - Lives without honour, dies without a name, - And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.-- - And therefore, _Delia_, ’tis to me no blot - To have attempted, tho’ attain’d thee not. - - -IV - - When men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass, - And thou with careful brow, sitting alone, - Receivèd hast this message from thy glass, - That tells the truth and says that _All is gone_; - Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad’st, - Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining: - I that have loved thee thus before thou fad’st-- - My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning. - The world shall find this miracle in me, - That fire can burn when all the matter’s spent: - Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, - And that thou wast unkind thou may’st repent.-- - Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears, - When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs. - - -V - - Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew, - Whose short refresh upon the tender green - Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show, - And straight ’tis gone as it had never been. - Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, - Short is the glory of the blushing rose; - The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, - Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose. - When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, - Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth; - And that, in Beauty’s Lease expired, appears - The Date of Age, the Calends of our Death-- - But ah, no more!--this must not be foretold, - For women grieve to think they must be old. - - -VI - - I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read - Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile; - Flowers have time before they come to seed, - And she is young, and now must sport the while. - And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years, - And learn to gather flowers before they wither; - And where the sweetest blossom first appears, - Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither. - Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, - And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise; - Pity and smiles do best become the fair; - Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. - Make me to say when all my griefs are gone, - Happy the heart that sighed for such a one! - - -VII - - Let others sing of Knights and Paladines - In agèd accents and untimely words, - Paint shadows in imaginary lines, - Which well the reach of their high wit records: - But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes - Authentic shall my verse in time to come; - When yet th’ unborn shall say, _Lo, where she lies!_ - _Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!_ - These are the arcs, the trophies I erect, - That fortify thy name against old age; - And these thy sacred virtues must protect - Against the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage. - Though th’ error of my youth in them appear, - Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear. - - - - -MARK ALEXANDER BOYD - -1563-1601 - - -_114._ _Sonet_ - - Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, - Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie; - Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree, - Or til a reed ourblawin with the win. - - Twa gods guides me: the ane of tham is blin, - Yea and a bairn brocht up in vanitie; - The next a wife ingenrit of the sea, - And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin. - - Unhappy is the man for evermair - That tills the sand and sawis in the air; - But twice unhappier is he, I lairn, - That feidis in his hairt a mad desire, - And follows on a woman throw the fire, - Led by a blind and teachit by a bairn. - - - - -JOSHUA SYLVESTER - -1563-1618 - - -_115._ _Ubique_ - - Were I as base as is the lowly plain, - And you, my Love, as high as heaven above, - Yet should the thoughts of me, your humble swain, - Ascend to heaven in honour of my love. - Were I as high as heaven above the plain, - And you, my Love, as humble and as low - As are the deepest bottoms of the main, - Wheresoe’er you were, with you my love should go. - Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies, - My love should shine on you like to the Sun, - And look upon you with ten thousand eyes, - Till heaven wax’d blind, and till the world were done. - Wheresoe’er I am,--below, or else above you-- - Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you. - - - - -MICHAEL DRAYTON - -1563-1631 - - -_116._ _To His Coy Love_ - - I pray thee, leave, love me no more, - Call home the heart you gave me! - I but in vain that saint adore - That can but will not save me. - These poor half-kisses kill me quite-- - Was ever man thus servèd? - Amidst an ocean of delight - For pleasure to be starvèd? - - Show me no more those snowy breasts - With azure riverets branchèd, - Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts, - Yet is my thirst not stanchèd; - O Tantalus, thy pains ne’er tell! - By me thou art prevented: - ’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell, - But thus in Heaven tormented. - - Clip me no more in those dear arms, - Nor thy life’s comfort call me, - O these are but too powerful charms, - And do but more enthral me! - But see how patient I am grown - In all this coil about thee: - Come, nice thing, let my heart alone, - I cannot live without thee! - - -_117._ _The Parting_ - - Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part-- - Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; - And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, - That thus so cleanly I myself can free. - Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, - And when we meet at any time again, - Be it not seen in either of our brows - That we one jot of former love retain. - Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, - When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, - When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, - And Innocence is closing up his eyes, - --Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, - From death to life thou might’st him yet recover. - - -_118._ _Sirena_ - - Near to the silver _Trent_ - SIRENA dwelleth; - She to whom Nature lent - All that excelleth; - By which the Muses late - And the neat Graces - Have for their greater state - Taken their places; - Twisting an anadem - Wherewith to crown her, - As it belong’d to them - Most to renown her. - _On thy bank,_ - _In a rank,_ - _Let thy swans sing her,_ - _And with their music_ - _Along let them bring her._ - - _Tagus_ and _Pactolus_ - Are to thee debtor, - Nor for their gold to us - Are they the better: - Henceforth of all the rest - Be thou the River - Which, as the daintiest, - Puts them down ever. - For as my precious one - O’er thee doth travel, - She to pearl paragon - Turneth thy gravel. - _On thy bank ..._ - - Our mournful Philomel, - That rarest tuner, - Henceforth in Aperil - Shall wake the sooner, - And to her shall complain - From the thick cover, - Redoubling every strain - Over and over: - For when my Love too long - Her chamber keepeth, - As though it suffer’d wrong, - The Morning weepeth. - _On thy bank ..._ - - - Oft have I seen the Sun, - To do her honour, - Fix himself at his noon - To look upon her; - And hath gilt every grove, - Every hill near her, - With his flames from above - Striving to cheer her: - And when she from his sight - Hath herself turnèd, - He, as it had been night, - In clouds hath mournèd. - _On thy bank ..._ - - The verdant meads are seen, - When she doth view them, - In fresh and gallant green - Straight to renew them; - And every little grass - Broad itself spreadeth, - Proud that this bonny lass - Upon it treadeth: - Nor flower is so sweet - In this large cincture, - But it upon her feet - Leaveth some tincture. - _On thy bank ..._ - - The fishes in the flood, - When she doth angle, - For the hook strive a-good - Them to entangle; - And leaping on the land, - From the clear water, - Their scales upon the sand - Lavishly scatter; - Therewith to pave the mould - Whereon she passes, - So herself to behold - As in her glasses. - _On thy bank ..._ - - When she looks out by night, - The stars stand gazing, - Like comets to our sight - Fearfully blazing; - As wond’ring at her eyes - With their much brightness, - Which so amaze the skies, - Dimming their lightness. - The raging tempests are calm - When she speaketh, - Such most delightsome balm - From her lips breaketh. - _On thy bank ..._ - - In all our _Brittany_ - There’s not a fairer, - Nor can you fit any - Should you compare her. - Angels her eyelids keep, - All hearts surprising; - Which look whilst she doth sleep - Like the sun’s rising: - She alone of her kind - Knoweth true measure, - And her unmatchèd mind - Is heaven’s treasure. - _On thy bank ..._ - - - Fair _Dove_ and _Darwen_ clear, - Boast ye your beauties, - To _Trent_ your mistress here - Yet pay your duties: - My Love was higher born - Tow’rds the full fountains, - Yet she doth moorland scorn - And the _Peak_ mountains; - Nor would she none should dream - Where she abideth, - Humble as is the stream - Which by her slideth. - _On thy bank ..._ - - Yet my poor rustic Muse - Nothing can move her, - Nor the means I can use, - Though her true lover: - Many a long winter’s night - Have I waked for her, - Yet this my piteous plight - Nothing can stir her. - All thy sands, silver _Trent_, - Down to the _Humber_, - The sighs that I have spent - Never can number. - _On thy bank,_ - _In a rank,_ - _Let thy swans sing her,_ - _And with their music_ - _Along let them bring her._ - - -_119._ _Agincourt_ - - Fair stood the wind for France - When we our sails advance, - Nor now to prove our chance - Longer will tarry; - But putting to the main, - At Caux, the mouth of Seine, - With all his martial train - Landed King Harry. - - And taking many a fort, - Furnish’d in warlike sort, - Marcheth tow’rds Agincourt - In happy hour; - Skirmishing day by day - With those that stopp’d his way, - Where the French gen’ral lay - With all his power. - - Which, in his height of pride, - King Henry to deride, - His ransom to provide - Unto him sending; - Which he neglects the while - As from a nation vile, - Yet with an angry smile - Their fall portending. - - And turning to his men, - Quoth our brave Henry then, - ‘Though they to one be ten - Be not amazèd: - Yet have we well begun; - Battles so bravely won - Have ever to the sun - By fame been raisèd. - - ‘And for myself (quoth he) - This my full rest shall be: - England ne’er mourn for me - Nor more esteem me: - Victor I will remain - Or on this earth lie slain, - Never shall she sustain - Loss to redeem me. - - ‘Poitiers and Cressy tell, - When most their pride did swell, - Under our swords they fell: - No less our skill is - Than when our grandsire great, - Claiming the regal seat, - By many a warlike feat - Lopp’d the French lilies.’ - - The Duke of York so dread - The eager vaward led; - With the main Henry sped - Among his henchmen. - Excester had the rear, - A braver man not there; - O Lord, how hot they were - On the false Frenchmen! - - They now to fight are gone, - Armour on armour shone, - Drum now to drum did groan, - To hear was wonder; - That with the cries they make - The very earth did shake: - Trumpet to trumpet spake, - Thunder to thunder. - - Well it thine age became, - O noble Erpingham, - Which didst the signal aim - To our hid forces! - When from a meadow by, - Like a storm suddenly - The English archery - Stuck the French horses. - - With Spanish yew so strong, - Arrows a cloth-yard long - That like to serpents stung, - Piercing the weather; - None from his fellow starts, - But playing manly parts, - And like true English hearts - Stuck close together. - - When down their bows they threw, - And forth their bilbos drew, - And on the French they flew, - Not one was tardy; - Arms were from shoulders sent, - Scalps to the teeth were rent, - Down the French peasants went-- - Our men were hardy. - - This while our noble king, - His broadsword brandishing, - - bilbos] swords, from Bilboa. - - Down the French host did ding - As to o’erwhelm it; - And many a deep wound lent, - His arms with blood besprent, - And many a cruel dent - Bruisèd his helmet. - - Gloster, that duke so good, - Next of the royal blood, - For famous England stood - With his brave brother; - Clarence, in steel so bright, - Though but a maiden knight, - Yet in that furious fight - Scarce such another. - - Warwick in blood did wade, - Oxford the foe invade, - And cruel slaughter made - Still as they ran up; - Suffolk his axe did ply, - Beaumont and Willoughby - Bare them right doughtily, - Ferrers and Fanhope. - - Upon Saint Crispin’s Day - Fought was this noble fray, - Which fame did not delay - To England to carry. - O when shall English men - With such acts fill a pen? - Or England breed again - Such a King Harry? - - -_120._ _To the Virginian Voyage_ - - You brave heroic minds - Worthy your country’s name, - That honour still pursue; - Go and subdue! - Whilst loitering hinds - Lurk here at home with shame. - - Britons, you stay too long: - Quickly aboard bestow you, - And with a merry gale - Swell your stretch’d sail - With vows as strong - As the winds that blow you. - - Your course securely steer, - West and by south forth keep! - Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals - When Eolus scowls - You need not fear; - So absolute the deep. - - And cheerfully at sea - Success you still entice - To get the pearl and gold, - And ours to hold - _Virginia,_ - Earth’s only paradise. - - Where nature hath in store - Fowl, venison, and fish, - And the fruitfull’st soil - Without your toil - Three harvests more, - All greater than your wish. - - - And the ambitious vine - Crowns with his purple mass - The cedar reaching high - To kiss the sky, - The cypress, pine, - And useful sassafras. - - To whom the Golden Age - Still nature’s laws doth give, - No other cares attend, - But them to defend - From winter’s rage, - That long there doth not live. - - When as the luscious smell - Of that delicious land - Above the seas that flows - The clear wind throws, - Your hearts to swell - Approaching the dear strand; - - In kenning of the shore - (Thanks to God first given) - O you the happiest men, - Be frolic then! - Let cannons roar, - Frighting the wide heaven. - - And in regions far, - Such heroes bring ye forth - As those from whom we came; - And plant our name - Under that star - Not known unto our North. - - - And as there plenty grows - Of laurel everywhere-- - Apollo’s sacred tree-- - You it may see - A poet’s brows - To crown, that may sing there. - - Thy _Voyages_ attend, - Industrious Hakluyt, - Whose reading shall inflame - Men to seek fame, - And much commend - To after times thy wit. - - - - -CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE - -1564-93 - - -_121._ _The Passionate Shepherd to His Love_ - - Come live with me and be my Love, - And we will all the pleasures prove - That hills and valleys, dales and fields - Or woods or steepy mountain yields. - - And we will sit upon the rocks, - And see the shepherds feed their flocks - By shallow rivers, to whose falls - Melodious birds sing madrigals. - - And I will make thee beds of roses - And a thousand fragrant posies; - A cap of flowers, and a kirtle - Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle. - - - A gown made of the finest wool - Which from our pretty lambs we pull; - Fair-linèd slippers for the cold, - With buckles of the purest gold. - - A belt of straw and ivy-buds - With coral clasps and amber studs: - And if these pleasures may thee move, - Come live with me and be my Love. - - The shepherd swains shall dance and sing - For thy delight each May morning: - If these delights thy mind may move, - Then live with me and be my Love. - - -_122._ _Her Reply_ - -(WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH) - - If all the world and love were young, - And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, - These pretty pleasures might me move - To live with thee and be thy Love. - - But Time drives flocks from field to fold; - When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; - And Philomel becometh dumb; - The rest complains of cares to come. - - The flowers do fade, and wanton fields - To wayward Winter reckoning yields: - A honey tongue, a heart of gall, - Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall. - - - Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, - Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, - Soon break, soon wither--soon forgotten, - In folly ripe, in reason rotten. - - Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, - Thy coral clasps and amber studs,-- - All these in me no means can move - To come to thee and be thy Love. - - But could youth last, and love still breed, - Had joys no date, nor age no need, - Then these delights my mind might move - To live with thee and be thy Love. - - - - -WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE - -1564-1616 - - -_123._ _Silvia_ - - Who is Silvia? What is she? - That all our swains commend her? - Holy, fair, and wise is she; - The heaven such grace did lend her, - That she might admirèd be. - - Is she kind as she is fair? - For beauty lives with kindness: - Love doth to her eyes repair, - To help him of his blindness; - And, being help’d, inhabits there. - - Then to Silvia let us sing, - That Silvia is excelling; - She excels each mortal thing - Upon the dull earth dwelling: - To her let us garlands bring. - - -_124._ _The Blossom_ - - On a day--alack the day!-- - Love, whose month is ever May, - Spied a blossom passing fair - Playing in the wanton air: - Through the velvet leaves the wind - All unseen ’gan passage find; - That the lover, sick to death, - Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath. - Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; - Air, would I might triumph so! - But, alack, my hand is sworn - Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn: - Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; - Youth so apt to pluck a sweet! - Do not call it sin in me - That I am forsworn for thee; - Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear - Juno but an Ethiop were; - And deny himself for Jove, - Turning mortal for thy love. - - -_Spring and Winter_ - -_125._ _i_ - - When daisies pied and violets blue, - And lady-smocks all silver-white, - And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue - Do paint the meadows with delight, - The cuckoo then, on every tree, - Mocks married men; for thus sings he, - Cuckoo! - Cuckoo, cuckoo!--O word of fear, - Unpleasing to a married ear! - - When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, - And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks, - When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, - And maidens bleach their summer smocks - The cuckoo then, on every tree, - Mocks married men; for thus sings he, - Cuckoo! - Cuckoo, cuckoo!--O word of fear, - Unpleasing to a married ear! - - -_126._ _ii_ - - When icicles hang by the wall, - And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, - And Tom bears logs into the hall, - And milk comes frozen home in pail, - When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul, - Then nightly sings the staring owl, - To-whit! - To-who!--a merry note. - While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. - - When all aloud the wind doth blow, - And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, - And birds sit brooding in the snow, - And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, - When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, - Then nightly sings the staring owl, - To-whit! - To-who!--a merry note, - While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. - - _126._ keel] skim. - - -_Fairy Land_ - -_127._ _i_ - - Over hill, over dale, - Thorough bush, thorough brier, - Over park, over pale, - Thorough flood, thorough fire, - I do wander everywhere. - Swifter than the moonè’s sphere; - And I serve the fairy queen, - To dew her orbs upon the green: - The cowslips tall her pensioners be; - In their gold coats spots you see; - Those be rubies, fairy favours, - In those freckles live their savours: - I must go seek some dew-drops here, - And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. - - -_128._ _ii_ - - You spotted snakes with double tongue, - Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; - Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; - Come not near our fairy queen. - - Philomel, with melody, - Sing in our sweet lullaby; - Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! - Never harm, - Nor spell nor charm, - Come our lovely lady nigh; - So, good night, with lullaby. - - Weaving spiders, come not here; - Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence! - Beetles black, approach not near; - Worm nor snail, do no offence. - - Philomel, with melody, - Sing in our sweet lullaby; - Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! - Never harm. - Nor spell nor charm, - Come our lovely lady nigh; - So, good night, with lullaby. - - -_129._ _iii_ - - Come unto these yellow sands, - And then take hands: - Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,-- - The wild waves whist,-- - Foot it featly here and there; - And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. - Hark, hark! - Bow, wow, - The watch-dogs bark. - Bow, wow. - Hark, hark! I hear - The strain of strutting chanticleer - Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow! - - -_130._ _iv_ - - Where the bee sucks, there suck I: - In a cowslip’s bell I lie; - There I couch when owls do cry. - On the bat’s back I do fly - After summer merrily: - Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, - Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. - - -_131._ _v_ - - Full fathom five thy father lies; - Of his bones are coral made; - Those are pearls that were his eyes: - Nothing of him that doth fade, - But doth suffer a sea-change - Into something rich and strange. - Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: - Ding-dong. - Hark! now I hear them-- - Ding-dong, bell! - - -_132._ _Love_ - - Tell me where is Fancy bred, - Or in the heart or in the head? - How begot, how nourishèd? - Reply, reply. - It is engender’d in the eyes, - With gazing fed; and Fancy dies - In the cradle where it lies. - Let us all ring Fancy’s knell: - I’ll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell. - _All._ Ding, dong, bell. - - -_133._ _Sweet-and-Twenty_ - - O mistress mine, where are you roaming? - O, stay and hear! your true love’s coming, - That can sing both high and low: - Trip no further, pretty sweeting; - Journeys end in lovers meeting, - Every wise man’s son doth know. - - - What is love? ’tis not hereafter; - Present mirth hath present laughter; - What’s to come is still unsure: - In delay there lies no plenty; - Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty! - Youth’s a stuff will not endure. - - -_134._ _Dirge_ - - Come away, come away, death, - And in sad cypres let me be laid; - Fly away, fly away, breath; - I am slain by a fair cruel maid. - My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, - O prepare it! - My part of death, no one so true - Did share it. - - Not a flower, not a flower sweet, - On my black coffin let there be strown; - Not a friend, not a friend greet - My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown: - A thousand thousand sighs to save, - Lay me, O, where - Sad true lover never find my grave - To weep there! - - _134._ cypres] crape. - - -_135._ _Under the Greenwood Tree_ - -_Amiens_ sings: - - Under the greenwood tree, - Who loves to lie with me, - And turn his merry note - Unto the sweet bird’s throat, - Come hither, come hither, come hither: - Here shall he see - No enemy - But winter and rough weather. - - Who doth ambition shun, - And loves to live i’ the sun, - Seeking the food he eats, - And pleased with what he gets, - Come hither, come hither, come hither: - Here shall he see - No enemy - But winter and rough weather. - -_Jaques_ replies: - - If it do come to pass - That any man turn ass, - Leaving his wealth and ease - A stubborn will to please, - Ducdamè, ducdamè, ducdamè: - Here shall he see - Gross fools as he, - An if he will come to me. - - -_136._ _Blow blow, thou Winter Wind_ - - Blow, blow, thou winter wind, - Thou art not so unkind - As man’s ingratitude; - Thy tooth is not so keen, - Because thou art not seen, - Although thy breath be rude. - Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: - Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: - Then heigh ho, the holly! - This life is most jolly. - - Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, - That dost not bite so nigh - As benefits forgot: - Though thou the waters warp, - Thy sting is not so sharp - As friend remember’d not. - Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: - Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: - Then heigh ho, the holly! - This life is most jolly. - - -_137._ _It was a Lover and his Lass_ - - It was a lover and his lass, - With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, - That o’er the green corn-field did pass, - In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, - When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; - Sweet lovers love the spring. - - Between the acres of the rye, - With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, - These pretty country folks would lie, - In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, - When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; - Sweet lovers love the spring. - - This carol they began that hour, - With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, - How that life was but a flower - In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, - When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; - Sweet lovers love the spring. - - And, therefore, take the present time - With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, - For love is crownèd with the prime - In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, - When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; - Sweet lovers love the spring. - - -_138._ _Take, O take those Lips away_ - - Take, O take those lips away, - That so sweetly were forsworn; - And those eyes, the break of day, - Lights that do mislead the morn! - But my kisses bring again, - Bring again; - Seals of love, but seal’d in vain, - Seal’d in vain! - - -_139._ _Aubade_ - - Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, - And Phœbus ’gins arise, - His steeds to water at those springs - On chaliced flowers that lies; - And winking Mary-buds begin - To ope their golden eyes: - With everything that pretty bin, - My lady sweet, arise! - Arise, arise! - - -_140._ _Fidele_ - - Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, - Nor the furious winter’s rages; - Thou thy worldly task hast done, - Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages - Golden lads and girls all must, - As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. - - Fear no more the frown o’ the great, - Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; - Care no more to clothe and eat; - To thee the reed is as the oak: - The sceptre, learning, physic, must - All follow this, and come to dust. - - Fear no more the lightning-flash, - Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; - Fear not slander, censure rash; - Thou hast finished joy and moan: - All lovers young, all lovers must - Consign to thee, and come to dust. - - No exerciser harm thee! - Nor no witchcraft charm thee! - Ghost unlaid forbear thee! - Nothing ill come near thee! - Quiet consummation have; - And renownèd be thy grave! - - -_141._ _Bridal Song_ - - Roses, their sharp spines being gone, - Not royal in their smells alone, - But in their hue; - Maiden pinks, of odour faint, - Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, - And sweet thyme true; - - Primrose, firstborn child of Ver; - Merry springtime’s harbinger, - With her bells dim; - Oxlips in their cradles growing, - Marigolds on death-beds blowing, - Larks’-heels trim; - - All dear Nature’s children sweet - Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet, - Blessing their sense! - Not an angel of the air, - Bird melodious or bird fair, - Be absent hence! - - The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor - The boding raven, nor chough hoar, - Nor chattering pye, - May on our bride-house perch or sing, - Or with them any discord bring, - But from it fly! - -? or _John Fletcher_. - - -_142._ _Dirge of the Three Queens_ - - URNS and odours bring away! - Vapours, sighs, darken the day! - Our dole more deadly looks than dying; - Balms and gums and heavy cheers, - Sacred vials fill’d with tears, - And clamours through the wild air flying! - - Come, all sad and solemn shows, - That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes! - We convènt naught else but woes. - -? or _John Fletcher_. - - _142._ dole] lamentation. convent] summon. - - -_143._ _Orpheus_ - - Orpheus with his lute made trees - And the mountain tops that freeze - Bow themselves when he did sing: - To his music plants and flowers - Ever sprung; as sun and showers - There had made a lasting spring. - - Every thing that heard him play, - Even the billows of the sea, - Hung their heads and then lay by. - In sweet music is such art, - Killing care and grief of heart - Fall asleep, or hearing, die. - -? or _John Fletcher_. - - -_144._ _The Phœnix and the Turtle_ - - Let the bird of loudest lay - On the sole Arabian tree, - Herald sad and trumpet be, - To whose sound chaste wings obey. - - But thou shrieking harbinger, - Foul precurrer of the fiend, - Augur of the fever’s end, - To this troop come thou not near. - - From this session interdict - Every fowl of tyrant wing - Save the eagle, feather’d king: - Keep the obsequy so strict. - - Let the priest in surplice white - That defunctive music can, - Be the death-divining swan, - Lest the requiem lack his right. - - And thou, treble-dated crow, - That thy sable gender mak’st - With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st, - ’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. - - Here the anthem doth commence:-- - Love and constancy is dead; - Phœnix and the turtle fled - In a mutual flame from hence. - - So they loved, as love in twain - Had the essence but in one; - Two distincts, division none; - Number there in love was slain. - - can] knows. - - Hearts remote, yet not asunder; - Distance, and no space was seen - ’Twixt the turtle and his queen: - But in them it were a wonder. - - So between them love did shine, - That the turtle saw his right - Flaming in the phœnix’ sight; - Either was the other’s mine. - - Property was thus appall’d, - That the self was not the same; - Single nature’s double name - Neither two nor one was call’d. - - Reason, in itself confounded, - Saw division grow together; - To themselves yet either neither; - Simple were so well compounded, - - That it cried, ‘How true a twain - Seemeth this concordant one! - Love hath reason, reason none - If what parts can so remain.’ - - Whereupon it made this threne - To the phœnix and the dove, - Co-supremes and stars of love, - As chorus to their tragic scene. - - -_THRENOS_ - - Beauty, truth, and rarity, - Grace in all simplicity, - Here enclosed in cinders lie. - - - Death is now the phœnix’ nest; - And the turtle’s loyal breast - To eternity doth rest, - - Leaving no posterity: - ’Twas not their infirmity, - It was married chastity. - - Truth may seem, but cannot be; - Beauty brag, but ’tis not she; - Truth and beauty buried be. - - To this urn let those repair - That are either true or fair; - For these dead birds sigh a prayer. - - -_Sonnets_ - - -_145._ _i_ - - Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day? - Thou art more lovely and more temperate: - Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, - And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date: - Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, - And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; - And every fair from fair sometime declines, - By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d: - But thy eternal Summer shall not fade - Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; - Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, - When in eternal lines to time thou growest: - So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, - So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. - - -_146._ _ii_ - - When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, - I all alone beweep my outcast state, - And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, - And look upon myself, and curse my fate, - Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, - Featured like him, like him with friends possest, - Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, - With what I most enjoy contented least; - Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising-- - Haply I think on thee: and then my state, - Like to the Lark at break of day arising - From sullen earth, sings hymns at Heaven’s gate; - For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings - That then I scorn to change my state with Kings. - - -_147._ _iii_ - - When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought - I summon up remembrance of things past, - I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, - And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste: - Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, - For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, - And weep afresh love’s long-since-cancell’d woe, - And moan th’ expense of many a vanish’d sight: - Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, - And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er - The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan, - Which I new pay as if not paid before. - But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, - All losses are restored and sorrows end. - - -_148._ _iv_ - - Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts - Which I, by lacking, have supposèd dead; - And there reigns Love, and all Love’s loving parts, - And all those friends which I thought burièd. - How many a holy and obsequious tear - Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye, - As interest of the dead!--which now appear - But things removed that hidden in thee lie. - Thou art the grave where buried love doth live. - Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone. - Who all their parts of me to thee did give: - --That due of many now is thine alone: - Their images I loved I view in thee, - And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. - - -_149._ _v_ - - What is your substance, whereof are you made, - That millions of strange shadows on you tend? - Since every one hath, every one, one shade, - And you, but one, can every shadow lend. - Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit - Is poorly imitated after you; - On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set, - And you in Grecian tires are painted new: - Speak of the spring and foison of the year, - The one doth shadow of your beauty show. - The other as your bounty doth appear; - And you in every blessèd shape we know. - In all external grace you have some part, - But you like none, none you, for constant heart. - - _149._ foison] plenty. - - -_150._ _vi_ - - O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem - By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! - The Rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem - For that sweet odour which doth in it live. - The Canker-blooms have full as deep a dye - As the perfumèd tincture of the Roses, - Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly - When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses: - But--for their virtue only is their show-- - They live unwoo’d and unrespected fade, - Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so; - Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made. - And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, - When that shall vade, my verse distils your truth. - - -_151._ _vii_ - - Being your slave, what should I do but tend - Upon the hours and times of your desire? - I have no precious time at all to spend, - Nor services to do, till you require. - Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour - Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, - Nor think the bitterness of absence sour - When you have bid your servant once adieu; - Nor dare I question with my jealous thought - Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, - But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought - Save, where you are how happy you make those! - So true a fool is love, that in your Will, - Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. - - -_152._ _viii_ - - That time of year thou may’st in me behold - When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang - Upon those boughs which shake against the cold-- - Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang. - In me thou see’st the twilight of such day - As after Sunset fadeth in the West, - Which by and by black night doth take away, - Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. - In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire - That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, - As the death-bed whereon it must expire, - Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by. - This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong - To love that well which thou must leave ere long. - - -_153._ _ix_ - - Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, - And like enough thou know’st thy estimate: - The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; - My bonds in thee are all determinate. - For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? - And for that riches where is my deserving? - The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, - And so my patent back again is swerving. - Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing, - Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking; - So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, - Comes home again, on better judgment making. - Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter - In sleep a King; but waking, no such matter. - - -_154._ _x_ - - Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now; - Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross. - Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, - And do not drop in for an after loss: - Ah! do not, when my heart hath ’scaped this sorrow, - Come in the rearward of a conquered woe; - Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, - To linger out a purposed overthrow. - If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, - When other petty griefs have done their spite, - But in the onset come: so shall I taste - At first the very worst of fortune’s might; - And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, - Compared with loss of thee will not seem so! - - -_155._ _xi_ - - They that have power to hurt and will do none, - That do not do the thing they most do show, - Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, - Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow-- - They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces, - And husband nature’s riches from expense; - They are the Lords and owners of their faces, - Others, but stewards of their excellence. - The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, - Though to itself it only live and die; - But if that flower with base infection meet, - The basest weed outbraves his dignity: - For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; - Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. - - -_156._ _xii_ - - How like a Winter hath my absence been - From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! - What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen, - What old December’s bareness everywhere! - And yet this time removed was summer’s time; - The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, - Bearing the wanton burden of the prime - Like widow’d wombs after their Lord’s decease: - Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me - But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit; - For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee, - And, thou away, the very birds are mute: - Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer - That leaves look pale, dreading the Winter’s near. - - -_157._ _xiii_ - - From you have I been absent in the spring, - When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim, - Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, - That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him. - Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell - Of different flowers in odour and in hue, - Could make me any summer’s story tell, - Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; - Nor did I wonder at the Lily’s white, - Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose; - They were but sweet, but figures of delight, - Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. - Yet seem’d it Winter still, and, you away, - As with your shadow I with these did play. - - -_158._ _xiv_ - - My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming; - I love not less, though less the show appear: - That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming - The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere. - Our love was new, and then but in the spring, - When I was wont to greet it with my lays; - As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing - And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: - Not that the summer is less pleasant now - Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, - But that wild music burthens every bough, - And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. - Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, - Because I would not dull you with my song. - - -_159._ _xv_ - - To me, fair friend, you never can be old; - For as you were when first your eye I eyed, - Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold - Have from the forests shook three Summers’ pride; - Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’d - In process of the seasons have I seen, - Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d, - Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green, - Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, - Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived; - So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, - Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived: - For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred: - Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead. - - -_160._ _xvi_ - - When in the chronicle of wasted time - I see descriptions of the fairest wights, - And beauty making beautiful old rime - In praise of Ladies dead and lovely Knights; - Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best, - Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, - I see their antique pen would have exprest - Even such a beauty as you master now. - So all their praises are but prophecies - Of this our time, all you prefiguring; - And for they look’d but with divining eyes, - They had not skill enough your worth to sing: - For we, which now behold these present days, - Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. - - -_161._ _xvii_ - - O never say that I was false of heart, - Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify! - As easy might I from myself depart, - As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie: - That is my home of love; if I have ranged, - Like him that travels I return again, - Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, - So that myself bring water for my stain. - Never believe, though in my nature reign’d - All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, - That it could so prepost’rously be stain’d, - To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: - For nothing this wide Universe I call, - Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all. - - -_162._ _xviii_ - - Let me not to the marriage of true minds - Admit impediments. Love is not love - Which alters when it alteration finds, - Or bends with the remover to remove: - O, no! it is an ever-fixèd mark, - That looks on tempests and is never shaken; - It is the star to every wand’ring bark, - Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. - Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks - Within his bending sickle’s compass come; - Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, - But bears it out even to the edge of doom:-- - If this be error and upon me proved, - I never writ, nor no man ever loved. - - -_163._ _xix_ - - Th’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shame - Is lust in action; and till action, lust - Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, - Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; - Enjoy’d no sooner but despisèd straight; - Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had, - Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait - On purpose laid to make the taker mad: - Mad in pursuit, and in possession so; - Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; - A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe; - Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream. - All this the world well knows; yet none knows well - To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. - - -_164._ _xx_ - - Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth-- - My sinful earth these rebel powers array-- - Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, - Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? - Why so large cost, having so short a lease, - Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? - Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, - Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end? - Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss, - And let that pine to aggravate thy store; - Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; - Within be fed, without be rich no more: - So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; - And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then. - - - - -RICHARD ROWLANDS - -1565-1630? - - -_165._ _Lullaby_ - - Upon my lap my sovereign sits - And sucks upon my breast; - Meantime his love maintains my life - And gives my sense her rest. - Sing lullaby, my little boy, - Sing lullaby, mine only joy! - - When thou hast taken thy repast, - Repose, my babe, on me; - So may thy mother and thy nurse - Thy cradle also be. - Sing lullaby, my little boy, - Sing lullaby, mine only joy! - - - I grieve that duty doth not work - All that my wishing would; - Because I would not be to thee - But in the best I should. - Sing lullaby, my little boy, - Sing lullaby, mine only joy! - - Yet as I am, and as I may, - I must and will be thine, - Though all too little for thyself - Vouchsafing to be mine. - Sing lullaby, my little boy, - Sing lullaby, mine only joy! - - - - -THOMAS NASHE - -1567-1601 - - -_166._ _Spring_ - - Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; - Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, - Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing-- - Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! - - The palm and may make country houses gay, - Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, - And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-- - Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! - - The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, - Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, - In every street these tunes our ears do greet-- - Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! - Spring, the sweet Spring! - - -_167._ _In Time of Pestilence_ - -1593 - - ADIEU, farewell earth’s bliss! - This world uncertain is: - Fond are life’s lustful joys, - Death proves them all but toys. - None from his darts can fly; - I am sick, I must die-- - _Lord, have mercy on us!_ - - Rich men, trust not in wealth, - Gold cannot buy you health; - Physic himself must fade; - All things to end are made; - The plague full swift goes by; - I am sick, I must die-- - _Lord, have mercy on us!_ - - Beauty is but a flower - Which wrinkles will devour; - Brightness falls from the air; - Queens have died young and fair; - Dust hath closed Helen’s eye; - I am sick, I must die-- - _Lord, have mercy on us!_ - - Strength stoops unto the grave, - Worms feed on Hector brave; - Swords may not fight with fate; - Earth still holds ope her gate; - _Come, come!_ the bells do cry; - I am sick, I must die-- - _Lord, have mercy on us!_ - - - Wit with his wantonness - Tasteth death’s bitterness; - Hell’s executioner - Hath no ears for to hear - What vain art can reply; - I am sick, I must die-- - _Lord, have mercy on us!_ - - Haste therefore each degree - To welcome destiny; - Heaven is our heritage, - Earth but a player’s stage. - Mount we unto the sky; - I am sick, I must die-- - _Lord, have mercy on us!_ - - - - -THOMAS CAMPION - -1567?-1619 - - -_168._ _Cherry-Ripe_ - - There is a garden in her face - Where roses and white lilies blow; - A heavenly paradise is that place, - Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow: - There cherries grow which none may buy - Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry. - - Those cherries fairly do enclose - Of orient pearl a double row, - Which when her lovely laughter shows, - They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow; - Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy - Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry. - - - Her eyes like angels watch them still; - Her brows like bended bows do stand, - Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill - All that attempt with eye or hand - Those sacred cherries to come nigh, - Till ‘Cherry-ripe’ themselves do cry. - - -_169._ _Laura_ - - Rose-cheek’d _Laura_, come; - Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty’s - Silent music, either other - Sweetly gracing. - - Lovely forms do flow - From concent divinely framèd: - Heaven is music, and thy beauty’s - Birth is heavenly. - - These dull notes we sing - Discords need for helps to grace them; - Only beauty purely loving - Knows no discord; - - But still moves delight, - Like clear springs renew’d by flowing, - Ever perfect, ever in them- - selves eternal. - - -_Devotion_ - -_170._ _i_ - - Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! - Though thou be black as night, - And she made all of light, - Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! - - - Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! - Though here thou liv’st disgraced, - And she in heaven is placed, - Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! - - Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth! - That so have scorchèd thee - As thou still black must be, - Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. - - Follow her, while yet her glory shineth! - There comes a luckless night - That will dim all her light; - And this the black unhappy shade divineth. - - Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! - The sun must have his shade, - Till both at once do fade,-- - The sun still proud, the shadow still disdainèd. - - -_171._ _ii_ - - Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! - Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! - There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move, - And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: - But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, - Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again! - - All that I sung still to her praise did tend; - Still she was first, still she my songs did end; - Yet she my love and music both doth fly, - The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy: - Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! - It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. - - -_172._ _Vobiscum est Iope_ - - When thou must home to shades of underground, - And there arrived, a new admirèd guest, - The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, - White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, - To hear the stories of thy finish’d love - From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move; - - Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, - Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, - Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, - And all these triumphs for thy beauty’s sake: - When thou hast told these honours done to thee, - Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me! - - -_173._ _Hymn in Praise of Neptune_ - - Of Neptune’s empire let us sing, - At whose command the waves obey; - To whom the rivers tribute pay, - Down the high mountains sliding: - To whom the scaly nation yields - Homage for the crystal fields - Wherein they dwell: - And every sea-dog pays a gem - Yearly out of his wat’ry cell - To deck great Neptune’s diadem. - - The Tritons dancing in a ring - Before his palace gates do make - The water with their echoes quake, - Like the great thunder sounding: - The sea-nymphs chant their accents shrill, - And the sirens, taught to kill - With their sweet voice, - Make ev’ry echoing rock reply - Unto their gentle murmuring noise - The praise of Neptune’s empery. - - -_174._ _Winter Nights_ - - Now winter nights enlarge - The number of their hours, - And clouds their storms discharge - Upon the airy towers. - Let now the chimneys blaze - And cups o’erflow with wine; - Let well-tuned words amaze - With harmony divine. - Now yellow waxen lights - Shall wait on honey love, - While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights - Sleep’s leaden spells remove. - - This time doth well dispense - With lovers’ long discourse; - Much speech hath some defence - Though beauty no remorse. - All do not all things well; - Some measures comely tread, - Some knotted riddles tell, - Some poems smoothly read. - The summer hath his joys, - And winter his delights; - Though love and all his pleasures are but toys, - They shorten tedious nights. - - -_175._ _Integer Vitae_ - - The man of life upright, - Whose guiltless heart is free - From all dishonest deeds, - Or thought of vanity; - - The man whose silent days - In harmless joys are spent, - Whom hopes cannot delude, - Nor sorrow discontent; - - That man needs neither towers - Nor armour for defence, - Nor secret vaults to fly - From thunder’s violence: - - He only can behold - With unaffrighted eyes - The horrors of the deep - And terrors of the skies. - - Thus, scorning all the cares - That fate or fortune brings, - He makes the heaven his book, - His wisdom heavenly things; - - Good thoughts his only friends, - His wealth a well-spent age, - The earth his sober inn - And quiet pilgrimage. - - -_176._ _O come quickly!_ - - Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, - Never tirèd pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more, - Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: - O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest! - - Ever blooming are the joys of heaven’s high Paradise, - Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: - Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the Blessèd only see: - O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee! - - - - -JOHN REYNOLDS - -16th Cent. - - -_177._ _A Nosegay_ - - Say, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil, - With Violet blue; - Since you have seen the beauty of my saint, - And eke her view; - Did not her sight (fair sight!) you lonely fill, - With sweet delight - Of goddess’ grace and angels’ sacred teint - In fine, most bright? - - Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair, - With Pink most fine; - Since you beheld the visage of my dear, - And eyes divine; - - _177._ teint] tint, hue. - - Did not her globy front, and glistering hair, - With cheeks most sweet, - So gloriously like damask flowers appear, - The gods to greet? - - Say, snow-white Lily, speckled Gillyflower, - With Daisy gay; - Since you have viewed the Queen of my desire, - In her array; - Did not her ivory paps, fair Venus’ bower, - With heavenly glee, - A Juno’s grace, conjure you to require - Her face to see? - - Say Rose, say Daffodil, and Violet blue, - With Primrose fair, - Since ye have seen my nymph’s sweet dainty face - And gesture rare, - Did not (bright Cowslip, blooming Pink) her view - (White Lily) shine-- - (Ah, Gillyflower, ah Daisy!) with a grace - Like stars divine? - - - - -SIR HENRY WOTTON - -1568-1639 - - -_178._ _Elizabeth of Bohemia_ - - You meaner beauties of the night, - That poorly satisfy our eyes - More by your number than your light, - You common people of the skies; - What are you when the moon shall rise? - - - You curious chanters of the wood, - That warble forth Dime Nature’s lays, - Thinking your passions understood - By your weak accents; what’s your praise - When Philomel her voice shall raise? - - You violets that first appear, - By your pure purple mantles known - Like the proud virgins of the year, - As if the spring were all your own; - What are you when the rose is blown? - - So, when my mistress shall be seen - In form and beauty of her mind, - By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, - Tell me, if she were not design’d - Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind. - - -_179._ _The Character of a Happy Life_ - - How happy is he born and taught - That serveth not another’s will; - Whose armour is his honest thought, - And simple truth his utmost skill! - - Whose passions not his masters are; - Whose soul is still prepared for death, - Untied unto the world by care - Of public fame or private breath; - - Who envies none that chance doth raise, - Nor vice; who never understood - How deepest wounds are given by praise; - Nor rules of state, but rules of good; - Who hath his life from rumours freed; - Whose conscience is his strong retreat; - Whose state can neither flatterers feed, - Nor ruin make oppressors great; - - Who God doth late and early pray - More of His grace than gifts to lend; - And entertains the harmless day - With a religious book or friend; - - --This man is freed from servile bands - Of hope to rise or fear to fall: - Lord of himself, though not of lands, - And having nothing, yet hath all. - - -_180._ _Upon the Death of Sir Albert Morton’s Wife_ - - He first deceased; she for a little tried - To live without him, liked it not, and died. - - - - -SIR JOHN DAVIES - -1569-1626 - - -_181._ _Man_ - - I know my soul hath power to know all things, - Yet she is blind and ignorant in all: - I know I’m one of Nature’s little kings, - Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. - - - I know my life’s a pain and but a span; - I know my sense is mock’d in everything; - And, to conclude, I know myself a Man-- - Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing. - - - - -SIR ROBERT AYTON - -1570-1638 - - -_182._ _To His Forsaken Mistress_ - - I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair, - And I might have gone near to love thee, - Had I not found the slightest prayer - That lips could move, had power to move thee; - But I can let thee now alone - As worthy to be loved by none. - - I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet find - Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, - Thy favours are but like the wind - That kisseth everything it meets: - And since thou canst with more than one, - Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none. - - The morning rose that untouch’d stands - Arm’d with her briers, how sweet she smells! - But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands, - Her sweets no longer with her dwells: - But scent and beauty both are gone, - And leaves fall from her, one by one. - - Such fate ere long will thee betide - When thou hast handled been awhile, - With sere flowers to be thrown aside; - And I shall sigh, while some will smile, - To see thy love to every one - Hath brought thee to be loved by none. - - -_183._ _To an Inconstant One_ - - I loved thee once; I’ll love no more-- - Thine be the grief as is the blame; - Thou art not what thou wast before, - What reason I should be the same? - He that can love unloved again, - Hath better store of love than brain: - God send me love my debts to pay, - While unthrifts fool their love away! - - Nothing could have my love o’erthrown - If thou hadst still continued mine; - Yea, if thou hadst remain’d thy own, - I might perchance have yet been thine. - But thou thy freedom didst recall - That it thou might elsewhere enthral: - And then how could I but disdain - A captive’s captive to remain? - - When new desires had conquer’d thee - And changed the object of thy will, - It had been lethargy in me, - Not constancy, to love thee still. - Yea, it had been a sin to go - And prostitute affection so: - Since we are taught no prayers to say - To such as must to others pray. - - - Yet do thou glory in thy choice-- - Thy choice of his good fortune boast; - I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice - To see him gain what I have lost: - The height of my disdain shall be - To laugh at him, to blush for thee; - To love thee still, but go no more - A-begging at a beggar’s door. - - - - -BEN JONSON - -1573-1637 - - -_184._ _Hymn to Diana_ - - Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, - Now the sun is laid to sleep, - Seated in thy silver chair, - State in wonted manner keep: - Hesperus entreats thy light, - Goddess excellently bright. - - Earth, let not thy envious shade - Dare itself to interpose; - Cynthia’s shining orb was made - Heaven to clear when day did close: - Bless us then with wishèd sight, - Goddess excellently bright. - - Lay thy bow of pearl apart, - And thy crystal-shining quiver; - Give unto the flying hart - Space to breathe, how short soever: - Thou that mak’st a day of night-- - Goddess excellently bright. - - -_185._ _To Celia_ - - Drink to me only with thine eyes, - And I will pledge with mine; - Or leave a kiss but in the cup - And I’ll not look for wine. - The thirst that from the soul doth rise - Doth ask a drink divine; - But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, - I would not change for thine. - - I sent thee late a rosy wreath, - Not so much honouring thee - As giving it a hope that there - It could not wither’d be; - But thou thereon didst only breathe, - And sent’st it back to me; - Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, - Not of itself but thee! - - -_186._ _Simplex Munditiis_ - - Still to be neat, still to be drest, - As you were going to a feast; - Still to be powder’d, still perfumed: - Lady, it is to be presumed, - Though art’s hid causes are not found, - All is not sweet, all is not sound. - - Give me a look, give me a face - That makes simplicity a grace; - Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: - Such sweet neglect more taketh me - Than all th’ adulteries of art; - They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. - - -_187._ _The Shadow_ - - Follow a shadow, it still flies you; - Seem to fly it, it will pursue: - So court a mistress, she denies you; - Let her alone, she will court you. - Say, are not women truly, then, - Styled but the shadows of us men? - - At morn and even, shades are longest; - At noon they are or short or none: - So men at weakest, they are strongest, - But grant us perfect, they’re not known. - Say, are not women truly, then, - Styled but the shadows of us men? - - -_188._ _The Triumph_ - - See the Chariot at hand here of Love, - Wherein my Lady rideth! - Each that draws is a swan or a dove, - And well the car Love guideth. - As she goes, all hearts do duty - Unto her beauty; - And enamour’d do wish, so they might - But enjoy such a sight, - That they still were to run by her side, - Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. - - Do but look on her eyes, they do light - All that Love’s world compriseth! - Do but look on her hair, it is bright - As Love’s star when it riseth! - Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother - Than words that soothe her; - And from her arch’d brows such a grace - Sheds itself through the face, - As alone there triumphs to the life - All the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife. - - Have you seen but a bright lily grow - Before rude hands have touch’d it? - Have you mark’d but the fall of the snow - Before the soil hath smutch’d it? - Have you felt the wool of beaver, - Or swan’s down ever? - O have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier, - Or the nard in the fire? - Or have tasted the bag of the bee? - O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! - - -_189._ _An Elegy_ - - Though beauty be the mark of praise, - And yours of whom I sing be such - As not the world can praise too much, - Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise. - - A virtue, like allay so gone - Throughout your form as, though that move - And draw and conquer all men’s love, - This subjects you to love of one. - - Wherein you triumph yet--because - ’Tis of your flesh, and that you use - The noblest freedom, not to choose - Against or faith or honour’s laws. - - _189._ allay] alloy. - - But who should less expect from you? - In whom alone Love lives again: - By whom he is restored to men, - And kept and bred and brought up true. - - His falling temples you have rear’d, - The withered garlands ta’en away; - His altars kept from that decay - That envy wish’d, and nature fear’d: - - And on them burn so chaste a flame, - With so much loyalty’s expense, - As Love to acquit such excellence - Is gone himself into your name. - - And you are he--the deity - To whom all lovers are design’d - That would their better objects find - Among which faithful troop am I-- - - Who as an off’ring at your shrine - Have sung this hymn, and here entreat - One spark of your diviner heat - To light upon a love of mine. - - Which if it kindle not, but scant - Appear, and that to shortest view; - Yet give me leave to adore in you - What I in her am grieved to want! - - -_190._ _A Farewell to the World_ - - False world, good night! since thou hast brought - That hour upon my morn of age; - Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, - My part is ended on thy stage. - - - Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear - As little as I hope from thee: - I know thou canst not show nor bear - More hatred than thou hast to me. - - My tender, first, and simple years - Thou didst abuse and then betray; - Since stir’d’st up jealousies and fears, - When all the causes were away. - - Then in a soil hast planted me - Where breathe the basest of thy fools; - Where envious arts professèd be, - And pride and ignorance the schools; - - Where nothing is examined, weigh’d, - But as ’tis rumour’d, so believed; - Where every freedom is betray’d, - And every goodness tax’d or grieved. - - But what we’re born for, we must bear: - Our frail condition it is such - That what to all may happen here, - If ’t chance to me, I must not grutch. - - Else I my state should much mistake - To harbour a divided thought - From all my kind--that, for my sake, - There should a miracle be wrought. - - No, I do know that I was born - To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: - But I will bear these with that scorn - As shall not need thy false relief. - - - Nor for my peace will I go far, - As wanderers do, that still do roam; - But make my strengths, such as they are, - Here in my bosom, and at home. - - -_191._ _The Noble Balm_ - - High-spirited friend, - I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound: - Your fate hath found - A gentler and more agile hand to tend - The cure of that which is but corporal; - And doubtful days, which were named critical, - Have made their fairest flight - And now are out of sight. - Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind - Wrapp’d in this paper lie, - Which in the taking if you misapply, - You are unkind. - - Your covetous hand, - Happy in that fair honour it hath gain’d, - Must now be rein’d. - True valour doth her own renown command - In one full action; nor have you now more - To do, than be a husband of that store. - Think but how dear you bought - This fame which you have caught: - Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth. - ’Tis wisdom, and that high, - For men to use their fortune reverently, - Even in youth. - - -_Epitaphs_ - -_i_ - -_192._ _On Elizabeth L. H._ - - Wouldst thou hear what Man can say - In a little? Reader, stay. - Underneath this stone doth lie - As much Beauty as could die: - Which in life did harbour give - To more Virtue than doth live. - If at all she had a fault, - Leave it buried in this vault. - One name was _Elizabeth_, - The other, let it sleep with death: - Fitter, where it died, to tell - Than that it lived at all. Farewell. - - -_ii_ - -_193._ _On Salathiel Pavy_ - -_A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel_ - - Weep with me, all you that read - This little story; - And know, for whom a tear you shed - Death’s self is sorry. - ’Twas a child that so did thrive - In grace and feature, - As Heaven and Nature seem’d to strive - Which own’d the creature. - Years he number’d scarce thirteen - When Fates turn’d cruel, - Yet three fill’d zodiacs had he been - The stage’s jewel; - And did act (what now we moan) - Old men so duly, - As sooth the Parcae thought him one, - He play’d so truly. - So, by error, to his fate - They all consented; - But, viewing him since, alas, too late! - They have repented; - And have sought, to give new birth, - In baths to steep him; - But, being so much too good for earth, - Heaven vows to keep him. - - -_194._ _A Part of an Ode_ - -_to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius -Cary and Sir H. Morison_ - - It is not growing like a tree - In bulk, doth make man better be; - Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, - To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: - A lily of a day - Is fairer far in May, - Although it fall and die that night; - It was the plant and flower of light. - In small proportions we just beauties see; - And in short measures, life may perfect be. - - Call, noble _Lucius_, then for wine, - And let thy looks with gladness shine: - Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, - And think--nay, know--thy _Morison_’s not dead. - He leap’d the present age, - Possest with holy rage - To see that bright eternal Day - Of which we Priests and Poets say - Such truths as we expect for happy men; - And there he lives with memory--and Ben - - _Jonson_: who sung this of him, ere he went - Himself to rest, - Or tast a part of that full joy he meant - To have exprest - In this bright Asterism - Where it were friendship’s schism-- - Were not his _Lucius_ long with us to tarry-- - To separate these twy - Lights, the Dioscuri, - And keep the one half from his _Harry_. - But fate doth so alternate the design, - Whilst that in Heav’n, this light on earth must shine. - - And shine as you exalted are! - Two names of friendship, but one star: - Of hearts the union: and those not by chance - Made, or indenture, or leased out to advance - The profits for a time. - No pleasures vain did chime - Of rimes or riots at your feasts, - Orgies of drink or feign’d protests; - But simple love of greatness and of good, - That knits brave minds and manners more than blood. - - This made you first to know the _Why_ - _You liked_, then after, to apply - That liking, and approach so one the t’other - Till either grew a portion of the other: - Each stylèd by his end - The copy of his friend. - You lived to be the great surnames - And titles by which all made claims - Unto the Virtue--nothing perfect done - But as a _CARY_ or a _MORISON_. - - And such the force the fair example had - As they that saw - The good, and durst not practise it, were glad - That such a law - Was left yet to mankind, - Where they might read and find - Friendship indeed was written, not in words, - And with the heart, not pen, - Of two so early men, - Whose lines her rules were and records: - Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin, - Had sow’d these fruits, and got the harvest in. - - - - -JOHN DONNE - -1573-1631 - - -_195._ _Daybreak_ - - Stay, O sweet, and do not rise! - The light that shines comes from thine eyes; - The day breaks not: it is my heart, - Because that you and I must part. - Stay! or else my joys will die - And perish in their infancy. - - -_196._ _Song_ - - Go and catch a falling star, - Get with child a mandrake root, - Tell me where all past years are, - Or who cleft the Devil’s foot; - Teach me to hear mermaids singing, - Or to keep off envy’s stinging, - And find - What wind - Serves to advance an honest mind. - - If thou be’st born to strange sights, - Things invisible to see, - Ride ten thousand days and nights - Till Age snow white hairs on thee; - Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me - All strange wonders that befell thee, - And swear - No where - Lives a woman true and fair. - - If thou find’st one, let me know; - Such a pilgrimage were sweet, - Yet do not; I would not go, - Though at next door we might meet. - Though she were true when you met her, - And last till you write your letter, - Yet she - Will be - False, ere I come, to two or three. - - -_197._ - - _That Time and Absence proves_ - _Rather helps than hurts to loves_ - - Absence, hear thou my protestation - Against thy strength, - Distance and length: - Do what thou canst for alteration, - For hearts of truest mettle - Absence doth join and Time doth settle. - - Who loves a mistress of such quality, - His mind hath found - Affection’s ground - Beyond time, place, and all mortality. - To hearts that cannot vary - Absence is present, Time doth tarry. - - My senses want their outward motion - Which now within - Reason doth win, - Redoubled by her secret notion: - Like rich men that take pleasure - In hiding more than handling treasure. - - By Absence this good means I gain, - That I can catch her - Where none can watch her, - In some close corner of my brain: - There I embrace and kiss her, - And so enjoy her and none miss her. - - -_198._ _The Ecstasy_ - - Where, like a pillow on a bed, - A pregnant bank swell’d up, to rest - The violet’s reclining head, - Sat we two, one another’s best. - - Our hands were firmly cèmented - By a fast balm which thence did spring; - Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread - Our eyes upon one double string. - - So to engraft our hands, as yet - Was all the means to make us one; - And pictures in our eyes to get - Was all our propagation. - - As ’twixt two equal armies Fate - Suspends uncertain victory, - Our souls--which to advance their state - Were gone out--hung ’twixt her and me. - - And whilst our souls negotiate there, - We like sepulchral statues lay; - All day the same our postures were, - And we said nothing, all the day. - - -_199._ _The Dream_ - - Dear love, for nothing less than thee - Would I have broke this happy dream, - It was a theme - For reason, much too strong for fantasy. - Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yet - My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it. - Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice - To make dreams truths and fables histories; - Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it best - Not to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest. - - As lightning, or a taper’s light, - Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; - Yet I thought thee-- - For thou lov’st truth--an angel, at first sight; - But when I saw thou saw’st my heart, - And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art, - When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st when - Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then, - I must confess it could not choose but be - Profane to think thee anything but thee. - - Coming and staying show’d thee thee, - But rising makes me doubt that now - Thou art not thou. - That Love is weak where Fear’s as strong as he; - ’Tis not all spirit pure and brave - If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have. - Perchance as torches, which must ready be, - Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me. - Thou cam’st to kindle, go’st to come: then I - Will dream that hope again, but else would die. - - -_200._ _The Funeral_ - - Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm - Nor question much - That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; - The mystery, the sign you must not touch, - For ’tis my outward soul, - Viceroy to that which, unto heav’n being gone, - Will leave this to control - And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. - - For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall - Through every part - Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; - Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art - Have from a better brain, - Can better do’t: except she meant that I - By this should know my pain, - As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemn’d to die. - - Whate’er she meant by ’t, bury it with me, - For since I am - Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry - If into other hands these reliques came. - As ’twas humility - T’ afford to it all that a soul can do, - So ’tis some bravery - That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. - - -_201._ _A Hymn to God the Father_ - - Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, - Which was my sin, though it were done before? - Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, - And do run still, though still I do deplore? - When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; - For I have more. - - - Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won - Others to sin, and made my sins their door? - Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun - A year or two, but wallow’d in a score? - When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; - For I have more. - - I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun - My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; - But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son - Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: - And having done that, Thou hast done; - I fear no more. - - -_202._ _Death_ - - Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee - Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: - For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow - Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. - From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, - Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; - And soonest our best men with thee do go-- - Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery! - Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, - And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; - And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well - And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then? - One short sleep past, we wake eternally, - And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die! - - - - -RICHARD BARNEFIELD - -1574-1627 - - -_203._ _Philomel_ - - As it fell upon a day - In the merry month of May, - Sitting in a pleasant shade - Which a grove of myrtles made, - Beasts did leap and birds did sing, - Trees did grow and plants did spring; - Everything did banish moan - Save the Nightingale alone: - She, poor bird, as all forlorn - Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn, - And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, - That to hear it was great pity. - _Fie, fie, fie!_ now would she cry; - _Tereu, Tereu!_ by and by; - That to hear her so complain - Scarce I could from tears refrain; - For her griefs so lively shown - Made me think upon mine own. - Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain, - None takes pity on thy pain: - Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, - Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: - King Pandion he is dead, - All thy friends are lapp’d in lead; - All thy fellow birds do sing - Careless of thy sorrowing: - Even so, poor bird, like thee, - None alive will pity me. - - - - -THOMAS DEKKER - -1575-1641 - - -_204._ _Sweet Content_ - - Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? - O sweet content! - Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex’d? - O punishment! - Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex’d - To add to golden numbers golden numbers? - O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! - Work apace, apace, apace, apace; - Honest labour bears a lovely face; - Then hey nonny nonny--hey nonny nonny! - - Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring? - O sweet content! - Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears? - O punishment! - Then he that patiently want’s burden bears, - No burden bears, but is a king, a king! - O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! - Work apace, apace, apace, apace; - Honest labour bears a lovely face; - Then hey nonny nonny--hey nonny nonny! - - - - -THOMAS HEYWOOD - -157?-1650 - - -_205._ _Matin Song_ - - Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day! - With night we banish sorrow. - Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft - To give my Love good-morrow! - Wings from the wind to please her mind, - Notes from the lark I’ll borrow: - Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing! - To give my Love good-morrow! - To give my Love good-morrow - Notes from them all I’ll borrow. - - Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast! - Sing, birds, in every furrow! - And from each bill let music shrill - Give my fair Love good-morrow! - Blackbird and thrush in every bush, - Stare, linnet, and cocksparrow, - You pretty elves, among yourselves - Sing my fair Love good-morrow! - To give my Love good-morrow! - Sing, birds, in every furrow! - - _205._ stare] starling. - - -_206._ _The Message_ - - Ye little birds that sit and sing - Amidst the shady valleys, - And see how Phillis sweetly walks - Within her garden-alleys; - Go, pretty birds, about her bower; - Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower; - Ah me! methinks I see her frown! - Ye pretty wantons, warble. - - Go tell her through your chirping bills, - As you by me are bidden, - To her is only known my love, - Which from the world is hidden. - Go, pretty birds, and tell her so, - See that your notes strain not too low. - For still methinks I see her frown; - Ye pretty wantons, warble. - - Go tune your voices’ harmony - And sing, I am her lover; - Strain loud and sweet, that every note - With sweet content may move her: - And she that hath the sweetest voice, - Tell her I will not change my choice: - --Yet still methinks I see her frown! - Ye pretty wantons, warble. - - O fly! make haste! see, see, she falls - Into a pretty slumber! - Sing round about her rosy bed - That waking she may wonder: - Say to her, ’tis her lover true - That sendeth love to you, to you! - And when you hear her kind reply, - Return with pleasant warblings. - - - - -JOHN FLETCHER - -1579-1625 - - -_207._ _Sleep_ - - Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving - Lock me in delight awhile; - Let some pleasing dreams beguile - All my fancies; that from thence - I may feel an influence - All my powers of care bereaving! - - - Though but a shadow, but a sliding, - Let me know some little joy! - We that suffer long annoy - Are contented with a thought - Through an idle fancy wrought: - O let my joys have some abiding! - - -_208._ _Bridal Song_ - - Cynthia, to thy power and thee - We obey. - Joy to this great company! - And no day - Come to steal this night away - Till the rites of love are ended, - And the lusty bridegroom say, - Welcome, light, of all befriended! - - Pace out, you watery powers below; - Let your feet, - Like the galleys when they row, - Even beat; - Let your unknown measures, set - To the still winds, tell to all - That gods are come, immortal, great, - To honour this great nuptial! - - -_209._ _Aspatia’s Song_ - - Lay a garland on my herse - Of the dismal yew; - Maidens, willow branches bear; - Say, I died true. - - - My love was false, but I was firm - From my hour of birth. - Upon my buried body lie - Lightly, gentle earth! - - -_210._ _Hymn to Pan_ - - Sing his praises that doth keep - Our flocks from harm, - Pan, the father of our sheep; - And arm in arm - Tread we softly in a round, - Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground - Fills the music with her sound. - - Pan, O great god Pan, to thee - Thus do we sing! - Thou who keep’st us chaste and free - As the young spring: - Ever be thy honour spoke - From that place the morn is broke - To that place day doth unyoke! - - -_211._ _Away, Delights_ - - Away, delights! go seek some other dwelling, - For I must die. - Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling - Lie after lie. - For ever let me rest now from thy smarts; - Alas, for pity go - And fire their hearts - That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so. - - - Never again deluding love shall know me, - For I will die; - And all those griefs that think to overgrow me - Shall be as I: - For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry-- - ‘Alas, for pity stay, - And let us die - With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’ - - -_212._ _Love’s Emblems_ - - Now the lusty spring is seen; - Golden yellow, gaudy blue, - Daintily invite the view: - Everywhere on every green - Roses blushing as they blow, - And enticing men to pull, - Lilies whiter than the snow, - Woodbines of sweet honey full: - All love’s emblems, and all cry, - ‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’ - - Yet the lusty spring hath stay’d; - Blushing red and purest white - Daintily to love invite - Every woman, every maid: - Cherries kissing as they grow, - And inviting men to taste, - Apples even ripe below, - Winding gently to the waist: - All love’s emblems, and all cry, - ‘Ladies, if not pluck’d, we die.’ - - -_213._ _Hear, ye Ladies_ - - Hear, ye ladies that despise - What the mighty Love has done; - Fear examples and be wise: - Fair Callisto was a nun; - Leda, sailing on the stream - To deceive the hopes of man, - Love accounting but a dream, - Doted on a silver swan; - Danaë, in a brazen tower, - Where no love was, loved a shower. - - Hear, ye ladies that are coy, - What the mighty Love can do; - Fear the fierceness of the boy: - The chaste Moon he makes to woo; - Vesta, kindling holy fires, - Circled round about with spies, - Never dreaming loose desires, - Doting at the altar dies; - Ilion, in a short hour, higher - He can build, and once more fire. - - -_214._ _God Lyaeus_ - - God Lyaeus, ever young, - Ever honour’d, ever sung, - Stain’d with blood of lusty grapes, - In a thousand lusty shapes - Dance upon the mazer’s brim, - In the crimson liquor swim; - - _214._ mazer] a bowl of maple-wood. - - From thy plenteous hand divine - Let a river run with wine: - God of youth, let this day here - Enter neither care nor fear. - - -_215._ _Beauty Clear and Fair_ - - Beauty clear and fair, - Where the air - Rather like a perfume dwells; - Where the violet and the rose - Their blue veins and blush disclose, - And come to honour nothing else; - - Where to live near - And planted there - Is to live, and still live new; - Where to gain a favour is - More than light, perpetual bliss-- - Make me live by serving you! - - Dear, again back recall - To this light, - A stranger to himself and all! - Both the wonder and the story - Shall be yours, and eke the glory; - I am your servant, and your thrall. - - -_216._ _Melancholy_ - - Hence, all you vain delights, - As short as are the nights - Wherein you spend your folly! - There’s naught in this life sweet, - If men were wise to see’t, - But only melancholy-- - O sweetest melancholy! - Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes, - A sight that piercing mortifies, - A look that’s fasten’d to the ground, - A tongue chain’d up without a sound! - - Fountain-heads and pathless groves, - Places which pale passion loves! - Moonlight walks, when all the fowls - Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! - A midnight bell, a parting groan-- - These are the sounds we feed upon: - Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley, - Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. - - -_217._ _Weep no more_ - - Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, - Sorrow calls no time that’s gone: - Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain - Makes not fresh nor grow again. - Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; - Fate’s hid ends eyes cannot see. - Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast, - Why should sadness longer last? - Grief is but a wound to woe; - Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe. - - - - -JOHN WEBSTER - -?-1630? - - -_218._ _A Dirge_ - - Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, - Since o’er shady groves they hover, - And with leaves and flowers do cover - The friendless bodies of unburied men. - Call unto his funeral dole - The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, - To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, - And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm; - But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men, - For with his nails he’ll dig them up again. - - _218._ dole] lamentation. - - -_219._ _The Shrouding of the Duchess of Malfi_ - - Hark! Now everything is still, - The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, - Call upon our dame aloud, - And bid her quickly don her shroud! - - Much you had of land and rent; - Your length in clay’s now competent: - A long war disturb’d your mind; - Here your perfect peace is sign’d. - - Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping? - Sin their conception, their birth weeping, - Their life a general mist of error, - Their death a hideous storm of terror. - Strew your hair with powders sweet, - Don clean linen, bathe your feet, - And--the foul fiend more to check-- - A crucifix let bless your neck: - ’Tis now full tide ’tween night and day; - End your groan and come away. - - -_220._ _Vanitas Vanitatum_ - - All the flowers of the spring - Meet to perfume our burying; - These have but their growing prime, - And man does flourish but his time: - Survey our progress from our birth-- - We are set, we grow, we turn to earth. - Courts adieu, and all delights, - All bewitching appetites! - Sweetest breath and clearest eye - Like perfumes go out and die; - And consequently this is done - As shadows wait upon the sun. - Vain the ambition of kings - Who seek by trophies and dead things - To leave a living name behind, - And weave but nets to catch the wind. - - - - -WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STIRLING - -1580?-1640 - - -_221._ _Aurora_ - - O happy Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap, - And valuest thy wealth, as I my want, - Then need’st thou not--which ah! I grieve to grant-- - Repine at Jove, lull’d in his leman’s lap: - That golden shower in which he did repose-- - One dewy drop it stains - Which thy Aurora rains - Upon the rural plains, - When from thy bed she passionately goes. - - Then, waken’d with the music of the merles, - She not remembers Memnon when she mourns: - That faithful flame which in her bosom burns - From crystal conduits throws those liquid pearls: - Sad from thy sight so soon to be removed, - She so her grief delates. - --O favour’d by the fates - Above the happiest states, - Who art of one so worthy well-beloved! - - - - -PHINEAS FLETCHER - -1580-1650 - - -_222._ _A Litany_ - - Drop, drop, slow tears, - And bathe those beauteous feet - Which brought from Heaven - The news and Prince of Peace: - Cease not, wet eyes, - His mercy to entreat; - To cry for vengeance - Sin doth never cease. - In your deep floods - Drown all my faults and fears; - Nor let His eye - See sin, but through my tears. - - - - -SIR JOHN BEAUMONT - -1583-1627 - - -_223._ _Of his Dear Son, Gervase_ - - Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love - To me was like a friendship, far above - The course of nature or his tender age; - Whose looks could all my bitter griefs assuage: - Let his pure soul, ordain’d seven years to be - In that frail body which was part of me, - Remain my pledge in Heaven, as sent to show - How to this port at every step I go. - - - - -WILLIAM DRUMMOND, OF HAWTHORNDEN - -1585-1649 - - -_224._ _Invocation_ - - Phœbus, arise! - And paint the sable skies - With azure, white, and red; - Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed, - That she thy career may with roses spread; - The nightingales thy coming each-where sing; - Make an eternal spring! - Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; - Spread forth thy golden hair - In larger locks than thou wast wont before, - And emperor-like decore - With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: - Chase hence the ugly night - Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. - This is that happy morn, - That day, long wishèd day - Of all my life so dark - (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn - And fates not hope betray), - Which, only white, deserves - A diamond for ever should it mark: - This is the morn should bring into this grove - My Love, to hear and recompense my love. - Fair King, who all preserves, - But show thy blushing beams, - And thou two sweeter eyes - Shalt see than those which by Penèus’ streams - Did once thy heart surprise: - Nay, suns, which shine as clear - As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. - Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: - If that ye, winds, would hear - A voice surpassing far Amphion’s lyre, - Your stormy chiding stay; - Let zephyr only breathe - And with her tresses play, - Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. - - The winds all silent are; - And Phœbus in his chair - Ensaffroning sea and air - Makes vanish every star: - Night like a drunkard reels - Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: - The fields with flowers are deck’d in every hue, - The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue; - Here is the pleasant place-- - And everything, save Her, who all should grace. - - -_225._ _Madrigal_ - - Like the Idalian queen, - Her hair about her eyne, - With neck and breast’s ripe apples to be seen, - At first glance of the morn - In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flow’rs - Which of her blood were born, - I saw, but fainting saw, my paramours. - The Graces naked danced about the place, - The winds and trees amazed - With silence on her gazed, - The flowers did smile, like those upon her face; - And as their aspen stalks those fingers band, - That she might read my case, - A hyacinth I wish’d me in her hand. - - _225._ paramours] = sing. paramour. band] bound. - - -_226._ _Spring Bereaved 1_ - - That zephyr every year - So soon was heard to sigh in forests here, - It was for her: that wrapp’d in gowns of green - Meads were so early seen, - That in the saddest months oft sung the merles, - It was for her; for her trees dropp’d forth pearls. - That proud and stately courts - Did envy those our shades and calm resorts, - It was for her; and she is gone, O woe! - Woods cut again do grow, - Bud doth the rose and daisy, winter done; - But we, once dead, no more do see the sun. - - -_227._ _Spring Bereaved 2_ - - Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train, - Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow’rs: - The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, - The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their show’rs. - Thou turn’st, sweet youth, but ah! my pleasant hours - And happy days with thee come not again; - The sad memorials only of my pain - Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. - Thou art the same which still thou wast before, - Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair; - But she, whose breath embalm’d thy wholesome air, - Is gone--nor gold nor gems her can restore. - Neglected virtue, seasons go and come, - While thine forgot lie closèd in a tomb. - - -_228._ _Spring Bereaved 3_ - - Alexis, here she stay’d; among these pines, - Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair; - Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, - More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines. - She set her by these muskèd eglantines, - --The happy place the print seems yet to bear: - Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar’d lines, - To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend their ear. - Me here she first perceived, and here a morn - Of bright carnations did o’erspread her face; - Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, - And I first got a pledge of promised grace: - But ah! what served it to be happy so? - Sith passèd pleasures double but new woe? - - -_229._ _Her Passing_ - - The beauty and the life - Of life’s and beauty’s fairest paragon - --O tears! O grief!--hung at a feeble thread - To which pale Atropos had set her knife; - The soul with many a groan - Had left each outward part, - And now did take his last leave of the heart: - Naught else did want, save death, ev’n to be dead; - When the afflicted band about her bed, - Seeing so fair him come in lips, cheeks, eyes, - Cried, ‘_Ah! and can Death enter Paradise?_’ - - -_230._ _Inexorable_ - - My thoughts hold mortal strife; - I do detest my life, - And with lamenting cries - Peace to my soul to bring - Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise: - --But he, grim-grinning King, - Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise. - Late having deck’d with beauty’s rose his tomb, - Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come. - - -_231._ _Change should breed Change_ - - New doth the sun appear, - The mountains’ snows decay, - Crown’d with frail flowers forth comes the baby year. - My soul, time posts away; - And thou yet in that frost - Which flower and fruit hath lost, - As if all here immortal were, dost stay. - For shame! thy powers awake, - Look to that Heaven which never night makes black, - And there at that immortal sun’s bright rays, - Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days! - - -_232._ _Saint John Baptist_ - - The last and greatest Herald of Heaven’s King, - Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, - Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, - Which he than man more harmless found and mild. - His food was locusts, and what young doth spring - With honey that from virgin hives distill’d; - Parch’d body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing - Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. - There burst he forth: ‘All ye, whose hopes rely - On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; - Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!’ - --Who listen’d to his voice, obey’d his cry? - Only the echoes, which he made relent, - Rung from their marble caves ‘Repent! Repent!’ - - - - -GILES FLETCHER - -158?-1623 - - -_233._ _Wooing Song_ - - Love is the blossom where there blows - Every thing that lives or grows: - Love doth make the Heav’ns to move, - And the Sun doth burn in love: - Love the strong and weak doth yoke, - And makes the ivy climb the oak, - Under whose shadows lions wild, - Soften’d by love, grow tame and mild: - Love no med’cine can appease, - He burns the fishes in the seas: - Not all the skill his wounds can stench, - Not all the sea his fire can quench. - Love did make the bloody spear - Once a leavy coat to wear, - While in his leaves there shrouded lay - Sweet birds, for love that sing and play - And of all love’s joyful flame - I the bud and blossom am. - Only bend thy knee to me, - Thy wooing shall thy winning be - - See, see the flowers that below - Now as fresh as morning blow; - And of all the virgin rose - That as bright Aurora shows; - How they all unleavèd die, - Losing their virginity! - Like unto a summer shade, - But now born, and now they fade. - Every thing doth pass away; - There is danger in delay: - Come, come, gather then the rose, - Gather it, or it you lose! - All the sand of Tagus’ shore - Into my bosom casts his ore: - All the valleys’ swimming corn - To my house is yearly borne: - Every grape of every vine - Is gladly bruised to make me wine: - While ten thousand kings, as proud, - To carry up my train have bow’d, - And a world of ladies send me - In my chambers to attend me: - All the stars in Heav’n that shine, - And ten thousand more, are mine: - Only bend thy knee to me, - Thy wooing shall thy winning be! - - - - -FRANCIS BEAUMONT - -1586-1616 - - -_234._ _On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey_ - - Mortality, behold and fear! - What a change of flesh is here! - Think how many royal bones - Sleep within this heap of stones: - Here they lie had realms and lands, - Who now want strength to stir their hands: - Where from their pulpits seal’d with dust - They preach, ‘In greatness is no trust.’ - Here’s an acre sown indeed - With the richest, royall’st seed - That the earth did e’er suck in - Since the first man died for sin: - Here the bones of birth have cried-- - ‘Though gods they were, as men they died.’ - Here are sands, ignoble things, - Dropt from the ruin’d sides of kings; - Here’s a world of pomp and state, - Buried in dust, once dead by fate. - - - - -JOHN FORD - -1586-1639 - - -_235._ _Dawn_ - - Fly hence, shadows, that do keep - Watchful sorrows charm’d in sleep! - Tho’ the eyes be overtaken, - Yet the heart doth ever waken - Thoughts chain’d up in busy snares - Of continual woes and cares: - Love and griefs are so exprest - As they rather sigh than rest. - Fly hence, shadows, that do keep - Watchful sorrows charm’d in sleep! - - - - -GEORGE WITHER - -1588-1667 - - -_236._ _I loved a Lass_ - - I loved a lass, a fair one, - As fair as e’er was seen; - She was indeed a rare one, - Another Sheba Queen: - But, fool as then I was, - I thought she loved me too: - But now, alas! she’s left me, - _Falero, lero, loo_! - - Her hair like gold did glister, - Each eye was like a star, - She did surpass her sister, - Which pass’d all others far; - She would me honey call, - She’d--O she’d kiss me too! - But now, alas! she’s left me, - _Falero, lero, loo_! - - - Many a merry meeting - My love and I have had; - She was my only sweeting, - She made my heart full glad; - The tears stood in her eyes - Like to the morning dew: - But now, alas! she’s left me, - _Falero, lero, loo_! - - Her cheeks were like the cherry, - Her skin was white as snow; - When she was blithe and merry - She angel-like did show; - Her waist exceeding small, - The fives did fit her shoe: - But now, alas! she’s left me, - _Falero, lero, loo_! - - In summer time or winter - She had her heart’s desire; - I still did scorn to stint her - From sugar, sack, or fire; - The world went round about, - No cares we ever knew: - But now, alas! she’s left me, - _Falero, lero, loo_! - - To maidens’ vows and swearing - Henceforth no credit give; - You may give them the hearing. - But never them believe; - They are as false as fair, - Unconstant, frail, untrue: - For mine, alas! hath left me, - _Falero, lero, loo_! - - -_237._ _The Lover’s Resolution_ - - Shall I, wasting in despair, - Die because a woman’s fair? - Or make pale my cheeks with care - ’Cause another’s rosy are? - Be she fairer than the day, - Or the flow’ry meads in May, - If she think not well of me, - What care I how fair she be? - - Shall my silly heart be pined - ’Cause I see a woman kind? - Or a well disposèd nature - Joinèd with a lovely feature? - Be she meeker, kinder, than - Turtle-dove or pelican, - If she be not so to me, - What care I how kind she be? - - Shall a woman’s virtues move - Me to perish for her love? - Or her well-deservings known - Make me quite forget my own? - Be she with that goodness blest - Which may merit name of Best, - If she be not such to me, - What care I how good she be? - - ’Cause her fortune seems too high, - Shall I play the fool and die? - She that bears a noble mind, - If not outward helps she find, - Thinks what with them he would do - That without them dares her woo; - And unless that mind I see, - What care I how great she be? - - Great, or good, or kind, or fair, - I will ne’er the more despair; - If she love me, this believe, - I will die ere she shall grieve; - If she slight me when I woo, - I can scorn and let her go; - For if she be not for me, - What care I for whom she be? - - -_238._ _The Choice_ - - Me so oft my fancy drew - Here and there, that I ne’er knew - Where to place desire before - So that range it might no more; - But as he that passeth by - Where, in all her jollity, - Flora’s riches in a row - Do in seemly order grow, - And a thousand flowers stand - Bending as to kiss his hand; - Out of which delightful store - One he may take and no more; - Long he pausing doubteth whether - Of those fair ones he should gather. - - First the Primrose courts his eyes, - Then the Cowslip he espies; - Next the Pansy seems to woo him, - Then Carnations bow unto him; - Which whilst that enamour’d swain - From the stalk intends to strain, - (As half-fearing to be seen) - Prettily her leaves between - Peeps the Violet, pale to see - That her virtues slighted be; - Which so much his liking wins - That to seize her he begins. - - Yet before he stoop’d so low - He his wanton eye did throw - On a stem that grew more high, - And the Rose did there espy. - Who, beside her previous scent, - To procure his eyes content - Did display her goodly breast, - Where he found at full exprest - All the good that Nature showers - On a thousand other flowers; - Wherewith he affected takes it, - His belovèd flower he makes it, - And without desire of more - Walks through all he saw before. - - So I wand’ring but erewhile - Through the garden of this Isle, - Saw rich beauties, I confess, - And in number numberless. - Yea, so differing lovely too, - That I had a world to do - Ere I could set up my rest, - Where to choose and choose the best. - Thus I fondly fear’d, till Fate - (Which I must confess in that - Did a greater favour to me - Than the world can malice do me) - Show’d to me that matchless flower. - Subject for this song of our; - Whose perfection having eyed, - Reason instantly espied - That Desire, which ranged abroad, - There would find a period: - And no marvel if it might, - For it there hath all delight, - And in her hath nature placed - What each several fair one graced. - - Let who list, for me, advance - The admirèd flowers of France, - Let who will praise and behold - The reservèd Marigold; - Let the sweet-breath’d Violet now - Unto whom she pleaseth bow; - And the fairest Lily spread - Where she will her golden head; - I have such a flower to wear - That for those I do not care. - - Let the young and happy swains - Playing on the Britain plains - Court unblamed their shepherdesses, - And with their gold curlèd tresses - Toy uncensured, until I - Grudge at their prosperity. - Let all times, both present, past, - And the age that shall be last, - Vaunt the beauties they bring forth. - I have found in one such worth, - That content I neither care - What the best before me were; - Nor desire to live and see - Who shall fair hereafter be; - For I know the hand of Nature - Will not make a fairer creature. - - -_239._ _A Widow’s Hymn_ - - How near me came the hand of Death, - When at my side he struck my dear, - And took away the precious breath - Which quicken’d my belovèd peer! - How helpless am I thereby made! - By day how grieved, by night how sad! - And now my life’s delight is gone, - --Alas! how am I left alone! - - The voice which I did more esteem - Than music in her sweetest key, - Those eyes which unto me did seem - More comfortable than the day; - Those now by me, as they have been, - Shall never more be heard or seen; - But what I once enjoy’d in them - Shall seem hereafter as a dream. - - _239._ peer] companion. - - Lord! keep me faithful to the trust - Which my dear spouse reposed in me: - To him now dead preserve me just - In all that should performèd be! - For though our being man and wife - Extendeth only to this life, - Yet neither life nor death should end - The being of a faithful friend. - - - - -WILLIAM BROWNE, OF TAVISTOCK - -1588-1643 - - -_240._ _A Welcome_ - - _Welcome, welcome! do I sing,_ - _Far more welcome than the spring;_ - _He that parteth from you never_ - _Shall enjoy a spring for ever._ - - He that to the voice is near - Breaking from your iv’ry pale, - Need not walk abroad to hear - The delightful nightingale. - _Welcome, welcome, then...._ - - He that looks still on your eyes, - Though the winter have begun - To benumb our arteries, - Shall not want the summer’s sun. - _Welcome, welcome, then...._ - - He that still may see your cheeks, - Where all rareness still reposes, - Is a fool if e’er he seeks - Other lilies, other roses. - _Welcome, welcome, then...._ - - - He to whom your soft lip yields, - And perceives your breath in kissing, - All the odours of the fields - Never, never shall be missing. - _Welcome, welcome, then...._ - - He that question would anew - What fair Eden was of old, - Let him rightly study you, - And a brief of that behold. - _Welcome, welcome, then...._ - - -_241._ _The Sirens’ Song_ - - Steer, hither steer your wingèd pines, - All beaten mariners! - Here lie Love’s undiscover’d mines, - A prey to passengers-- - Perfumes far sweeter than the best - Which make the Phœnix’ urn and nest. - Fear not your ships, - Nor any to oppose you save our lips; - But come on shore, - Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. - - For swelling waves our panting breasts, - Where never storms arise, - Exchange, and be awhile our guests: - For stars gaze on our eyes. - The compass Love shall hourly sing, - And as he goes about the ring, - We will not miss - To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. - --Then come on shore, - Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. - - -_242._ _The Rose_ - - A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, - Grew in a little garden all alone; - A sweeter flower did Nature ne’er put forth, - Nor fairer garden yet was never known: - The maidens danced about it morn and noon. - And learnèd bards of it their ditties made; - The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon - Water’d the root and kiss’d her pretty shade. - But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; - The maids and fairies both were kept away, - And in a drought the caterpillars threw - Themselves upon the bud and every spray. - God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies, - The fairest blossom of the garden dies. - - -_243._ _Song_ - - For her gait, if she be walking; - Be she sitting, I desire her - For her state’s sake; and admire her - For her wit if she be talking; - Gait and state and wit approve her; - For which all and each I love her. - - Be she sullen, I commend her - For a modest. Be she merry, - For a kind one her prefer I. - Briefly, everything doth lend her - So much grace, and so approve her, - That for everything I love her. - - -_244._ _Memory_ - - So shuts the marigold her leaves - At the departure of the sun; - So from the honeysuckle sheaves - The bee goes when the day is done; - So sits the turtle when she is but one, - And so all woe, as I since she is gone. - - To some few birds kind Nature hath - Made all the summer as one day: - Which once enjoy’d, cold winter’s wrath - As night they sleeping pass away. - Those happy creatures are, that know not yet - The pain to be deprived or to forget. - - I oft have heard men say there be - Some that with confidence profess - The helpful Art of Memory: - But could they teach Forgetfulness, - I’d learn; and try what further art could do - To make me love her and forget her too. - - -_Epitaphs_ - - -_245._ _In Obitum M.S. Xº Maij, 1614_ - - May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing, - Nor Flora’s pride! - In thee all flowers and roses spring, - Mine only died. - - -_246._ _On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke_ - - Underneath this sable herse - Lies the subject of all verse: - Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother: - Death, ere thou hast slain another - Fair and learn’d and good as she, - Time shall throw a dart at thee. - - - - -ROBERT HERRICK - -1591-1674 - - -_247._ _Corinna’s going a-Maying_ - - Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn - Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. - See how Aurora throws her fair - Fresh-quilted colours through the air: - Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see - The dew bespangling herb and tree! - Each flower has wept and bow’d toward the east - Above an hour since, yet you not drest; - Nay! not so much as out of bed? - When all the birds have matins said - And sung their thankful hymns, ’tis sin. - Nay, profanation, to keep in, - Whereas a thousand virgins on this day - Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. - - Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen - To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, - And sweet as Flora. Take no care - For jewels for your gown or hair: - Fear not; the leaves will strew - Gems in abundance upon you: - - - Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, - Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. - Come, and receive them while the light - Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: - And Titan on the eastern hill - Retires himself, or else stands still - Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: - Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. - - Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark - How each field turns a street, each street a park, - Made green and trimm’d with trees! see how - Devotion gives each house a bough - Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, - An ark, a tabernacle is, - Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, - As if here were those cooler shades of love. - Can such delights be in the street - And open fields, and we not see’t? - Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obey - The proclamation made for May, - And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; - But, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying. - - There’s not a budding boy or girl this day - But is got up and gone to bring in May. - A deal of youth ere this is come - Back, and with white-thorn laden home. - Some have despatch’d their cakes and cream, - Before that we have left to dream: - And some have wept and woo’d, and plighted troth, - And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: - - beads] prayers. - - Many a green-gown has been given, - Many a kiss, both odd and even: - Many a glance, too, has been sent - From out the eye, love’s firmament: - Many a jest told of the keys betraying - This night, and locks pick’d: yet we’re not a-Maying! - - Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, - And take the harmless folly of the time! - We shall grow old apace, and die - Before we know our liberty. - Our life is short, and our days run - As fast away as does the sun. - And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, - Once lost, can ne’er be found again, - So when or you or I are made - A fable, song, or fleeting shade, - All love, all liking, all delight - Lies drown’d with us in endless night. - Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, - Come, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying. - - _247._ green-gown] tumble on the grass. - - -_248._ _To the Virgins, to make much of Time_ - - Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, - Old Time is still a-flying: - And this same flower that smiles to-day - To-morrow will be dying. - - The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, - The higher he’s a-getting, - The sooner will his race be run, - And nearer he’s to setting. - - - That age is best which is the first, - When youth and blood are warmer; - But being spent, the worse, and worst - Times still succeed the former. - - Then be not coy, but use your time, - And while ye may, go marry: - For having lost but once your prime, - You may for ever tarry. - - -_249._ _To the Western Wind_ - - Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, - Made rival with the air, - To give Perenna’s lip a kiss, - And fan her wanton hair: - - Bring me but one, I’ll promise thee, - Instead of common showers, - Thy wings shall be embalm’d by me, - And all beset with flowers. - - -_250._ _To Electra_ - - I dare not ask a kiss, - I dare not beg a smile, - Lest having that, or this, - I might grow proud the while. - - No, no, the utmost share - Of my desire shall be - Only to kiss that air - That lately kissèd thee. - - -_251._ _To Violets_ - - Welcome, maids of honour! - You do bring - In the spring, - And wait upon her. - - She has virgins many, - Fresh and fair; - Yet you are - More sweet than any. - - You’re the maiden posies, - And so graced - To be placed - ’Fore damask roses. - - Yet, though thus respected, - By-and-by - Ye do lie, - Poor girls, neglected. - - -_252._ _To Daffodils_ - - Fair daffodils, we weep to see - You haste away so soon; - As yet the early-rising sun - Has not attain’d his noon. - Stay, stay - Until the hasting day - Has run - But to the evensong; - And, having pray’d together, we - Will go with you along. - - - We have short time to stay, as you, - We have as short a spring; - As quick a growth to meet decay, - As you, or anything. - We die - As your hours do, and dry - Away - Like to the summer’s rain; - Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, - Ne’er to be found again. - - -_253._ _To Blossoms_ - - Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, - Why do ye fall so fast? - Your date is not so past - But you may stay yet here awhile - To blush and gently smile, - And go at last. - - What! were ye born to be - An hour or half’s delight, - And so to bid good night? - ’Twas pity Nature brought you forth - Merely to show your worth - And lose you quite. - - But you are lovely leaves, where we - May read how soon things have - Their end, though ne’er so brave: - And after they have shown their pride - Like you awhile, they glide - Into the grave. - - -_254._ _The Primrose_ - - Ask me why I send you here - This sweet Infanta of the year? - Ask me why I send to you - This primrose, thus bepearl’d with dew? - I will whisper to your ears:-- - The sweets of love are mix’d with tears. - - Ask me why this flower does show - So yellow-green, and sickly too? - Ask me why the stalk is weak - And bending (yet it doth not break)? - I will answer:--These discover - What fainting hopes are in a lover. - - -_255._ _The Funeral Rites of the Rose_ - - The Rose was sick and smiling died; - And, being to be sanctified, - About the bed there sighing stood - The sweet and flowery sisterhood: - Some hung the head, while some did bring, - To wash her, water from the spring; - Some laid her forth, while others wept, - But all a solemn fast there kept: - The holy sisters, some among, - The sacred dirge and trental sung. - But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere, - As Heaven had spent all perfumes there. - At last, when prayers for the dead - And rites were all accomplishèd, - They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, - And closed her up as in a tomb. - - _255._ trental] services for the dead, of thirty masses. - - -_256._ _Cherry-Ripe_ - - Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, - Full and fair ones; come and buy. - If so be you ask me where - They do grow, I answer: There - Where my Julia’s lips do smile; - There’s the land, or cherry-isle, - Whose plantations fully show - All the year where cherries grow. - - -_257._ _A Meditation for his Mistress_ - - You are a tulip seen to-day, - But, dearest, of so short a stay - That where you grew scarce man can say. - - You are a lovely July-flower, - Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower - Will force you hence, and in an hour. - - You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud, - Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood - Can show where you or grew or stood. - - You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, - And can with tendrils love entwine, - Yet dried ere you distil your wine. - - You are like balm enclosèd well - In amber or some crystal shell, - Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell. - - - You are a dainty violet, - Yet withered ere you can be set - Within the virgin’s coronet. - - You are the queen all flowers among; - But die you must, fair maid, ere long, - As he, the maker of this song. - - -_258._ _Delight in Disorder_ - - A sweet disorder in the dress - Kindles in clothes a wantonness: - A lawn about the shoulders thrown - Into a fine distraction: - An erring lace, which here and there - Enthrals the crimson stomacher: - A cuff neglectful, and thereby - Ribbands to flow confusedly: - A winning wave, deserving note, - In the tempestuous petticoat: - A careless shoe-string, in whose tie - I see a wild civility: - Do more bewitch me than when art - Is too precise in every part. - - -_259._ _Upon Julia’s Clothes_ - - Whenas in silks my Julia goes, - Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows - The liquefaction of her clothes! - - Next, when I cast mine eyes and see - That brave vibration each way free, - --O how that glittering taketh me! - - -_260._ _The Bracelet: To Julia_ - - Why I tie about thy wrist, - Julia, this silken twist; - For what other reason is’t - But to show thee how, in part, - Thou my pretty captive art? - But thy bond-slave is my heart: - ’Tis but silk that bindeth thee, - Knap the thread and thou art free; - But ’tis otherwise with me: - --I am bound and fast bound, so - That from thee I cannot go; - If I could, I would not so. - - -_261._ _To Daisies, not to shut so soon_ - - Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night - Has not as yet begun - To make a seizure on the light, - Or to seal up the sun. - - No marigolds yet closèd are, - No shadows great appear; - Nor doth the early shepherd’s star - Shine like a spangle here. - - Stay but till my Julia close - Her life-begetting eye, - And let the whole world then dispose - Itself to live or die. - - -_262._ _The Night-piece: To Julia_ - - Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, - The shooting stars attend thee; - And the elves also, - Whose little eyes glow - Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. - - No Will-o’-the-wisp mislight thee, - Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; - But on, on thy way - Not making a stay, - Since ghost there’s none to affright thee. - - Let not the dark thee cumber: - What though the moon does slumber? - The stars of the night - Will lend thee their light - Like tapers clear without number. - - Then, Julia, let me woo thee, - Thus, thus to come unto me; - And when I shall meet - Thy silv’ry feet, - My soul I’ll pour into thee. - - -_263._ _To Music, to becalm his Fever_ - - Charm me asleep, and melt me so - With thy delicious numbers, - That, being ravish’d, hence I go - Away in easy slumbers. - Ease my sick head, - And make my bed, - Thou power that canst sever - From me this ill, - And quickly still, - Though thou not kill - My fever. - - Thou sweetly canst convert the same - From a consuming fire - Into a gentle licking flame, - And make it thus expire. - Then make me weep - My pains asleep; - And give me such reposes - That I, poor I, - May think thereby - I live and die - ’Mongst roses. - - Fall on me like the silent dew, - Or like those maiden showers - Which, by the peep of day, do strew - A baptism o’er the flowers. - Melt, melt my pains - With thy soft strains; - That, having ease me given, - With full delight - I leave this light, - And take my flight - For Heaven. - - -_264._ _To Dianeme_ - - Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes - Which starlike sparkle in their skies; - Nor be you proud that you can see - All hearts your captives, yours yet free; - Be you not proud of that rich hair - Which wantons with the love-sick air; - Whenas that ruby which you wear, - Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, - Will last to be a precious stone - When all your world of beauty’s gone. - - -_265._ _To Œnone_ - - What conscience, say, is it in thee, - When I a heart had one, - To take away that heart from me, - And to retain thy own? - - For shame or pity now incline - To play a loving part; - Either to send me kindly thine, - Or give me back my heart. - - Covet not both; but if thou dost - Resolve to part with neither, - Why, yet to show that thou art just, - Take me and mine together! - - -_266._ _To Anthea, who may command him Anything_ - - Bid me to live, and I will live - Thy Protestant to be; - Or bid me love, and I will give - A loving heart to thee. - - A heart as soft, a heart as kind, - A heart as sound and free - As in the whole world thou canst find, - That heart I’ll give to thee. - - Bid that heart stay, and it will stay - To honour thy decree: - Or bid it languish quite away, - And’t shall do so for thee. - - Bid me to weep, and I will weep - While I have eyes to see: - And, having none, yet will I keep - A heart to weep for thee. - - Bid me despair, and I’ll despair - Under that cypress-tree: - Or bid me die, and I will dare - E’en death to die for thee. - - Thou art my life, my love, my heart, - The very eyes of me: - And hast command of every part - To live and die for thee. - - -_267._ _To the Willow-tree_ - - Thou art to all lost love the best, - The only true plant found, - Wherewith young men and maids distrest, - And left of love, are crown’d. - - When once the lover’s rose is dead, - Or laid aside forlorn: - Then willow-garlands ’bout the head - Bedew’d with tears are worn. - - When with neglect, the lovers’ bane, - Poor maids rewarded be - For their love lost, their only gain - Is but a wreath from thee. - - And underneath thy cooling shade, - When weary of the light, - The love-spent youth and love-sick maid - Come to weep out the night. - - -_268._ _The Mad Maid’s Song_ - - Good-morrow to the day so fair, - Good-morning, sir, to you; - Good-morrow to mine own torn hair - Bedabbled with the dew. - - Good-morning to this primrose too, - Good-morrow to each maid - That will with flowers the tomb bestrew - Wherein my love is laid. - - - Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me! - Alack and well-a-day! - For pity, sir, find out that bee - Which bore my love away. - - I’ll seek him in your bonnet brave, - I’ll seek him in your eyes; - Nay, now I think they’ve made his grave - I’ th’ bed of strawberries. - - I’ll seek him there; I know ere this - The cold, cold earth doth shake him; - But I will go, or send a kiss - By you, sir, to awake him. - - Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, - He knows well who do love him, - And who with green turfs rear his head, - And who do rudely move him. - - He’s soft and tender (pray take heed); - With bands of cowslips bind him, - And bring him home--but ’tis decreed - That I shall never find him! - - -_269._ _Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love_ - - What needs complaints, - When she a place - Has with the race - Of saints? - - In endless mirth - She thinks not on - What’s said or done - In Earth. - - - She sees no tears, - Or any tone - Of thy deep groan - She hears: - - Nor does she mind - Or think on’t now - That ever thou - Wast kind; - - But changed above, - She likes not there, - As she did here, - Thy love. - - Forbear therefore, - And lull asleep - Thy woes, and weep - No more. - - -_270._ _To Meadows_ - - Ye have been fresh and green, - Ye have been fill’d with flowers, - And ye the walks have been - Where maids have spent their hours. - - You have beheld how they - With wicker arks did come - To kiss and bear away - The richer cowslips home. - - You’ve heard them sweetly sing, - And seen them in a round: - Each virgin like a spring, - With honeysuckles crown’d. - - - But now we see none here - Whose silv’ry feet did tread - And with dishevell’d hair - Adorn’d this smoother mead. - - Like unthrifts, having spent - Your stock and needy grown, - You’re left here to lament - Your poor estates, alone. - - -_271._ _A Child’s Grace_ - - Here a little child I stand - Heaving up my either hand; - Cold as paddocks though they be, - Here I lift them up to Thee, - For a benison to fall - On our meat and on us all. Amen. - - _271._ paddocks] frogs. - - -_272._ _Epitaph_ - -_upon a Child that died_ - - Here she lies, a pretty bud, - Lately made of flesh and blood: - Who as soon fell fast asleep - As her little eyes did peep. - Give her strewings, but not stir - The earth that lightly covers her. - - -_273._ _Another_ - - Here a pretty baby lies - Sung asleep with lullabies: - Pray be silent and not stir - Th’ easy earth that covers her. - - -_274._ _His Winding-sheet_ - - Come thou, who art the wine and wit - Of all I’ve writ: - The grace, the glory, and the best - Piece of the rest. - Thou art of what I did intend - The all and end; - And what was made, was made to meet - Thee, thee, my sheet. - Come then and be to my chaste side - Both bed and bride: - We two, as reliques left, will have - One rest, one grave: - And hugging close, we will not fear - Lust entering here: - Where all desires are dead and cold - As is the mould; - And all affections are forgot, - Or trouble not. - Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be - From shackles free: - And weeping widows long oppress’d - Do here find rest. - The wrongèd client ends his laws - Here, and his cause. - Here those long suits of Chancery lie - Quiet, or die: - And all Star-Chamber bills do cease - Or hold their peace. - Here needs no Court for our Request - Where all are best, - All wise, all equal, and all just - Alike i’ th’ dust. - Nor need we here to fear the frown - Of court or crown: - Where fortune bears no sway o’er things, - There all are kings. - In this securer place we’ll keep - As lull’d asleep; - Or for a little time we’ll lie - As robes laid by; - To be another day re-worn, - Turn’d, but not torn: - Or like old testaments engross’d, - Lock’d up, not lost. - And for a while lie here conceal’d, - To be reveal’d - Next at the great Platonick year, - And then meet here. - - _274._ Platonick year] the perfect or cyclic year, when the sun, - moon, and five planets end their revolutions together and start - anew. See _Timæus_, p. 39. - - -_275._ _Litany to the Holy Spirit_ - - In the hour of my distress, - When temptations me oppress, - And when I my sins confess, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When I lie within my bed, - Sick in heart and sick in head, - And with doubts discomforted, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When the house doth sigh and weep, - And the world is drown’d in sleep, - Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - - When the passing bell doth toll, - And the Furies in a shoal - Come to fright a parting soul, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When the tapers now burn blue, - And the comforters are few, - And that number more than true, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When the priest his last hath pray’d, - And I nod to what is said, - ’Cause my speech is now decay’d, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When, God knows, I’m toss’d about - Either with despair or doubt; - Yet before the glass be out, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When the tempter me pursu’th - With the sins of all my youth, - And half damns me with untruth, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When the flames and hellish cries - Fright mine ears and fright mine eyes, - And all terrors me surprise, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - When the Judgment is reveal’d, - And that open’d which was seal’d, - When to Thee I have appeal’d, - Sweet Spirit, comfort me! - - - - -FRANCIS QUARLES - -1592-1644 - - -_276._ _A Divine Rapture_ - - E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks, - That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, - And having ranged and search’d a thousand nooks, - Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, - Where in a greater current they conjoin: - So I my Best-belovèd’s am; so He is mine. - - E’en so we met; and after long pursuit, - E’en so we joined; we both became entire; - No need for either to renew a suit, - For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: - Our firm-united souls did more than twine; - So I my Best-belovèd’s am; so He is mine. - - If all those glittering Monarchs, that command - The servile quarters of this earthly ball, - Should tender in exchange their shares of land, - I would not change my fortunes for them all: - Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: - The world’s but theirs; but my Belovèd’s mine. - - -_277._ _Epigram_ - -_Respice Finem_ - - My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on; - Judge not the play before the play is done: - Her plot hath many changes; every day - Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play. - - - - -HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER - -1592-1669 - - -_278._ _A Contemplation upon Flowers_ - - Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you, - And be as little vain! - You come abroad, and make a harmless show, - And to your beds of earth again. - You are not proud: you know your birth: - For your embroider’d garments are from earth. - - You do obey your months and times, but I - Would have it ever Spring: - My fate would know no Winter, never die, - Nor think of such a thing. - O that I could my bed of earth but view - And smile, and look as cheerfully as you! - - O teach me to see Death and not to fear, - But rather to take truce! - How often have I seen you at a bier, - And there look fresh and spruce! - You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath - Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. - - -_279._ _A Renunciation_ - - We, that did nothing study but the way - To love each other, with which thoughts the day - Rose with delight to us and with them set, - Must learn the hateful art, how to forget. - We, that did nothing wish that Heaven could give - Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live - Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must, - As if not writ in faith, but words and dust. - Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make, - Witness the chaste desires that never brake - Into unruly heats; witness that breast - Which in thy bosom anchor’d his whole rest-- - ’Tis no default in us: I dare acquite - Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white - As thy pure self. Cross planets did envý - Us to each other, and Heaven did untie - Faster than vows could bind. Oh, that the stars, - When lovers meet, should stand opposed in wars! - - Since then some higher Destinies command, - Let us not strive, nor labour to withstand - What is past help. The longest date of grief - Can never yield a hope of our relief: - Fold back our arms; take home our fruitless loves, - That must new fortunes try, like turtle-doves - Dislodgèd from their haunts. We must in tears - Unwind a love knit up in many years. - In this last kiss I here surrender thee - Back to thyself.--So, thou again art free: - Thou in another, sad as that, resend - The truest heart that lover e’er did lend. - Now turn from each: so fare our sever’d hearts - As the divorced soul from her body parts. - - -_280._ _Exequy on his Wife_ - - Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, - Instead of dirges this complaint; - And for sweet flowers to crown thy herse - Receive a strew of weeping verse - From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see - Quite melted into tears for thee. - Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, - My task hath been to meditate - On thee, on thee! Thou art the book, - The library whereon I look, - Tho’ almost blind. For thee, loved clay, - I languish out, not live, the day.... - Thou hast benighted me; thy set - This eve of blackness did beget, - Who wast my day (tho’ overcast - Before thou hadst thy noontide past): - And I remember must in tears - Thou scarce hadst seen so many years - As day tells hours. By thy clear sun - My love and fortune first did run; - But thou wilt never more appear - Folded within my hemisphere, - Since both thy light and motion, - Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone, - And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish - The earth now interposèd is.... - I could allow thee for a time - To darken me and my sad clime; - Were it a month, a year, or ten, - I would thy exile live till then, - And all that space my mirth adjourn-- - So thou wouldst promise to return, - And putting off thy ashy shroud - At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud. - But woe is me! the longest date - Too narrow is to calculate - These empty hopes: never shall I - Be so much blest as to descry - A glimpse of thee, till that day come - Which shall the earth to cinders doom, - And a fierce fever must calcine - The body of this world--like thine, - My little world! That fit of fire - Once off, our bodies shall aspire - To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise - And view ourselves with clearer eyes - In that calm region where no night - Can hide us from each other’s sight. - Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good - May my harm do thee! Since it stood - With Heaven’s will I might not call - Her longer mine, I give thee all - My short-lived right and interest - In her whom living I loved best. - Be kind to her, and prithee look - Thou write into thy Doomsday book - Each parcel of this rarity - Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, - As thou wilt answer Him that lent-- - Not gave--thee my dear monument. - So close the ground, and ’bout her shade - Black curtains draw: my bride is laid. - Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed - Never to be disquieted! - My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake - Till I thy fate shall overtake: - Till age, or grief, or sickness must - Marry my body to that dust - It so much loves; and fill the room - My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. - Stay for me there: I will not fail - To meet thee in that hollow vale. - And think not much of my delay: - I am already on the way, - And follow thee with all the speed - Desire can make, or sorrows breed. - Each minute is a short degree - And every hour a step towards thee.... - ’Tis true--with shame and grief I yield-- - Thou, like the van, first took’st the field; - And gotten hast the victory - In thus adventuring to die - Before me, whose more years might crave - A just precedence in the grave. - But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, - Beats my approach, tells thee I come; - And slow howe’er my marches be - I shall at last sit down by thee. - The thought of this bids me go on - And wait my dissolution - With hope and comfort. Dear--forgive - The crime--I am content to live - Divided, with but half a heart, - Till we shall meet and never part. - - - - -GEORGE HERBERT - -1593-1632 - - -_281._ _Virtue_ - - Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! - The bridal of the earth and sky-- - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; - For thou must die. - - - Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave - Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, - Thy root is ever in its grave, - And thou must die. - - Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, - A box where sweets compacted lie, - My music shows ye have your closes, - And all must die. - - Only a sweet and virtuous soul, - Like season’d timber, never gives; - But though the whole world turn to coal, - Then chiefly lives. - - -_282._ _Easter_ - - I got me flowers to straw Thy way, - I got me boughs off many a tree; - But Thou wast up by break of day, - And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee. - - Yet though my flowers be lost, they say - A heart can never come too late; - Teach it to sing Thy praise this day. - And then this day my life shall date. - - -_283._ _Discipline_ - - Throw away Thy rod, - Throw away Thy wrath; - O my God, - Take the gentle path! - - - For my heart’s desire - Unto Thine is bent: - I aspire - To a full consent. - - Not a word or look - I affect to own, - But by book, - And Thy Book alone. - - Though I fail, I weep; - Though I halt in pace, - Yet I creep - To the throne of grace. - - Then let wrath remove; - Love will do the deed: - For with love - Stony hearts will bleed. - - Love is swift of foot; - Love’s a man of war, - And can shoot, - And can hit from far. - - Who can ’scape his bow? - That which wrought on Thee, - Brought Thee low, - Needs must work on me. - - Throw away Thy rod; - Though man frailties hath, - Thou art God: - Throw away Thy wrath! - - -_284._ _A Dialogue_ - - _Man._ Sweetest Saviour, if my soul - Were but worth the having, - Quickly should I then control - Any thought of waving. - But when all my care and pains - Cannot give the name of gains - To Thy wretch so full of stains, - What delight or hope remains? - - _Saviour._ What, child, is the balance thine, - Thine the poise and measure? - If I say, ‘Thou shalt be Mine,’ - Finger not My treasure. - What the gains in having thee - Do amount to, only He - Who for man was sold can see - That transferr’d th’ accounts to Me. - - _Man._ But as I can see no merit - Leading to this favour, - So the way to fit me for it - Is beyond my savour. - As the reason, then, is Thine, - So the way is none of mine; - I disclaim the whole design; - Sin disclaims and I resign. - - _Saviour._ That is all: if that I could - Get without repining; - And My clay, My creature, would - Follow My resigning; - - savour] savoir, knowing. - - That as I did freely part - With My glory and desert, - Left all joys to feel all smart---- - - _Man._ Ah, no more! Thou break’st my heart! - - -_285._ _The Pulley_ - - When God at first made Man, - Having a glass of blessings standing by-- - Let us (said He) pour on him all we can; - Let the world’s riches, which dispersèd lie, - Contract into a span. - - So strength first made a way, - Then beauty flow’d, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: - When almost all was out, God made a stay, - Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, - Rest in the bottom lay. - - For if I should (said He) - Bestow this jewel also on My creature, - He would adore My gifts instead of Me, - And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; - So both should losers be. - - Yet let him keep the rest, - But keep them with repining restlessness; - Let him be rich and weary, that at least, - If goodness lead him not, yet weariness - May toss him to My breast. - - -_286._ _Love_ - - Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, - Guilty of dust and sin. - But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack - From my first entrance in, - Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning - If I lack’d anything. - - ‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’ - Love said, ‘You shall be he.’ - ‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, - I cannot look on Thee.’ - Love took my hand and smiling did reply, - ‘Who made the eyes but I?’ - - ‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame - Go where it doth deserve.’ - ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’ - ‘My dear, then I will serve.’ - ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’ - So I did sit and eat. - - - - -JAMES SHIRLEY - -1596-1666 - - -_287._ _A Hymn_ - - Fly, my Soul! What hangs upon - Thy drooping wings, - And weighs them down - With love of gaudy mortal things? - - The Sun is now i’ the east: each shade - As he doth rise - Is shorter made, - That earth may lessen to our eyes. - - - O be not careless then and play - Until the Star of Peace - Hide all his beams in dark recess! - Poor pilgrims needs must lose their way, - When all the shadows do increase. - - -_288._ _Death the Leveller_ - - The glories of our blood and state - Are shadows, not substantial things; - There is no armour against Fate; - Death lays his icy hand on kings: - Sceptre and Crown - Must tumble down, - And in the dust be equal made - With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. - - Some men with swords may reap the field, - And plant fresh laurels where they kill: - But their strong nerves at last must yield; - They tame but one another still: - Early or late - They stoop to fate, - And must give up their murmuring breath - When they, pale captives, creep to death. - - The garlands wither on your brow; - Then boast no more your mighty deeds! - Upon Death’s purple altar now - See where the victor-victim bleeds. - Your heads must come - To the cold tomb: - Only the actions of the just - Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. - - - - -THOMAS CAREW - -1595?-1639? - - -_289._ _Song_ - - Ask me no more where Jove bestows, - When June is past, the fading rose; - For in your beauty’s orient deep - These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. - - Ask me no more whither do stray - The golden atoms of the day; - For in pure love heaven did prepare - Those powders to enrich your hair. - - Ask me no more whither doth haste - The nightingale when May is past; - For in your sweet dividing throat - She winters and keeps warm her note. - - Ask me no more where those stars ’light - That downwards fall in dead of night - For in your eyes they sit, and there - Fixèd become as in their sphere. - - Ask me no more if east or west - The Phœnix builds her spicy nest; - For unto you at last she flies, - And in your fragrant bosom dies. - - -_290._ _Persuasions to Joy: a Song_ - - If the quick spirits in your eye - Now languish and anon must die; - If every sweet and every grace - Must fly from that forsaken face; - Then, Celia, let us reap our joys - Ere Time such goodly fruit destroys. - - Or if that golden fleece must grow. - For ever free from agèd snow; - If those bright suns must know no shade, - Nor your fresh beauties ever fade; - Then fear not, Celia, to bestow - What, still being gather’d, still must grow. - - Thus either Time his sickle brings - In vain, or else in vain his wings. - - -_291._ _To His Inconstant Mistress_ - - When thou, poor Excommunicate - From all the joys of Love, shalt see - The full reward and glorious fate - Which my strong faith shall purchase me, - Then curse thine own inconstancy! - - A fairer hand than thine shall cure - That heart which thy false oaths did wound; - And to my soul a soul more pure - Than thine shall by Love’s hand be bound, - And both with equal glory crown’d. - - Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain - To Love, as I did once to thee; - When all thy tears shall be as vain - As mine were then: for thou shalt be - Damn’d for thy false apostasy. - - -_292._ _The Unfading Beauty_ - - He that loves a rosy cheek, - Or a coral lip admires, - Or from star-like eyes doth seek - Fuel to maintain his fires: - As old Time makes these decay, - So his flames must waste away. - - But a smooth and steadfast mind, - Gentle thoughts and calm desires, - Hearts with equal love combined, - Kindle never-dying fires. - Where these are not, I despise - Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. - - -_293._ _Ingrateful Beauty threatened_ - - Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, - ’Twas I that gave thee thy renown. - Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd - Of common beauties lived unknown, - Had not my verse extoll’d thy name, - And with it imp’d the wings of Fame. - - That killing power is none of thine; - I gave it to thy voice and eyes; - Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; - Thou art my star, shin’st in my skies; - Then dart not from thy borrow’d sphere - Lightning on him that fix’d thee there. - - _293._ imp’d] grafted with new feathers. - - Tempt me with such affrights no more, - Lest what I made I uncreate; - Let fools thy mystic form adore, - I know thee in thy mortal state. - Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales, - Knew her themselves through all her veils. - - -_294._ _Epitaph_ - -_On the Lady Mary Villiers_ - - The Lady Mary Villiers lies - Under this stone; with weeping eyes - The parents that first gave her birth, - And their sad friends, laid her in earth. - If any of them, Reader, were - Known unto thee, shed a tear; - Or if thyself possess a gem - As dear to thee, as this to them, - Though a stranger to this place, - Bewail in theirs thine own hard case: - For thou perhaps at thy return - May’st find thy Darling in an urn. - - -_295._ _Another_ - - This little vault, this narrow room, - Of Love and Beauty is the tomb; - The dawning beam, that ’gan to clear - Our clouded sky, lies darkened here, - For ever set to us: by Death - Sent to enflame the World Beneath, - ’Twas but a bud, yet did contain - More sweetness than shall spring again; - A budding Star, that might have grown - Into a Sun when it had blown. - This hopeful Beauty did create - New life in Love’s declining state; - But now his empire ends, and we - From fire and wounding darts are free; - His brand, his bow, let no man fear: - The flames, the arrows, all lie here. - - - - -JASPER MAYNE - -1604-1672 - - -_296._ _Time_ - - Time is the feather’d thing, - And, whilst I praise - The sparklings of thy looks and call them rays, - Takes wing, - Leaving behind him as he flies - An unperceivèd dimness in thine eyes. - His minutes, whilst they’re told, - Do make us old; - And every sand of his fleet glass, - Increasing age as it doth pass, - Insensibly sows wrinkles there - Where flowers and roses do appear. - Whilst we do speak, our fire - Doth into ice expire, - Flames turn to frost; - And ere we can - Know how our crow turns swan, - Or how a silver snow - Springs there where jet did grow, - Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. - Since then the Night hath hurl’d - Darkness, Love’s shade, - Over its enemy the Day, and made - The world - Just such a blind and shapeless thing - As ’twas before light did from darkness spring, - Let us employ its treasure - And make shade pleasure: - Let’s number out the hours by blisses, - And count the minutes by our kisses; - Let the heavens new motions feel - And by our embraces wheel; - And whilst we try the way - By which Love doth convey - Soul unto soul, - And mingling so - Makes them such raptures know - As makes them entrancèd lie - In mutual ecstasy, - Let the harmonious spheres in music roll! - - - - -WILLIAM HABINGTON - -1605-1654 - - -_297._ _To Roses in the Bosom of Castara_ - - Ye blushing virgins happy are - In the chaste nunnery of her breasts-- - For he’d profane so chaste a fair, - Whoe’er should call them Cupid’s nests. - - Transplanted thus how bright ye grow! - How rich a perfume do ye yield! - In some close garden cowslips so - Are sweeter than i’ th’ open field. - - - In those white cloisters live secure - From the rude blasts of wanton breath!-- - Each hour more innocent and pure, - Till you shall wither into death. - - Then that which living gave you room, - Your glorious sepulchre shall be. - There wants no marble for a tomb - Whose breast hath marble been to me. - - -_298._ _Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam_ - - When I survey the bright - Celestial sphere; - So rich with jewels hung, that Night - Doth like an Ethiop bride appear: - - My soul her wings doth spread - And heavenward flies, - Th’ Almighty’s mysteries to read - In the large volumes of the skies. - - For the bright firmament - Shoots forth no flame - So silent, but is eloquent - In speaking the Creator’s name. - - No unregarded star - Contracts its light - Into so small a character, - Removed far from our human sight, - - But if we steadfast look - We shall discern - In it, as in some holy book, - How man may heavenly knowledge learn. - - - It tells the conqueror - That far-stretch’d power, - Which his proud dangers traffic for, - Is but the triumph of an hour: - - That from the farthest North, - Some nation may, - Yet undiscover’d, issue forth, - And o’er his new-got conquest sway: - - Some nation yet shut in - With hills of ice - May be let out to scourge his sin, - Till they shall equal him in vice. - - And then they likewise shall - Their ruin have; - For as yourselves your empires fall, - And every kingdom hath a grave. - - Thus those celestial fires, - Though seeming mute, - The fallacy of our desires - And all the pride of life confute:-- - - For they have watch’d since first - The World had birth: - And found sin in itself accurst, - And nothing permanent on Earth. - - - - -THOMAS RANDOLPH - -1605-1635 - - -_299._ _A Devout Lover_ - - I have a mistress, for perfections rare - In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair. - Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes; - Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice; - And wheresoever my fancy would begin, - Still her perfection lets religion in. - We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours - As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers: - I touch her, like my beads, with devout care, - And come unto my courtship as my prayer. - - -_300._ _An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford_ - -_to hasten Him into the Country_ - - Come, spur away, - I have no patience for a longer stay, - But must go down - And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: - I will the country see, - Where old simplicity, - Though hid in gray, - Doth look more gay - Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. - Farewell, you city wits, that are - Almost at civil war-- - ’Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad. - - - More of my days - I will not spend to gain an idiot’s praise; - Or to make sport - For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. - Then, worthy Stafford, say, - How shall we spend the day? - With what delights - Shorten the nights? - When from this tumult we are got secure, - Where mirth with all her freedom goes, - Yet shall no finger lose; - Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure? - - There from the tree - We’ll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; - And every day - Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, - Whose brown hath lovelier grace - Than any painted face - That I do know - Hyde Park can show: - Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet - (Though some of them in greater state - Might court my love with plate) - The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street. - - But think upon - Some other pleasures: these to me are none. - Why do I prate - Of women, that are things against my fate! - I never mean to wed - That torture to my bed: - My Muse is she - My love shall be. - Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone - And that great bugbear, grisly Death, - Shall take this idle breath, - If I a poem leave, that poem is my son. - - Of this no more! - We’ll rather taste the bright Pomona’s store. - No fruit shall ’scape - Our palates, from the damson to the grape. - Then, full, we’ll seek a shade, - And hear what music’s made; - How Philomel - Her tale doth tell, - And how the other birds do fill the quire; - The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, - Warbling melodious notes; - We will all sports enjoy which others but desire. - - Ours is the sky, - Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: - Nor will we spare - To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; - But let our hounds run loose - In any ground they’ll choose; - The buck shall fall, - The stag, and all. - Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, - For to my Muse, if not to me, - I’m sure all game is free: - Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. - - And when we mean - To taste of Bacchus’ blessings now and then, - And drink by stealth - A cup or two to noble Barkley’s health, - I’ll take my pipe and try - The Phrygian melody; - Which he that hears, - Lets through his ears - A madness to distemper all the brain: - Then I another pipe will take - And Doric music make, - To civilize with graver notes our wits again. - - - - -SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT - -1606-1668 - - -_301._ _Aubade_ - - The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest, - And climbing shakes his dewy wings. - He takes this window for the East, - And to implore your light he sings-- - Awake, awake! the morn will never rise - Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. - - The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star, - The ploughman from the sun his season takes; - But still the lover wonders what they are - Who look for day before his mistress wakes. - Awake, awake! break thro’ your veils of lawn! - Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn! - - -_302._ _To a Mistress Dying_ - - _Lover._ Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh - As eastern summers are, - Must now, forsaking time and flesh, - Add light to some small star. - - - _Philosopher._ Whilst she yet lives, were stars decay’d, - Their light by hers relief might find; - But Death will lead her to a shade - Where Love is cold and Beauty blind. - - _Lover._ Lovers, whose priests all poets are, - Think every mistress, when she dies, - Is changed at least into a star: - And who dares doubt the poets wise? - - _Philosopher._ But ask not bodies doom’d to die - To what abode they go; - Since Knowledge is but Sorrow’s spy, - It is not safe to know. - - -_303._ _Praise and Prayer_ - - Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds, - The diff’ring world’s agreeing sacrifice; - Where Heaven divided faiths united finds: - But Prayer in various discord upward flies. - - For Prayer the ocean is where diversely - Men steer their course, each to a sev’ral coast; - Where all our interests so discordant be - That half beg winds by which the rest are lost. - - By Penitence when we ourselves forsake, - ’Tis but in wise design on piteous Heaven; - In Praise we nobly give what God may take, - And are, without a beggar’s blush, forgiven. - - - - -EDMUND WALLER - -1606-1687 - - -_304._ _On a Girdle_ - - That which her slender waist confined - Shall now my joyful temples bind; - No monarch but would give his crown - His arms might do what this has done. - - It was my Heaven’s extremest sphere, - The pale which held that lovely deer: - My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, - Did all within this circle move. - - A narrow compass! and yet there - Dwelt all that’s good, and all that’s fair! - Give me but what this ribband bound, - Take all the rest the sun goes round! - - -_305._ _Go, lovely Rose_ - - Go, lovely Rose-- - Tell her that wastes her time and me, - That now she knows, - When I resemble her to thee, - How sweet and fair she seems to be. - - Tell her that’s young, - And shuns to have her graces spied, - That hadst thou sprung - In deserts where no men abide, - Thou must have uncommended died. - - Small is the worth - Of beauty from the light retired: - Bid her come forth, - Suffer herself to be desired, - And not blush so to be admired. - - - Then die--that she - The common fate of all things rare - May read in thee; - How small a part of time they share - That are so wondrous sweet and fair! - - -_306._ _Old Age_ - - The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er; - So calm are we when passions are no more. - For then we know how vain it was to boast - Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. - Clouds of affection from our younger eyes - Conceal that emptiness which age descries. - - The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d, - Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made: - Stronger by weakness, wiser men become - As they draw near to their eternal home. - Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view - That stand upon the threshold of the new. - - - -JOHN MILTON - -1608-1674 - - -_307._ _Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity_ - - It was the Winter wilde, - While the Heav’n-born-childe, - All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; - Nature in aw to him - Had doff’t her gawdy trim, - With her great Master so to sympathize: - It was no season then for her - To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. - - - Only with speeches fair - She woo’s the gentle Air - To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, - And on her naked shame, - Pollute with sinfull blame, - The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, - Confounded, that her Makers eyes - Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. - - But he her fears to cease, - Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, - She crown’d with Olive green, came softly sliding - Down through the turning sphear - His ready Harbinger, - With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, - And waving wide her mirtle wand, - She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. - - No War, or Battails sound - Was heard the World around, - The idle spear and shield were high up hung; - The hookèd Chariot stood - Unstain’d with hostile blood, - The Trumpet spake not to the armèd throng, - And Kings sate still with awfull eye, - As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. - - But peacefull was the night - Wherin the Prince of light - His raign of peace upon the earth began: - The Windes with wonder whist, - Smoothly the waters kist, - Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, - Who now hath quite forgot to rave, - While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. - - - The Stars with deep amaze - Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, - Bending one way their pretious influence, - And will not take their flight, - For all the morning light, - Or Lucifer that often warn’d them thence; - But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, - Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. - - And though the shady gloom - Had given day her room, - The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, - And hid his head for shame, - As his inferiour flame, - The new enlightn’d world no more should need; - He saw a greater Sun appear - Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. - - The Shepherds on the Lawn, - Or ere the point of dawn, - Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; - Full little thought they than, - That the mighty Pan - Was kindly com to live with them below; - Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, - Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. - - When such musick sweet - Their hearts and ears did greet, - As never was by mortall finger strook, - Divinely-warbled voice - Answering the stringèd noise, - As all their souls in blisfull rapture took - The Air such pleasure loth to lose, - With thousand echo’s still prolongs each heav’nly close. - - - Nature that heard such sound - Beneath the hollow round - Of Cynthia’s seat, the Airy region thrilling, - Now was almost won - To think her part was don, - And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; - She knew such harmony alone - Could hold all Heav’n and Earth in happier union. - - At last surrounds their sight - A Globe of circular light, - That with long beams the shame-fac’t night array’d, - The helmèd Cherubim - And sworded Seraphim, - Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, - Harping in loud and solemn quire, - With unexpressive notes to Heav’ns new-born Heir. - - Such musick (as ’tis said) - Before was never made, - But when of old the sons of morning sung, - While the Creator Great - His constellations set, - And the well-ballanc’t world on hinges hung, - And cast the dark foundations deep, - And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. - - Ring out ye Crystall sphears, - Once bless our human ears, - (If ye have power to touch our senses so) - And let your silver chime - Move in melodious time; - And let the Base of Heav’ns deep Organ blow - And with your ninefold harmony - Make up full consort to th’Angelike symphony. - - - For if such holy Song - Enwrap our fancy long, - Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, - And speckl’d vanity - Will sicken soon and die, - And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, - And Hell it self will pass away, - And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. - - Yea Truth, and Justice then - Will down return to men, - Th’enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, - And Mercy set between, - Thron’d in Celestiall sheen, - With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, - And Heav’n as at som festivall, - Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. - - But wisest Fate sayes no, - This must not yet be so, - The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, - That on the bitter cross - Must redeem our loss; - So both himself and us to glorifie: - Yet first to those ychain’d in sleep, - The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep, - - With such a horrid clang - As on mount Sinai rang - While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: - The agèd Earth agast - With terrour of that blast, - Shall from the surface to the center shake; - When at the worlds last session, - The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne. - - - And then at last our bliss - Full and perfect is, - But now begins; for from this happy day - Th’old Dragon under ground - In straiter limits bound, - Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway, - And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, - Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. - - The Oracles are dumm, - No voice or hideous humm - Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. - Apollo from his shrine - Can no more divine, - With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. - No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, - Inspire’s the pale-ey’d Priest from the prophetic cell. - - The lonely mountains o’re, - And the resounding shore, - A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; - From haunted spring, and dale - Edg’d with poplar pale, - The parting Genius is with sighing sent, - With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn - The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. - - In consecrated Earth, - And on the holy Hearth, - The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, - In Urns, and Altars round, - A drear, and dying sound - Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; - And the chill Marble seems to sweat, - While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. - - - Peor, and Baalim, - Forsake their Temples dim, - With that twise-batter’d god of Palestine, - And moonèd Ashtaroth, - Heav’ns Queen and Mother both, - Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, - The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, - In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. - - And sullen Moloch fled, - Hath left in shadows dred, - His burning Idol all of blackest hue, - In vain with Cymbals ring, - They call the grisly king, - In dismall dance about the furnace blue; - The brutish gods of Nile as fast, - Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. - - Nor is Osiris seen - In Memphian Grove, or Green, - Trampling the unshowr’d Grasse with lowings loud: - Nor can he be at rest - Within his sacred chest, - Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, - In vain with Timbrel’d Anthems dark - The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. - - He feels from Juda’s Land - The dredded Infants hand, - The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; - Nor all the gods beside, - Longer dare abide, - Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: - Our Babe to shew his Godhead true, - Can in his swadling bands controul the damnèd crew, - So when the Sun in bed, - Curtain’d with cloudy red, - Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, - The flocking shadows pale, - Troop to th’infernall jail, - Each fetter’d Ghost slips to his severall grave, - And the yellow-skirted Fayes, - Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov’d maze. - - But see the Virgin blest, - Hath laid her Babe to rest. - Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, - Heav’ns youngest teemèd Star, - Hath fixt her polisht Car, - Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending: - And all about the Courtly Stable, - Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable. - - -_308._ _On Time_ - - Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, - Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, - Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace; - And glut thy self with what thy womb devours, - Which is no more then what is false and vain, - And meerly mortal dross; - So little is our loss, - So little is thy gain. - For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d, - And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d, - Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss - With an individual kiss; - And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, - When every thing that is sincerely good - And perfectly divine, - With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine - About the supreme Throne - Of him, t’whose happy-making sight alone, - When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime, - Then all this Earthy grosnes quit, - Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit, - Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time. - - -_309._ _At a Solemn Musick_ - - Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy, - Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers, - Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ - Dead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce, - And to our high-rais’d phantasie present, - That undisturbèd Song of pure content, - Ay sung before the saphire-colour’d throne - To him that sits theron - With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily, - Where the bright Seraphim in burning row - Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow, - And the Cherubick host in thousand quires - Touch their immortal Harps of golden wires, - With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms, - Hymns devout and holy Psalms - Singing everlastingly; - That we on Earth with undiscording voice - May rightly answer that melodious noise; - As once we did, till disproportion’d sin - Jarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh din - Broke the fair musick that all creatures made - To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’d - In perfect Diapason, whilst they stood - In first obedience, and their state of good. - O may we soon again renew that Song, - And keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere long - To his celestial consort us unite, - To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light. - - -_310._ _L’Allegro_ - - Hence loathèd Melancholy - Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, - In Stygian Cave forlorn - ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy. - Find out som uncouth cell, - Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings, - And the night-Raven sings; - There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks, - As ragged as thy Locks, - In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. - But com thou Goddes fair and free, - In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne, - And by men, heart-easing Mirth, - Whom lovely Venus, at a birth - With two sister Graces more - To Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore; - Or whether (as som Sager sing) - The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring, - Zephir with Aurora playing, - As he met her once a Maying, - There on Beds of Violets blew, - And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew, - Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair, - So bucksom, blith, and debonair. - Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee - Jest and youthful Jollity, - Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, - Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles, - Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, - And love to live in dimple sleek; - Sport that wrincled Care derides, - And Laughter holding both his sides. - Com, and trip it as ye go - On the light fantastick toe, - And in thy right hand lead with thee, - The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; - And if I give thee honour due, - Mirth, admit me of thy crue - To live with her, and live with thee, - In unreprovèd pleasures free; - To hear the Lark begin his flight, - And singing startle the dull night, - From his watch-towre in the skies, - Till the dappled dawn doth rise; - Then to com in spight of sorrow, - And at my window bid good morrow, - Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine, - Or the twisted Eglantine. - While the Cock with lively din, - Scatters the rear of darknes thin, - And to the stack, or the Barn dore, - Stoutly struts his Dames before, - Oft listening how the Hounds and horn - Chearly rouse the slumbring morn, - From the side of som Hoar Hill, - Through the high wood echoing shrill. - Som time walking not unseen - By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green, - Right against the Eastern gate, - Wher the great Sun begins his state, - Rob’d in flames, and Amber light, - The clouds in thousand Liveries dight. - While the Plowman neer at hand, - Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land, - And the Milkmaid singeth blithe, - And the Mower whets his sithe, - And every Shepherd tells his tale - Under the Hawthorn in the dale. - Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures - Whilst the Lantskip round it measures, - Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray, - Where the nibling flocks do stray, - Mountains on whose barren brest - The labouring clouds do often rest: - Meadows trim with Daisies pide, - Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide. - Towers, and Battlements it sees - Boosom’d high in tufted Trees, - Wher perhaps som beauty lies, - The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. - Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes, - From betwixt two agèd Okes, - Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, - Are at their savory dinner set - Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes, - Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; - And then in haste her Bowre she leaves, - With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves; - Or if the earlier season lead - To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead, - Som times with secure delight - The up-land Hamlets will invite, - When the merry Bells ring round, - And the jocond rebecks sound - To many a youth, and many a maid, - Dancing in the Chequer’d shade; - And young and old com forth to play - On a Sunshine Holyday, - Till the live-long day-light fail, - Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, - With stones told of many a feat, - How Faery Mab the junkets eat, - She was pincht, and pull’d she sed, - And he by Friars Lanthorn led - Tells how the drudging Goblin swet, - To ern his Cream-bowle duly set, - When in one night, ere glimps of morn, - His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn - That ten day-labourers could not end, - Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend, - And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length, - Basks at the fire his hairy strength; - And Crop-full out of dores he flings, - Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings. - Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep, - By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep. - Towred Cities please us then, - And the busie humm of men, - Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold, - In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold, - With store of Ladies, whose bright eies - Rain influence, and judge the prise - Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend - To win her Grace, whom all commend. - There let Hymen oft appear - In Saffron robe, with Taper clear, - And pomp, and feast, and revelry, - With mask, and antique Pageantry, - Such sights as youthfull Poets dream - On Summer eeves by haunted stream. - Then to the well-trod stage anon, - If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on, - Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe, - Warble his native Wood-notes wilde, - And ever against eating Cares, - Lap me in soft Lydian Aires, - Married to immortal verse - Such as the meeting soul may pierce - In notes, with many a winding bout - Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out, - With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, - The melting voice through mazes running; - Untwisting all the chains that ty - The hidden soul of harmony. - That Orpheus self may heave his head - From golden slumber on a bed - Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear - Such streins as would have won the ear - Of Pluto, to have quite set free - His half regain’d Eurydice. - These delights, if thou canst give, - Mirth with thee, I mean to live. - - -_311._ _Il Penseroso_ - - Hence vain deluding joyes, - The brood of folly without father bred, - How little you bested, - Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes; - Dwell in som idle brain, - And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, - As thick and numberless - As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams, - Or likest hovering dreams - The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train. - But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy, - Hail divinest Melancholy, - Whose Saintly visage is too bright - To hit the Sense of human sight; - And therfore to our weaker view, - Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue. - Black, but such as in esteem, - Prince Memnons sister might beseem, - Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that strove - To set her beauties praise above - The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended. - Yet thou art higher far descended, - Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore, - To solitary Saturn bore; - His daughter she (in Saturns raign, - Such mixture was not held a stain) - Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades - He met her, and in secret shades - Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, - Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. - Com pensive Nun, devout and pure, - Sober, stedfast, and demure, - All in a robe of darkest grain, - Flowing with majestick train, - And sable stole of Cipres Lawn, - Over thy decent shoulders drawn. - Com, but keep thy wonted state, - With eev’n step, and musing gate, - And looks commercing with the skies, - Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: - There held in holy passion still, - Forget thy self to Marble, till - With a sad Leaden downward cast, - Thou fix them on the earth as fast. - And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, - Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, - And hears the Muses in a ring, - Ay round about Joves Altar sing. - And adde to these retirèd Leasure, - That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure; - But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, - Him that yon soars on golden wing, - Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, - The Cherub Contemplation, - And the mute Silence hist along, - ’Less Philomel will daign a Song, - In her sweetest, saddest plight, - Smoothing the rugged brow of night, - While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke, - Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke; - Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly, - Most musicall, most melancholy! - Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among, - I woo to hear thy eeven-Song; - And missing thee, I walk unseen - On the dry smooth-shaven Green, - To behold the wandring Moon, - Riding neer her highest noon, - Like one that had bin led astray - Through the Heav’ns wide pathles way; - And oft, as if her head she bow’d, - Stooping through a fleecy cloud. - Oft on a Plat of rising ground, - I hear the far-off Curfeu sound - Over som wide-water’d shoar, - Swinging slow with sullen roar; - Or if the Ayr will not permit, - Som still removèd place will fit. - Where glowing Embers through the room - Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, - Far from all resort of mirth, - Save the Cricket on the hearth, - Or the Belmans drousie charm, - To bless the dores from nightly harm: - Or let my Lamp at midnight hour, - Be seen in som high lonely Towr, - Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, - With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear - The spirit of Plato to unfold - What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold - The immortal mind that hath forsook - Her mansion in this fleshly nook: - And of those Dæmons that are found - In fire, air, flood, or under ground, - Whose power hath a true consent - With Planet, or with Element. - Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy - In Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by, - Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line, - Or the tale of Troy divine. - Or what (though rare) of later age, - Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage. - But, O sad Virgin, that thy power - Might raise Musæeus from his bower - Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing - Such notes as warbled to the string, - Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek, - And made Hell grant what Love did seek. - Or call up him that left half told - The story of Cambuscan bold, - Of Camball, and of Algarsife, - And who had Canace to wife, - That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass, - And of the wondrous Hors of Brass, - On which the Tartar King did ride; - And if ought els, great Bards beside, - In sage and solemn tunes have sung, - Of Turneys and of Trophies hung; - Of Forests, and inchantments drear, - Where more is meant then meets the ear. - Thus night oft see me in thy pale career, - Till civil-suited Morn appeer, - Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont, - With the Attick Boy to hunt, - But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud, - While rocking Winds are Piping loud, - Or usher’d with a shower still, - When the gust hath blown his fill, - Ending on the russling Leaves, - With minute drops from off the Eaves. - And when the Sun begins to fling - His flaring beams, me Goddes bring - To archèd walks of twilight groves, - And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, - Of Pine, or monumental Oake, - Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke, - Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, - Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt. - There in close covert by som Brook, - Where no profaner eye may look, - Hide me from Day’s garish eie, - While the Bee with Honied thie, - That at her flowry work doth sing, - And the Waters murmuring - With such consort as they keep, - Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep; - And let som strange mysterious dream, - Wave at his Wings in Airy stream, - Of lively portrature display’d, - Softly on my eye-lids laid. - And as I wake, sweet musick breath - Above, about, or underneath, - Sent by som spirit to mortals good, - Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood. - But let my due feet never fail, - To walk the studious Cloysters pale, - And love the high embowèd Roof, - With antick Pillars massy proof, - And storied Windows richly dight, - Casting a dimm religious light. - There let the pealing Organ blow, - To the full voic’d Quire below, - In Service high, and Anthems cleer, - As may with sweetnes, through mine ear, - Dissolve me into extasies, - And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes. - And may at last my weary age - Find out the peacefull hermitage, - The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell, - Where I may sit and rightly spell - Of every Star that Heav’n doth shew, - And every Herb that sips the dew; - Till old experience do attain - To somthing like Prophetic strain. - These pleasures Melancholy give, - And I with thee will choose to live. - - -_312._ _From ‘Arcades’_ - - O’re the smooth enameld green - Where no print of step hath been, - Follow me as I sing, - And touch the warbled string. - Under the shady roof - Of branching Elm Star-proof, - Follow me, - I will bring you where she sits - Clad in splendor as befits - Her deity. - Such a rural Queen - All Arcadia hath not seen. - - -_From ‘Comus’_ - - -_313._ _i_ - - The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, - Now the top of Heav’n doth hold, - And the gilded Car of Day, - His glowing Axle doth allay - In the steep Atlantick stream, - And the slope Sun his upward beam - Shoots against the dusky Pole, - Pacing toward the other gole - Of his Chamber in the East. - Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, - Midnight shout, and revelry, - Tipsie dance, and Jollity. - Braid your Locks with rosie Twine - Dropping odours, dropping Wine. - Rigor now is gon to bed, - And Advice with scrupulous head, - Strict Age, and sowre Severity, - With their grave Saws in slumber ly. - We that are of purer fire - Imitate the Starry Quire, - Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, - Lead in swift round the Months and Years. - The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove - Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, - And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, - Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; - By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, - The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, - Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: - What hath night to do with sleep? - Night hath better sweets to prove, - Venus now wakes, and wak’ns Love.... - Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, - In a light fantastick round. - - -_314._ _ii_ - -ECHO - - Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseen - Within thy airy shell - By slow Meander’s margent green, - And in the violet imbroider’d vale - Where the love-lorn Nightingale - Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well. - Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair - That likest thy Narcissus are? - O if thou have - Hid them in som flowry Cave, - Tell me but where - Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear! - So maist thou be translated to the skies, - And give resounding grace to all Heav’ns Harmonies? - - -_315. iii_ - -SABRINA - -_The Spirit sings:_ - - Sabrina fair - Listen where thou art sitting - Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, - In twisted braids of Lillies knitting - The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, - Listen for dear honour’s sake, - Goddess of the silver lake, - Listen and save! - - Listen and appear to us, - In name of great Oceanus, - By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace, - And Tethys grave majestick pace, - By hoary Nereus wrincled look, - And the Carpathian wisards hook, - By scaly Tritons winding shell, - And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell, - By Leucothea’s lovely hands, - And her son that rules the strands, - By Thetis tinsel-slipper’d feet, - And the Songs of Sirens sweet, - By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb, - And fair Ligea’s golden comb, - Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks - Sleeking her soft alluring locks, - By all the Nymphs that nightly dance - Upon thy streams with wily glance, - Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head - From thy coral-pav’n bed, - And bridle in thy headlong wave, - Till thou our summons answered have. - Listen and save! - -_Sabrina replies:_ - - By the rushy-fringèd bank, - Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, - My sliding Chariot stayes, - Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen - Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green - That in the channell strayes, - Whilst from off the waters fleet - Thus I set my printless feet - O’re the Cowslips Velvet head, - That bends not as I tread, - Gentle swain at thy request - I am here. - - -_316._ _iv_ - -_The Spirit epiloguizes:_ - - To the Ocean now I fly, - And those happy climes that ly - Where day never shuts his eye, - Up in the broad fields of the sky: - There I suck the liquid ayr - All amidst the Gardens fair - Of Hesperus, and his daughters three - That sing about the golden tree: - Along the crispèd shades and bowres - Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, - The Graces, and the rosie-boosom’d Howres, - Thither all their bounties bring, - That there eternal Summer dwels, - And West winds, with musky wing - About the cedar’n alleys fling - Nard, and Cassia’s balmy smels. - Iris there with humid bow, - Waters the odorous banks that blow - Flowers of more mingled hew - Than her purfl’d scarf can shew, - And drenches with Elysian dew - (List mortals, if your ears be true) - Beds of Hyacinth, and roses - Where young Adonis oft reposes, - Waxing well of his deep wound - In slumber soft, and on the ground - Sadly sits th’ Assyrian Queen; - But far above in spangled sheen - Celestial Cupid her fam’d son advanc’t, - Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc’t - After her wandring labours long, - Till free consent the gods among - Make her his eternal Bride, - And from her fair unspotted side - Two blissful twins are to be born, - Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. - But now my task is smoothly don, - I can fly, or I can run - Quickly to the green earths end, - Where the bow’d welkin slow doth bend, - And from thence can soar as soon - To the corners of the Moon. - Mortals that would follow me, - Love vertue, she alone is free. - She can teach ye how to clime - Higher then the Spheary chime; - Or if Vertue feeble were, - Heav’n it self would stoop to her. - - -_317._ _Lycidas_ - -_A Lament for a friend drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish -Seas, 1637_ - - Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more - Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, - I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, - And with forc’d fingers rude, - Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. - Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, - Compels me to disturb your season due: - For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime - Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: - Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew - Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. - He must not flote upon his watry bear - Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, - Without the meed of som melodious tear. - Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, - That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, - Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. - Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, - So may som gentle Muse - With lucky words favour my destin’d Urn, - And as he passes turn, - And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. - For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, - Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. - Together both, ere the high Lawns appear’d - Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, - We drove a field, and both together heard - What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, - Batt’ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, - Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev’ning, bright - Toward Heav’ns descent had slop’d his westering wheel. - Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, - Temper’d to th’Oaten Flute; - Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with clov’n heel, - From the glad sound would not be absent long, - And old Damætas lov’d to hear our song - But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, - Now thou art gon, and never must return! - Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, - With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o’regrown, - And all their echoes mourn. - The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, - Shall now no more be seen, - Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. - As killing as the Canker to the Rose, - Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, - Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, - When first the White thorn blows; - Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. - Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep - Clos’d o’re the head of your lov’d Lycidas? - For neither were ye playing on the steep, - Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, - Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, - Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: - Ay me, I fondly dream! - Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? - What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, - The Muse her self, for her inchanting son - Whom Universal nature did lament, - When by the rout that made the hideous roar, - His goary visage down the stream was sent, - Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. - Alas! what boots it with uncessant care - To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, - And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, - Were it not better don as others use, - To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, - Or with the tangles of Neæra’s hair? - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise - (That last infirmity of Noble mind) - To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; - But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, - And think to burst out into sudden blaze, - Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorrèd shears, - And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, - Phœbus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears; - Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, - Nor in the glistering foil - Set off to th’world, nor in broad rumour lies, - But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, - And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; - As he pronounces lastly on each deed, - Of so much fame in Heav’n expect thy meed. - O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour’d floud, - Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocall reeds, - That strain I heard was of a higher mood: - But now my Oate proceeds, - And listens to the Herald of the Sea - That came in Neptune’s plea, - He ask’d the Waves, and ask’d the Fellon winds, - What hard mishap hath doom’d this gentle swain? - And question’d every gust of rugged wings - That blows from off each beakèd Promontory, - They knew not of his story, - And sage Hippotades their answer brings, - That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d, - The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, - Sleek Panope with all her sisters play’d. - It was that fatall and perfidious Bark - Built in th’eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark, - That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. - Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, - His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, - Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge - Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe. - Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? - Last came, and last did go, - The Pilot of the Galilean lake, - Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, - (The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) - He shook his Miter’d locks, and stern bespake, - How well could I have spar’d for thee, young swain, - Anow of such as for their bellies sake, - Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? - Of other care they little reck’ning make, - Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, - And shove away the worthy bidden guest. - Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold - A Sheep-hook, or have learn’d ought els the least - That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! - What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; - And when they list, their lean and flashy songs - Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, - The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, - But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, - Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: - Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw - Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, - But that two-handed engine at the door, - Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. - Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, - That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, - And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast - Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. - Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, - Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, - On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, - Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, - That on the green terf suck the honied showres, - And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. - Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. - The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, - The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, - The glowing Violet. - The Musk-rose, and the well attir’d Woodbine. - With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, - And every flower that sad embroidery wears: - Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, - And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, - To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. - For so to interpose a little ease, - Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. - Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas - Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, - Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, - Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide - Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world; - Or whether thou to our moist vows deny’d, - Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old, - Where the great vision of the guarded Mount - Looks toward Namancos and Bayona’s hold; - Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. - And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. - Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, - For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, - Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, - So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed, - And yet anon repairs his drooping head, - And tricks his beams, and with new spangled Ore, - Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: - So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, - Through the dear might of him that walk’d the waves - Where other groves, and other streams along, - With Nectar pure his oozy Lock’s he laves, - And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, - In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. - There entertain him all the Saints above, - In solemn troops, and sweet Societies - That sing, and singing in their glory move, - And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. - Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; - Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, - In thy large recompense, and shalt be good - To all that wander in that perilous flood. - Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills, - While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, - He touch’d the tender stops of various Quills, - With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: - And now the Sun had stretch’d out all the hills, - And now was dropt into the Western bay; - At last he rose, and twitch’d his Mantle blew: - To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new. - - -_317._* _To the Lady Margaret Ley_ - - Daughter to that good Earl, once President - Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury, - Who liv’d in both, unstain’d with gold or fee, - And left them both, more in himself content, - Till the sad breaking of that Parlament - Broke him, as that dishonest victory - At Chæronèa, fatal to liberty - Kil’d with report that Old man eloquent, - Though later born, then to have known the dayes - Wherin your Father flourisht, yet by you - Madam, me thinks I see him living yet; - So well your words his noble vertues praise, - That all both judge you to relate them true, - And to possess them, Honour’d Margaret. - - -_318._ _On His Blindness_ - - When I consider how my light is spent, - E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide, - And that one Talent which is death to hide, - Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent - To serve therewith my Maker, and present - My true account, least he returning chide, - Doth God exact day-labour, light deny’d, - I fondly ask; But patience to prevent - That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need - Either man’s work or his own gifts, who best - Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State - Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed - And post o’re Land and Ocean without rest: - They also serve who only stand and waite. - - -_319._ _To Mr. Lawrence_ - - Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son, - Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire, - Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire - Help wast a sullen day; what may be won - From the hard Season gaining: time will run - On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire - The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire - The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow’d nor spun. - What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, - Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise - To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice - Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre? - He who of those delights can judge, and spare - To interpose them oft, is not unwise. - - -_320._ _To Cyriack Skinner_ - - Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench - Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause - Pronounc’t and in his volumes taught our Lawes, - Which others at their Barr so often wrench: - To day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench - In mirth, that after no repenting drawes; - Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause, - And what the Swede intend, and what the French. - To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know - Toward solid good what leads the nearest way; - For other things mild Heav’n a time ordains, - And disapproves that care, though wise in show, - That with superfluous burden loads the day, - And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. - - -_321._ _On His Deceased Wife_ - - Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint - Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, - Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave, - Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint. - Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint, - Purification in the old Law did save, - And such, as yet once more I trust to have - Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, - Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: - Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight, - Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d - So clear, as in no face with more delight. - But O as to embrace me she enclin’d - I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night. - - -_322._ _Light_ - - Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born, - Or of th’ Eternal Coeternal beam - May I express thee unblam’d? since God is light, - And never but in unapproachèd light - Dwelt from Eternitie, dwelt then in thee, - Bright effluence of bright essence increate. - Or hear’st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, - Whose Fountain who shall tell? before the Sun, - Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice - Of God, as with a Mantle didst invest - The rising world of waters dark and deep, - Won from the void and formless infinite. - Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing, - Escap’t the Stygian Pool, though long detain’d - In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight - Through utter and through middle darkness borne - With other notes then to th’ Orphean Lyre - I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, - Taught by the heav’nly Muse to venture down - The dark descent, and up to reascend, - Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, - And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou - Revisit’st not these eyes, that rowle in vain - To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; - So thick a drop serene hath quencht thir Orbs, - Or dim suffusion veild. Yet not the more - Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt - Cleer Spring, or shadie Grove, or Sunnie Hill, - Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief - Thee _Sion_ and the flowrie Brooks beneath - That wash thy hallowd feet, and warbling flow, - Nightly I visit: nor somtimes forget - Those other two equal’d with me in Fate, - So were I equal’d with them in renown. - Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides, - And Tiresias and Phineus Prophets old. - Then feed on thoughts, that voluntarie move - Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful Bird - Sings darkling, and in shadiest Covert hid - Tunes her nocturnal Note. Thus with the Year - Seasons return, but not to me returns - Day, or the sweet approach of Ev’n or Morn, - Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summers Rose, - Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; - But cloud in stead, and ever-during dark - Surrounds me, from the chearful waies of men - Cut off, and for the Book of knowledg fair - Presented with a Universal blanc - Of Natures works to mee expung’d and ras’d, - And wisdome at one entrance quite shut out. - So much the rather thou Celestial light - Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers - Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence - Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell - Of things invisible to mortal sight. - - -_From ‘Samson Agonistes’_ - - -_323._ _i_ - - Oh how comely it is and how reviving - To the Spirits of just men long opprest! - When God into the hands of thir deliverer - Puts invincible might - To quell the mighty of the Earth, th’ oppressour, - The brute and boist’rous force of violent men - Hardy and industrious to support - Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue - The righteous and all such as honour Truth; - He all thir Ammunition - And feats of War defeats - With plain Heroic magnitude of mind - And celestial vigour arm’d, - Thir Armories and Magazins contemns, - Renders them useless, while - With wingèd expedition - Swift as the lightning glance he executes - His errand on the wicked, who surpris’d - Lose thir defence distracted and amaz’d. - - -_324._ _ii_ - - All is best, though we oft doubt, - What th’ unsearchable dispose - Of highest wisdom brings about, - And ever best found in the close. - Oft he seems to hide his face, - But unexpectedly returns - And to his faithful Champion hath in place - Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns - And all that band them to resist - His uncontroulable intent. - His servants he with new acquist - Of true experience from this great event - With peace and consolation hath dismist, - And calm of mind all passion spent. - - - - -SIR JOHN SUCKLING - -1609-1642 - - -_325._ _A Doubt of Martyrdom_ - - O for some honest lover’s ghost, - Some kind unbodied post - Sent from the shades below! - I strangely long to know - Whether the noble chaplets wear - Those that their mistress’ scorn did bear - Or those that were used kindly. - - For whatsoe’er they tell us here - To make those sufferings dear, - ’Twill there, I fear, be found - That to the being crown’d - T’ have loved alone will not suffice, - Unless we also have been wise - And have our loves enjoy’d. - - What posture can we think him in - That, here unloved, again - Departs, and ’s thither gone - Where each sits by his own? - Or how can that Elysium be - Where I my mistress still must see - Circled in other’s arms? - - - For there the judges all are just, - And Sophonisba must - Be his whom she held dear, - Not his who loved her here. - The sweet Philoclea, since she died, - Lies by her Pirocles his side, - Not by Amphialus. - - Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough - For difference crowns the brow - Of those kind souls that were - The noble martyrs here: - And if that be the only odds - (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods, - Give me the woman here! - - -_326._ _The Constant Lover_ - - Out upon it, I have loved - Three whole days together! - And am like to love three more, - If it prove fair weather. - - Time shall moult away his wings - Ere he shall discover - In the whole wide world again - Such a constant lover. - - But the spite on ’t is, no praise - Is due at all to me: - Love with me had made no stays, - Had it any been but she. - - Had it any been but she, - And that very face, - There had been at least ere this - A dozen dozen in her place. - - -_327._ _Why so Pale and Wan?_ - - Why so pale and wan, fond lover? - Prithee, why so pale? - Will, when looking well can’t move her, - Looking ill prevail? - Prithee, why so pale? - - Why so dull and mute, young sinner? - Prithee, why so mute? - Will, when speaking well can’t win her, - Saying nothing do’t? - Prithee, why so mute? - - Quit, quit for shame! This will not move; - This cannot take her. - If of herself she will not love, - Nothing can make her: - The devil take her! - - -_328._ _When, Dearest, I but think of Thee_ - - When, dearest, I but think of thee, - Methinks all things that lovely be - Are present, and my soul delighted: - For beauties that from worth arise - Are like the grace of deities, - Still present with us, tho’ unsighted. - - Thus while I sit and sigh the day - With all his borrow’d lights away, - Till night’s black wings do overtake me, - Thinking on thee, thy beauties then, - As sudden lights do sleepy men, - So they by their bright rays awake me. - - - Thus absence dies, and dying proves - No absence can subsist with loves - That do partake of fair perfection: - Since in the darkest night they may - By love’s quick motion find a way - To see each other by reflection. - - The waving sea can with each flood - Bathe some high promont that hath stood - Far from the main up in the river: - O think not then but love can do - As much! for that’s an ocean too, - Which flows not every day, but ever! - - - - -SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE - -1608-1666 - - -_329._ _A Rose_ - - Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon. - What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? - Thou’rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, - And passing proud a little colour makes thee. - If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, - Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane; - For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves, - The sentence of thy early death contain. - Some clown’s coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, - If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn; - And many Herods lie in wait each hour - To murder thee as soon as thou art born-- - Nay, force thy bud to blow--their tyrant breath - Anticipating life, to hasten death! - - - - -WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT - -1611-1643 - - -_330._ _To Chloe_ - -_Who for his sake wished herself younger_ - - There are two births; the one when light - First strikes the new awaken’d sense; - The other when two souls unite, - And we must count our life from thence: - When you loved me and I loved you - Then both of us were born anew. - - Love then to us new souls did give - And in those souls did plant new powers; - Since when another life we live, - The breath we breathe is his, not ours: - Love makes those young whom age doth chill, - And whom he finds young keeps young still. - - -_331._ _Falsehood_ - - Still do the stars impart their light - To those that travel in the night; - Still time runs on, nor doth the hand - Or shadow on the dial stand; - The streams still glide and constant are: - Only thy mind - Untrue I find, - Which carelessly - Neglects to be - Like stream or shadow, hand or star. - - Fool that I am! I do recall - My words, and swear thou’rt like them all, - Thou seem’st like stars to nourish fire, - But O how cold is thy desire! - And like the hand upon the brass - Thou point’st at me - In mockery; - If I come nigh - Shade-like thou’lt fly, - And as the stream with murmur pass. - - -_332._ _On the Queen’s Return from the Low Countries_ - - Hallow the threshold, crown the posts anew! - The day shall have its due. - Twist all our victories into one bright wreath, - On which let honour breathe; - Then throw it round the temples of our Queen! - ’Tis she that must preserve those glories green. - - When greater tempests than on sea before - Received her on the shore; - When she was shot at ‘for the King’s own good’ - By legions hired to blood; - How bravely did she do, how bravely bear! - And show’d, though they durst rage, she durst not fear. - - Courage was cast about her like a dress - Of solemn comeliness: - A gathered mind and an untroubled face - Did give her dangers grace: - Thus, arm’d with innocence, secure they move - Whose highest ‘treason’ is but highest love. - - -_333._ _On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that died suddenly_ - - She who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, - Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, - Accounted nothing death but t’ be reprieved, - And died as free from sickness as she lived. - Others are dragg’d away, or must be driven, - She only saw her time and stept to Heaven; - Where seraphims view all her glories o’er, - As one return’d that had been there before. - For while she did this lower world adorn, - Her body seem’d rather assumed than born; - So rarified, advanced, so pure and whole, - That body might have been another’s soul; - And equally a miracle it were - That she could die, or that she could live here. - - - - -JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE - -1612-1650 - - -_334._ _I’ll never love Thee more_ - - My dear and only Love, I pray - That little world of thee - Be govern’d by no other sway - Than purest monarchy; - For if confusion have a part - (Which virtuous souls abhor), - And hold a synod in thine heart, - I’ll never love thee more. - - Like Alexander I will reign, - And I will reign alone; - My thoughts did evermore disdain - A rival on my throne. - He either fears his fate too much, - Or his deserts are small, - That dares not put it to the touch, - To gain or lose it all. - - And in the empire of thine heart, - Where I should solely be, - If others do pretend a part - Or dare to vie with me, - Or if _Committees_ thou erect, - And go on such a score, - I’ll laugh and sing at thy neglect, - And never love thee more. - - But if thou wilt prove faithful then, - And constant of thy word, - I’ll make thee glorious by my pen - And famous by my sword; - I’ll serve thee in such noble ways - Was never heard before; - I’ll crown and deck thee all with bays, - And love thee more and more. - - - - -THOMAS JORDAN - -1612?-1685 - - -_335._ _Coronemus nos Rosis antequam marcescant_ - - Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, - With claret and sherry, theorbo and voice! - The changeable world to our joy is unjust, - All treasure’s uncertain, - Then down with your dust! - In frolics dispose your pounds, shillings, and pence, - For we shall be nothing a hundred years hence. - - - We’ll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, - Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: - Fish-dinners will make a man spring like a flea, - Dame Venus, love’s lady, - Was born of the sea; - With her and with Bacchus we’ll tickle the sense, - For we shall be past it a hundred years hence. - - Your most beautiful bride who with garlands is crown’d - And kills with each glance as she treads on the ground, - Whose lightness and brightness doth shine in such splendour - That none but the stars - Are thought fit to attend her, - Though now she be pleasant and sweet to the sense, - Will be damnable mouldy a hundred years hence. - - Then why should we turmoil in cares and in fears, - Turn all our tranquill’ty to sighs and to tears? - Let’s eat, drink, and play till the worms do corrupt us, - ’Tis certain, _Post mortem_ - _Nulla voluptas_. - For health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning and sense, - Must all come to nothing a hundred years hence. - - - - -RICHARD CRASHAW - -1613?-1649 - - -_336._ _Wishes to His Supposed Mistress_ - - Whoe’er she be-- - That not impossible She - That shall command my heart and me: - - Where’er she lie, - Lock’d up from mortal eye - In shady leaves of destiny: - - - Till that ripe birth - Of studied Fate stand forth, - And teach her fair steps to our earth: - - Till that divine - Idea take a shrine - Of crystal flesh, through which to shine: - - Meet you her, my Wishes, - Bespeak her to my blisses, - And be ye call’d my absent kisses. - - I wish her Beauty, - That owes not all its duty - To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie: - - Something more than - Taffeta or tissue can, - Or rampant feather, or rich fan. - - A Face, that’s best - By its own beauty drest, - And can alone commend the rest. - - A Face, made up - Out of no other shop - Than what Nature’s white hand sets ope. - - A Cheek, where youth - And blood, with pen of truth, - Write what the reader sweetly ru’th. - - A Cheek, where grows - More than a morning rose, - Which to no box his being owes. - - - Lips, where all day - A lover’s kiss may play, - Yet carry nothing thence away. - - Looks, that oppress - Their richest tires, but dress - And clothe their simplest nakedness. - - Eyes, that displace - The neighbour diamond, and outface - That sunshine by their own sweet grace. - - Tresses, that wear - Jewels but to declare - How much themselves more precious are: - - Whose native ray - Can tame the wanton day - Of gems that in their bright shades play. - - Each ruby there, - Or pearl that dare appear, - Be its own blush, be its own tear. - - A well-tamed Heart, - For whose more noble smart - Love may be long choosing a dart. - - Eyes, that bestow - Full quivers on love’s bow, - Yet pay less arrows than they owe. - - Smiles, that can warm - The blood, yet teach a charm, - That chastity shall take no harm. - - - Blushes, that bin - The burnish of no sin, - Nor flames of aught too hot within. - - Joys, that confess - Virtue their mistress, - And have no other head to dress. - - Fears, fond and slight - As the coy bride’s, when night - First does the longing lover right. - - Days, that need borrow - No part of their good-morrow - From a fore-spent night of sorrow. - - Days, that in spite - Of darkness, by the light - Of a clear mind, are day all night. - - Nights, sweet as they, - Made short by lovers’ play, - Yet long by th’ absence of the day. - - Life, that dares send - A challenge to his end, - And when it comes, say, ‘Welcome, friend!’ - - Sydneian showers - Of sweet discourse, whose powers - Can crown old Winter’s head with flowers. - - Soft silken hours, - Open suns, shady bowers; - ’Bove all, nothing within that lowers. - - - Whate’er delight - Can make Day’s forehead bright, - Or give down to the wings of Night. - - I wish her store - Of worth may leave her poor - Of wishes; and I wish--no more. - - Now, if Time knows - That Her, whose radiant brows - Weave them a garland of my vows; - - Her, whose just bays - My future hopes can raise, - A trophy to her present praise; - - Her, that dares be - What these lines wish to see; - I seek no further, it is She. - - ’Tis She, and here, - Lo! I unclothe and clear - My Wishes’ cloudy character. - - May she enjoy it - Whose merit dare apply it, - But modesty dares still deny it! - - Such worth as this is - Shall fix my flying Wishes, - And determine them to kisses. - - Let her full glory, - My fancies, fly before ye; - Be ye my fictions--but her story. - - -_337._ _The Weeper_ - - Hail, sister springs, - Parents of silver-footed rills! - Ever bubbling things, - Thawing crystal, snowy hills! - Still spending, never spent; I mean - Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. - - Heavens thy fair eyes be; - Heavens of ever-falling stars; - ’Tis seed-time still with thee, - And stars thou sow’st whose harvest dares - Promise the earth to countershine - Whatever makes Heaven’s forehead fine. - - Every morn from hence - A brisk cherub something sips - Whose soft influence - Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips; - Then to his music: and his song - Tastes of this breakfast all day long. - - When some new bright guest - Takes up among the stars a room, - And Heaven will make a feast, - Angels with their bottles come, - And draw from these full eyes of thine - Their Master’s water, their own wine. - - The dew no more will weep - The primrose’s pale cheek to deck; - The dew no more will sleep - Nuzzled in the lily’s neck: - Much rather would it tremble here, - And leave them both to be thy tear. - - - When sorrow would be seen - In her brightest majesty, - --For she is a Queen-- - Then is she drest by none but thee: - Then and only then she wears - Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears. - - Not in the evening’s eyes, - When they red with weeping are - For the Sun that dies, - Sits Sorrow with a face so fair. - Nowhere but here did ever meet - Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. - - Does the night arise? - Still thy tears do fall and fall. - Does night lose her eyes? - Still the fountain weeps for all. - Let day and night do what they will, - Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still. - - Not _So long she lived_ - Will thy tomb report of thee; - But _So long she grieved_: - Thus must we date thy memory. - Others by days, by months, by years, - Measure their ages, thou by tears. - - Say, ye bright brothers, - The fugitive sons of those fair eyes - Your fruitful mothers, - What make you here? What hopes can ’tice - You to be born? What cause can borrow - You from those nests of noble sorrow? - - - Whither away so fast - For sure the sordid earth - Your sweetness cannot taste, - Nor does the dust deserve your birth. - Sweet, whither haste you then? O say, - Why you trip so fast away? - - _We go not to seek_ - _The darlings of Aurora’s bed,_ - _The rose’s modest cheek,_ - _Nor the violet’s humble head._ - _No such thing: we go to meet_ - _A worthier object--our Lord’s feet._ - - -_338._ _A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa_ - - Love, thou art absolute, sole Lord - Of life and death. To prove the word, - We’ll now appeal to none of all - Those thy old soldiers, great and tall, - Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down - With strong arms their triumphant crown: - Such as could with lusty breath - Speak loud, unto the face of death, - Their great Lord’s glorious name; to none - Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne - For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat: - We’ll see Him take a private seat, - And make His mansion in the mild - And milky soul of a soft child. - - - Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name - Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame - Life should so long play with that breath - Which spent can buy so brave a death. - She never undertook to know - What death with love should have to do. - Nor has she e’er yet understood - Why, to show love, she should shed blood; - Yet, though she cannot tell you why, - She can love, and she can die. - Scarce has she blood enough to make - A guilty sword blush for her sake; - Yet has a heart dares hope to prove - How much less strong is death than love.... - - Since ’tis not to be had at home, - She’ll travel for a martyrdom. - No home for her, confesses she, - But where she may a martyr be. - She’ll to the Moors, and trade with them - For this unvalued diadem; - She offers them her dearest breath, - With Christ’s name in ’t, in change for death: - She’ll bargain with them, and will give - Them God, and teach them how to live - In Him; or, if they this deny, - For Him she’ll teach them how to die. - So shall she leave amongst them sown - Her Lord’s blood, or at least her own. - - Farewell then, all the world, adieu! - Teresa is no more for you. - Farewell all pleasures, sports, and joys, - Never till now esteemèd toys! - - - Farewell whatever dear may be-- - Mother’s arms, or father’s knee! - Farewell house, and farewell home! - She’s for the Moors and Martyrdom. - - Sweet, not so fast; lo! thy fair spouse, - Whom thou seek’st with so swift vows, - Calls thee back, and bids thee come - T’ embrace a milder martyrdom.... - - O how oft shalt thou complain - Of a sweet and subtle pain! - Of intolerable joys! - Of a death, in which who dies - Loves his death, and dies again, - And would for ever so be slain; - And lives and dies, and knows not why - To live, but that he still may die! - How kindly will thy gentle heart - Kiss the sweetly-killing dart! - And close in his embraces keep - Those delicious wounds, that weep - Balsam, to heal themselves with thus, - When these thy deaths, so numerous, - Shall all at once die into one, - And melt thy soul’s sweet mansion; - Like a soft lump of incense, hasted - By too hot a fire, and wasted - Into perfuming clouds, so fast - Shalt thou exhale to heaven at last - In a resolving sigh, and then,-- - O what? Ask not the tongues of men. - - Angels cannot tell; suffice, - Thyself shalt feel thine own full joys, - And hold them fast for ever there. - So soon as thou shalt first appear, - The moon of maiden stars, thy white - Mistress, attended by such bright - Souls as thy shining self, shall come, - And in her first ranks make thee room; - Where, ’mongst her snowy family, - Immortal welcomes wait for thee. - O what delight, when she shall stand - And teach thy lips heaven, with her hand, - On which thou now may’st to thy wishes - Heap up thy consecrated kisses! - What joy shall seize thy soul, when she, - Bending her blessèd eyes on thee, - Those second smiles of heaven, shall dart - Her mild rays through thy melting heart! - - Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee. - Glad at their own home now to meet thee. - All thy good works which went before, - And waited for thee at the door, - Shall own thee there; and all in one - Weave a constellation - Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, - Shall build up thy triumphant brows. - All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, - And thy pains sit bright upon thee: - All thy sorrows here shall shine, - And thy sufferings be divine. - Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, - And wrongs repent to diadems. - Even thy deaths shall live, and new - Dress the soul which late they slew. - Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars - As keep account of the Lamb’s wars. - - Those rare works, where thou shalt leave writ - Love’s noble history, with wit - Taught thee by none but Him, while here - They feed our souls, shall clothe thine there. - Each heavenly word by whose hid flame - Our hard hearts shall strike fire, the same - Shall flourish on thy brows, and be - Both fire to us and flame to thee; - Whose light shall live bright in thy face - By glory, in our hearts by grace. - Thou shalt look round about, and see - Thousands of crown’d souls throng to be - Themselves thy crown, sons of thy vows, - The virgin-births with which thy spouse - Made fruitful thy fair soul; go now, - And with them all about thee bow - To Him; put on, He’ll say, put on, - My rosy Love, that thy rich zone, - Sparkling with the sacred flames - Of thousand souls, whose happy names - Heaven keeps upon thy score: thy bright - Life brought them first to kiss the light - That kindled them to stars; and so - Thou with the Lamb, thy Lord, shalt go. - And, wheresoever He sets His white - Steps, walk with Him those ways of light, - Which who in death would live to see, - Must learn in life to die like thee. - - -_339._ _Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa_ - - O thou undaunted daughter of desires! - By all thy dower of lights and fires; - By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; - By all thy lives and deaths of love; - By thy large draughts of intellectual day, - And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; - By all thy brim-fill’d bowls of fierce desire, - By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire; - By the full kingdom of that final kiss - That seized thy parting soul, and seal’d thee His; - By all the Heav’n thou hast in Him - (Fair sister of the seraphim!); - By all of Him we have in thee; - Leave nothing of myself in me. - Let me so read thy life, that I - Unto all life of mine may die! - - -_340._ _Verses from the Shepherds’ Hymn_ - - We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, - Young dawn of our eternal day; - We saw Thine eyes break from the East, - And chase the trembling shades away: - We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, - We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. - - Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do - To entertain this starry stranger? - Is this the best thou canst bestow-- - A cold and not too cleanly manger? - Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, - To fit a bed for this huge birth. - - Proud world, said I, cease your contest, - And let the mighty babe alone; - The phœnix builds the phœnix’ nest, - Love’s architecture is His own. - The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, - Made His own bed ere He was born. - - I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow, - Come hovering o’er the place’s head, - Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow, - To furnish the fair infant’s bed. - Forbear, said I, be not too bold; - Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold. - - I saw th’ obsequious seraphim - Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, - For well they now can spare their wings, - Since Heaven itself lies here below. - Well done, said I; but are you sure - Your down, so warm, will pass for pure? - - No, no, your King’s not yet to seek - Where to repose His royal head; - See, see how soon His new-bloom’d cheek - ’Twixt mother’s breasts is gone to bed! - Sweet choice, said we; no way but so, - Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow - - She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips - Her kisses in Thy weeping eye; - She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips, - That in their buds yet blushing lie. - She ’gainst those mother diamonds tries - The points of her young eagle’s eyes. - - Welcome--tho’ not to those gay flies, - Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings, - Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- - But to poor shepherds, homespun things, - Whose wealth’s their flocks, whose wit’s to be - Well read in their simplicity. - - Yet, when young April’s husband show’rs - Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed, - We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers, - To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head. - To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep - The shepherds while they feed their sheep. - - To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King - Of simple graces and sweet loves! - Each of us his lamb will bring, - Each his pair of silver doves! - At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, - Ourselves become our own best sacrifice! - - -_341._ _Christ Crucified_ - - Thy restless feet now cannot go - For us and our eternal good, - As they were ever wont. What though - They swim, alas! in their own flood? - - Thy hands to give Thou canst not lift, - Yet will Thy hand still giving be; - It gives, but O, itself’s the gift! - It gives tho’ bound, tho’ bound ’tis free! - - -_342._ _An Epitaph upon Husband and Wife_ - -_Who died and were buried together._ - - To these whom death again did wed - This grave’s the second marriage-bed. - For though the hand of Fate could force - ’Twixt soul and body a divorce, - It could not sever man and wife, - Because they both lived but one life. - Peace, good reader, do not weep; - Peace, the lovers are asleep. - They, sweet turtles, folded lie - In the last knot that love could tie. - Let them sleep, let them sleep on, - Till the stormy night be gone, - And the eternal morrow dawn; - Then the curtains will be drawn, - And they wake into a light - Whose day shall never die in night. - - - - -RICHARD LOVELACE - -1618-1658 - - -_343._ _To Lucasta, going to the Wars_ - - Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, - That from the nunnery - Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind - To war and arms I fly. - - True, a new mistress now I chase, - The first foe in the field; - And with a stronger faith embrace - A sword, a horse, a shield. - - - Yet this inconstancy is such - As thou too shalt adore; - I could not love thee, Dear, so much, - Loved I not Honour more. - - -_344._ _To Lucasta, going beyond the Seas_ - - If to be absent were to be - Away from thee; - Or that when I am gone - You or I were alone; - Then, my Lucasta, might I crave - Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. - - But I’ll not sigh one blast or gale - To swell my sail, - Or pay a tear to ’suage - The foaming blue god’s rage; - For whether he will let me pass - Or no, I’m still as happy as I was. - - Though seas and land betwixt us both, - Our faith and troth, - Like separated souls, - All time and space controls: - Above the highest sphere we meet - Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet. - - So then we do anticipate - Our after-fate, - And are alive i’ the skies, - If thus our lips and eyes - Can speak like spirits unconfined - In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind. - - -_345._ _Gratiana Dancing_ - - She beat the happy pavèment-- - By such a star made firmament, - Which now no more the roof envìes! - But swells up high, with Atlas even, - Bearing the brighter nobler heaven, - And, in her, all the deities. - - Each step trod out a Lover’s thought, - And the ambitious hopes he brought - Chain’d to her brave feet with such arts, - Such sweet command and gentle awe, - As, when she ceased, we sighing saw - The floor lay paved with broken hearts. - - -_346._ _To Amarantha, that she would dishevel her Hair_ - - Amarantha sweet and fair, - Ah, braid no more that shining hair! - As my curious hand or eye - Hovering round thee, let it fly! - - Let it fly as unconfined - As its calm ravisher the wind, - Who hath left his darling, th’ East, - To wanton o’er that spicy nest. - - Every tress must be confest, - But neatly tangled at the best; - Like a clew of golden thread - Most excellently ravellèd. - - - Do not then wind up that light - In ribbands, and o’ercloud in night, - Like the Sun in’s early ray; - But shake your head, and scatter day! - - -_347._ _The Grasshopper_ - - O thou that swing’st upon the waving hair - Of some well-fillèd oaten beard, - Drunk every night with a delicious tear - Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert rear’d! - - The joys of earth and air are thine entire, - That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; - And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire - To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. - - Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom’st then, - Sport’st in the gilt plaits of his beams, - And all these merry days mak’st merry men, - Thyself, and melancholy streams. - - -_348._ _To Althea, from Prison_ - - When Love with unconfinèd wings - Hovers within my gates, - And my divine Althea brings - To whisper at the grates; - When I lie tangled in her hair - And fetter’d to her eye, - The birds that wanton in the air - Know no such liberty. - - When flowing cups run swiftly round - With no allaying Thames, - Our careless heads with roses bound, - Our hearts with loyal flames; - When thirsty grief in wine we steep, - When healths and draughts go free-- - Fishes that tipple in the deep - Know no such liberty. - - When, like committed linnets, I - With shriller throat shall sing - The sweetness, mercy, majesty, - And glories of my King; - When I shall voice aloud how good - He is, how great should be, - Enlargèd winds, that curl the flood, - Know no such liberty. - - Stone walls do not a prison make, - Nor iron bars a cage; - Minds innocent and quiet take - That for an hermitage; - If I have freedom in my love - And in my soul am free, - Angels alone, that soar above, - Enjoy such liberty. - - - - -ABRAHAM COWLEY - -1618-1667 - - -_Anacreontics_ - - -_349._ _1. Drinking_ - - The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, - And drinks and gapes for drink again; - The plants suck in the earth, and are - With constant drinking fresh and fair; - The sea itself (which one would think - Should have but little need of drink) - Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, - So fill’d that they o’erflow the cup. - The busy Sun (and one would guess - By ’s drunken fiery face no less) - Drinks up the sea, and when he’s done, - The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: - They drink and dance by their own light, - They drink and revel all the night: - Nothing in Nature’s sober found, - But an eternal health goes round. - Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high. - Fill all the glasses there--for why - Should every creature drink but I? - Why, man of morals, tell me why? - - -_350._ _2. The Epicure_ - - Underneath this myrtle shade, - On flowery beds supinely laid, - With odorous oils my head o’erflowing, - And around it roses growing, - What should I do but drink away - The heat and troubles of the day? - In this more than kingly state - Love himself on me shall wait. - Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! - And mingled cast into the cup - Wit and mirth and noble fires, - Vigorous health and gay desires. - The wheel of life no less will stay - In a smooth than rugged way: - Since it equally doth flee, - Let the motion pleasant be. - Why do we precious ointments shower?-- - Nobler wines why do we pour?-- - Beauteous flowers why do we spread - Upon the monuments of the dead? - Nothing they but dust can show, - Or bones that hasten to be so. - Crown me with roses while I live, - Now your wines and ointments give: - After death I nothing crave, - Let me alive my pleasures have: - All are Stoics in the grave. - - -_351._ _3. The Swallow_ - - Foolish prater, what dost thou - So early at my window do? - Cruel bird, thou’st ta’en away - A dream out of my arms to-day; - A dream that ne’er must equall’d be - By all that waking eyes may see. - Thou this damage to repair - Nothing half so sweet and fair, - Nothing half so good, canst bring, - Tho’ men say thou bring’st the Spring. - - -_352._ _On the Death of Mr. William Hervey_ - - It was a dismal and a fearful night: - Scarce could the Morn drive on th’ unwilling Light, - When Sleep, Death’s image, left my troubled breast - By something liker Death possest. - My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, - And on my soul hung the dull weight - Of some intolerable fate. - What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know! - - My sweet companion and my gentle peer, - Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, - Thy end for ever and my life to moan? - O, thou hast left me all alone! - Thy soul and body, when death’s agony - Besieged around thy noble heart, - Did not with more reluctance part - Than I, my dearest Friend, do part from thee. - - My dearest Friend, would I had died for thee! - Life and this world henceforth will tedious be: - Nor shall I know hereafter what to do - If once my griefs prove tedious too. - Silent and sad I walk about all day, - As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by - Where their hid treasures lie; - Alas! my treasure’s gone; why do I stay? - - Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, - How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, - Till the Ledæan stars, so famed for love, - Wonder’d at us from above! - We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; - But search of deep Philosophy, - Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry-- - Arts which I loved, for they, my Friend, were thine. - - Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say - Have ye not seen us walking every day? - Was there a tree about which did not know - The love betwixt us two? - Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade; - Or your sad branches thicker join - And into darksome shades combine, - Dark as the grave wherein my Friend is laid! - - Large was his soul: as large a soul as e’er - Submitted to inform a body here; - High as the place ’twas shortly in Heaven to have, - But low and humble as his grave. - So high that all the virtues there did come, - As to their chiefest seat - Conspicuous and great; - So low, that for me too it made a room. - - Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught - As if for him Knowledge had rather sought; - Nor did more learning ever crowded lie - In such a short mortality. - Whene’er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, - Still did the notions throng - About his eloquent tongue; - Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. - - His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, - Yet never did his God or friends forget; - And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, - Retired, and gave to them their due. - For the rich help of books he always took, - Though his own searching mind before - Was so with notions written o’er, - As if wise Nature had made that her book. - - - With as much zeal, devotion, piety, - He always lived, as other saints do die. - Still with his soul severe account he kept, - Weeping all debts out ere he slept. - Then down in peace and innocence he lay, - Like the Sun’s laborious light, - Which still in water sets at night, - Unsullied with his journey of the day. - - But happy Thou, ta’en from this frantic age, - Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage! - A fitter time for Heaven no soul e’er chose-- - The place now only free from those. - There ’mong the blest thou dost for ever shine; - And wheresoe’er thou casts thy view - Upon that white and radiant crew, - See’st not a soul clothed with more light than thine. - - -_353._ _The Wish_ - - Well then! I now do plainly see - This busy world and I shall ne’er agree. - The very honey of all earthly joy - Does of all meats the soonest cloy; - And they, methinks, deserve my pity - Who for it can endure the stings, - The crowd and buzz and murmurings, - Of this great hive, the city. - - Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave - May I a small house and large garden have; - And a few friends, and many books, both true, - Both wise, and both delightful too! - And since love ne’er will from me flee, - A Mistress moderately fair, - And good as guardian angels are, - Only beloved and loving me. - - O fountains! when in you shall I - Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? - O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made - The happy tenant of your shade? - Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood: - Here’s wealthy Nature’s treasury, - Where all the riches lie that she - Has coin’d and stamp’d for good. - - Pride and ambition here - Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear; - Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, - And nought but Echo flatter. - The gods, when they descended, hither - From heaven did always choose their way: - And therefore we may boldly say - That ’tis the way too thither. - - How happy here should I - And one dear She live, and embracing die! - She who is all the world, and can exclude - In deserts solitude. - I should have then this only fear: - Lest men, when they my pleasures see, - Should hither throng to live like me, - And so make a city here. - - - - -ALEXANDER BROME - -1620-1666 - - -_354._ _The Resolve_ - - Tell me not of a face that’s fair, - Nor lip and cheek that’s red, - Nor of the tresses of her hair, - Nor curls in order laid, - Nor of a rare seraphic voice - That like an angel sings; - Though if I were to take my choice - I would have all these things: - But if that thou wilt have me love, - And it must be a she, - The only argument can move - Is that she will love me. - - The glories of your ladies be - But metaphors of things, - And but resemble what we see - Each common object brings. - Roses out-red their lips and cheeks, - Lilies their whiteness stain; - What fool is he that shadows seeks - And may the substance gain? - Then if thou’lt have me love a lass, - Let it be one that’s kind: - Else I’m a servant to the glass - That’s with Canary lined. - - - - -ANDREW MARVELL - -1621-1678 - - -_355._ _An Horatian Ode_ - -_upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland_ - - The forward youth that would appear - Must now forsake his Muses dear, - Nor in the shadows sing - His numbers languishing. - - ’Tis time to leave the books in dust, - And oil the unused armour’s rust, - Removing from the wall - The corslet of the hall. - - So restless Cromwell could not cease - In the inglorious arts of peace, - But through adventurous war - Urgèd his active star: - - And like the three-fork’d lightning, first - Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, - Did thorough his own side - His fiery way divide: - - For ’tis all one to courage high, - The emulous, or enemy; - And with such, to enclose - Is more than to oppose. - - Then burning through the air he went - And palaces and temples rent; - And Cæsar’s head at last - Did through his laurels blast. - - - ’Tis madness to resist or blame - The face of angry Heaven’s flame; - And if we would speak true, - Much to the man is due, - - Who, from his private gardens, where - He lived reservèd and austere - (As if his highest plot - To plant the bergamot), - - Could by industrious valour climb - To ruin the great work of time, - And cast the Kingdoms old - Into another mould; - - Though Justice against Fate complain, - And plead the ancient rights in vain-- - But those do hold or break - As men are strong or weak-- - - Nature, that hateth emptiness, - Allows of penetration less, - And therefore must make room - Where greater spirits come. - - What field of all the civil war - Where his were not the deepest scar? - And Hampton shows what part - He had of wiser art; - - Where, twining subtle fears with hope, - He wove a net of such a scope - That Charles himself might chase - To Caresbrooke’s narrow case; - That thence the Royal actor borne - The tragic scaffold might adorn: - While round the armèd bands - Did clap their bloody hands. - - He nothing common did or mean - Upon that memorable scene, - But with his keener eye - The axe’s edge did try; - - Nor call’d the gods, with vulgar spite, - To vindicate his helpless right; - But bow’d his comely head - Down, as upon a bed. - - This was that memorable hour - Which first assured the forcèd power: - So when they did design - The Capitol’s first line, - - A Bleeding Head, where they begun, - Did fright the architects to run; - And yet in that the State - Foresaw its happy fate! - - And now the Irish are ashamed - To see themselves in one year tamed: - So much one man can do - That does both act and know. - - They can affirm his praises best, - And have, though overcome, confest - How good he is, how just - And fit for highest trust. - - - Nor yet grown stiffer with command, - But still in the republic’s hand-- - How fit he is to sway - That can so well obey! - - He to the Commons’ feet presents - A Kingdom for his first year’s rents, - And, what he may, forbears - His fame, to make it theirs: - - And has his sword and spoils ungirt - To lay them at the public’s skirt. - So when the falcon high - Falls heavy from the sky, - - She, having kill’d, no more doth search - But on the next green bough to perch; - Where, when he first does lure, - The falconer has her sure. - - What may not then our Isle presume - While victory his crest does plume? - What may not others fear, - If thus he crowns each year? - - As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, - To Italy an Hannibal, - And to all States not free - Shall climacteric be. - - The Pict no shelter now shall find - Within his particolour’d mind, - But, from this valour, sad - Shrink underneath the plaid; - Happy, if in the tufted brake - The English hunter him mistake, - Nor lay his hounds in near - The Caledonian deer. - - But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son, - March indefatigably on; - And for the last effect, - Still keep the sword erect: - - Besides the force it has to fright - The spirits of the shady night, - The same arts that did gain - A power, must it maintain. - - -_356._ _A Garden_ - -_Written after the Civil Wars_ - - See how the flowers, as at parade, - Under their colours stand display’d: - Each regiment in order grows, - That of the tulip, pink, and rose. - But when the vigilant patrol - Of stars walks round about the pole, - Their leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d, - Seem to their staves the ensigns furl’d. - Then in some flower’s belovèd hut - Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, - And sleeps so too; but if once stirr’d, - She runs you through, nor asks the word. - O thou, that dear and happy Isle, - The garden of the world erewhile, - Thou Paradise of the four seas - Which Heaven planted us to please, - But, to exclude the world, did guard - With wat’ry if not flaming sword; - What luckless apple did we taste - To make us mortal and thee waste! - Unhappy! shall we never more - That sweet militia restore, - When gardens only had their towers, - And all the garrisons were flowers; - When roses only arms might bear, - And men did rosy garlands wear? - - -_357._ _To His Coy Mistress_ - - Had we but world enough, and time, - This coyness, Lady, were no crime - We would sit down and think which way - To walk and pass our long love’s day. - Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side - Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide - Of Humber would complain. I would - Love you ten years before the Flood, - And you should, if you please, refuse - Till the conversion of the Jews. - My vegetable love should grow - Vaster than empires, and more slow; - An hundred years should go to praise - Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; - Two hundred to adore each breast, - But thirty thousand to the rest; - An age at least to every part, - And the last age should show your heart. - For, Lady, you deserve this state, - Nor would I love at lower rate. - But at my back I always hear - Time’s winged chariot hurrying near; - And yonder all before us lie - Deserts of vast eternity. - Thy beauty shall no more be found, - Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound - My echoing song: then worms shall try - That long preserved virginity, - And your quaint honour turn to dust, - And into ashes all my lust: - The grave’s a fine and private place, - But none, I think, do there embrace. - Now therefore, while the youthful hue - Sits on thy skin like morning dew, - And while thy willing soul transpires - At every pore with instant fires, - Now let us sport us while we may, - And now, like amorous birds of prey, - Rather at once our time devour - Than languish in his slow-chapt power. - Let us roll all our strength and all - Our sweetness up into one ball, - And tear our pleasures with rough strife - Thorough the iron gates of life: - Thus, though we cannot make our sun - Stand still, yet we will make him run. - - slow-chapt] slow-jawed, slowly devouring. - -_358._ _The Picture of Little T. C. in a Prospect of Flowers_ - - See with what simplicity - This nymph begins her golden days! - In the green grass she loves to lie, - And there with her fair aspect tames - The wilder flowers, and gives them names; - But only with the roses plays, - And them does tell - What colour best becomes them, and what smell. - - Who can foretell for what high cause - This darling of the gods was born? - Yet this is she whose chaster laws - The wanton Love shall one day fear, - And, under her command severe, - See his bow broke and ensigns torn. - Happy who can - Appease this virtuous enemy of man! - - O then let me in time compound - And parley with those conquering eyes, - Ere they have tried their force to wound; - Ere with their glancing wheels they drive - In triumph over hearts that strive, - And them that yield but more despise: - Let me be laid, - Where I may see the glories from some shade. - - Meantime, whilst every verdant thing - Itself does at thy beauty charm, - Reform the errors of the Spring; - Make that the tulips may have share - Of sweetness, seeing they are fair, - And roses of their thorns disarm; - But most procure - That violets may a longer age endure. - - But O, young beauty of the woods, - Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, - Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; - Lest Flora, angry at thy crime - To kill her infants in their prime, - Do quickly make th’ example yours; - And ere we see, - Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee. - - -_359._ _Thoughts in a Garden_ - - How vainly men themselves amaze - To win the palm, the oak, or bays, - And their uncessant labours see - Crown’d from some single herb or tree, - Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade - Does prudently their toils upbraid; - While all the flowers and trees do close - To weave the garlands of repose! - - Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, - And Innocence thy sister dear? - Mistaken long, I sought you then - In busy companies of men: - Your sacred plants, if here below, - Only among the plants will grow: - Society is all but rude - To this delicious solitude. - - No white nor red was ever seen - So amorous as this lovely green. - Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, - Cut in these trees their mistress’ name: - Little, alas! they know or heed - How far these beauties hers exceed! - Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, - No name shall but your own be found. - - When we have run our passions’ heat, - Love hither makes his best retreat: - The gods, that mortal beauty chase, - Still in a tree did end their race; - Apollo hunted Daphne so - Only that she might laurel grow; - And Pan did after Syrinx speed - Not as a nymph, but for a reed. - - What wondrous life in this I lead! - Ripe apples drop about my head; - The luscious clusters of the vine - Upon my mouth do crush their wine; - The nectarine and curious peach - Into my hands themselves do reach; - Stumbling on melons, as I pass, - Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. - - Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less - Withdraws into its happiness; - The mind, that ocean where each kind - Does straight its own resemblance find; - Yet it creates, transcending these, - Far other worlds, and other seas; - Annihilating all that’s made - To a green thought in a green shade. - - Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, - Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, - Casting the body’s vest aside, - My soul into the boughs does glide; - There, like a bird, it sits and sings, - Then whets and combs its silver wings, - And, till prepared for longer flight, - Waves in its plumes the various light. - - Such was that happy Garden-state - While man there walk’d without a mate: - After a place so pure and sweet, - What other help could yet be meet! - But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share - To wander solitary there: - Two paradises ’twere in one, - To live in Paradise alone. - - How well the skilful gard’ner drew - Of flowers and herbs this dial new! - Where, from above, the milder sun - Does through a fragrant zodiac run: - And, as it works, th’ industrious bee - Computes its time as well as we. - How could such sweet and wholesome hours - Be reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers! - - -_360._ _Bermudas_ - - Where the remote Bermudas ride - In the ocean’s bosom unespied, - From a small boat that row’d along - The listening woods received this song: - - ‘What should we do but sing His praise - That led us through the watery maze - Unto an isle so long unknown, - And yet far kinder than our own? - Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, - That lift the deep upon their backs, - He lands us on a grassy stage, - Safe from the storms’ and prelates’ rage: - He gave us this eternal Spring - Which here enamels everything, - And sends the fowls to us in care - On daily visits through the air: - He hangs in shades the orange bright - Like golden lamps in a green night, - And does in the pomegranates close - Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: - He makes the figs our mouths to meet - And throws the melons at our feet; - But apples plants of such a price, - No tree could ever bear them twice. - With cedars chosen by His hand - From Lebanon He stores the land; - And makes the hollow seas that roar - Proclaim the ambergris on shore. - He cast (of which we rather boast) - The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast; - And in these rocks for us did frame - A temple where to sound His name. - O, let our voice His praise exalt - Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault, - Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may - Echo beyond the Mexique bay!’ - - Thus sung they in the English boat - A holy and a cheerful note: - And all the way, to guide their chime, - With falling oars they kept the time. - - -_361._ _An Epitaph_ - - Enough; and leave the rest to Fame! - ’Tis to commend her, but to name. - Courtship which, living, she declined, - When dead, to offer were unkind: - Nor can the truest wit, or friend, - Without detracting, her commend. - - To say--she lived a virgin chaste - In this age loose and all unlaced; - Nor was, when vice is so allowed, - Of virtue or ashamed or proud; - That her soul was on Heaven so bent, - No minute but it came and went; - That, ready her last debt to pay, - She summ’d her life up every day; - Modest as morn, as mid-day bright, - Gentle as evening, cool as night: - --’Tis true; but all too weakly said. - ’Twas more significant, she’s dead. - - - - -HENRY VAUGHAN - -1621-1695 - - -_362._ _The Retreat_ - - Happy those early days, when I - Shin’d in my Angel-infancy! - Before I understood this place - Appointed for my second race, - Or taught my soul to fancy aught - But a white celestial thought: - When yet I had not walk’d above - A mile or two from my first Love, - And looking back--at that short space-- - Could see a glimpse of His bright face: - When on some gilded cloud, or flow’r, - My gazing soul would dwell an hour, - And in those weaker glories spy - Some shadows of eternity: - Before I taught my tongue to wound - My Conscience with a sinful sound, - Or had the black art to dispense - A several sin to ev’ry sense, - But felt through all this fleshly dress - Bright shoots of everlastingness. - - O how I long to travel back, - And tread again that ancient track! - That I might once more reach that plain - Where first I left my glorious train; - From whence th’ enlightned spirit sees - That shady City of Palm-trees. - But ah! my soul with too much stay - Is drunk, and staggers in the way! - Some men a forward motion love, - But I by backward steps would move; - And when this dust falls to the urn, - In that state I came, return. - - -_363._ _Peace_ - - My soul, there is a country - Far beyond the stars, - Where stands a wingèd sentry - All skilful in the wars: - There, above noise and danger, - Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles, - And One born in a manger - Commands the beauteous files. - He is thy gracious Friend, - And--O my soul, awake!-- - Did in pure love descend - To die here for thy sake. - If thou canst get but thither, - There grows the flower of Peace, - The Rose that cannot wither, - Thy fortress, and thy ease. - Leave then thy foolish ranges; - For none can thee secure - But One who never changes-- - Thy God, thy life, thy cure. - - -_364._ _The Timber_ - - Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, - Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, - Pass’d o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings, - Which now are dead, lodg’d in thy living bowers. - - - And still a new succession sings and flies; - Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot - Towards the old and still enduring skies, - While the low violet thrives at their root. - - But thou beneath the sad and heavy line - Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; - Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, - Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. - - And yet--as if some deep hate and dissent, - Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, - Were still alive--thou dost great storms resent - Before they come, and know’st how near they be. - - Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath - Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; - But this thy strange resentment after death - Means only those who broke--in life--thy peace. - - -_365._ _Friends Departed_ - - They are all gone into the world of light! - And I alone sit ling’ring here; - Their very memory is fair and bright, - And my sad thoughts doth clear. - - It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, - Like stars upon some gloomy grove, - Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest - After the sun’s remove. - - - I see them walking in an air of glory, - Whose light doth trample on my days: - My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, - Mere glimmering and decays. - - O holy Hope! and high Humility, - High as the heavens above! - These are your walks, and you have show’d them me, - To kindle my cold love. - - Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just, - Shining nowhere, but in the dark; - What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, - Could man outlook that mark! - - He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know, - At first sight, if the bird be flown; - But what fair well or grove he sings in now, - That is to him unknown. - - And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams - Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: - So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, - And into glory peep. - - If a star were confin’d into a tomb, - Her captive flames must needs burn there; - But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room, - She’ll shine through all the sphere. - - O Father of eternal life, and all - Created glories under Thee! - Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall - Into true liberty. - - - Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill - My perspective still as they pass: - Or else remove me hence unto that hill, - Where I shall need no glass. - - - - -JOHN BUNYAN - -1628-1688 - - -_366._ _The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation_ - - He that is down needs fear no fall, - He that is low, no pride; - He that is humble ever shall - Have God to be his guide. - - I am content with what I have, - Little be it or much: - And, Lord, contentment still I crave, - Because Thou savest such. - - Fullness to such a burden is - That go on pilgrimage: - Here little, and hereafter bliss, - Is best from age to age. - - - - -BALLADS AND SONGS BY UNKNOWN AUTHORS - - -_367._ _Thomas the Rhymer_ - - True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; - A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e; - And there he saw a ladye bright - Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. - - Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk, - Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne; - At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane, - Hung fifty siller bells and nine. - - True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap, - And louted low down on his knee: - ‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven! - For thy peer on earth could never be.’ - - ‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said, - ‘That name does not belang to me; - I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland, - That am hither come to visit thee. - - ‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said; - ‘Harp and carp along wi’ me; - And if ye dare to kiss my lips, - Sure of your bodie I will be.’ - - ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite - (as a minstrel). - - ‘Betide me weal, betide me woe, - That weird shall never daunten me.’ - Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips, - All underneath the Eildon Tree. - - ‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said, - ‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me; - And ye maun serve me seven years, - Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’ - - She’s mounted on her milk-white steed, - She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind; - And aye, whene’er her bridle rang, - The steed gaed swifter than the wind. - - O they rade on, and farther on, - The steed gaed swifter than the wind; - Until they reach’d a desert wide, - And living land was left behind. - - ‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas, - And lean your head upon my knee; - Abide ye there a little space, - And I will show you ferlies three. - - ‘O see ye not yon narrow road, - So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers? - That is the Path of Righteousness, - Though after it but few inquires. - - ‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road, - That lies across the lily leven? - That is the Path of Wickedness, - Though some call it the Road to Heaven. - - leven]? lawn. - - ‘And see ye not yon bonny road - That winds about the fernie brae? - That is the Road to fair Elfland, - Where thou and I this night maun gae. - - ‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue, - Whatever ye may hear or see; - For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, - Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’ - - O they rade on, and farther on, - And they waded rivers abune the knee; - And they saw neither sun nor moon, - But they heard the roaring of the sea. - - It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, - They waded thro’ red blude to the knee; - For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth - Rins through the springs o’ that countrie. - - Syne they came to a garden green, - And she pu’d an apple frae a tree: - ‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; - It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’ - - ‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said; - ‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! - I neither dought to buy or sell - At fair or tryst where I might be. - - ‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer, - Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’-- - ‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said, - ‘For as I say, so must it be.’ - - dought] could. - - He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, - And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green; - And till seven years were gane and past, - True Thomas on earth was never seen. - - -_368._ _Sir Patrick Spens_ - - -I. _The Sailing_ - - The king sits in Dunfermline town - Drinking the blude-red wine; - ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper - To sail this new ship o’ mine?’ - - O up and spak an eldern knight, - Sat at the king’s right knee; - ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor - That ever sail’d the sea.’ - - Our king has written a braid letter, - And seal’d it with his hand, - And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, - Was walking on the strand. - - ‘To Noroway, to Noroway, - To Noroway o’er the faem; - The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, - ’Tis thou must bring her hame.’ - - The first word that Sir Patrick read - So loud, loud laugh’d he; - The neist word that Sir Patrick read - The tear blinded his e’e. - - _368._ skeely] skilful. - - ‘O wha is this has done this deed - And tauld the king o’ me, - To send us out, at this time o’ year, - To sail upon the sea? - - ‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, - Our ship must sail the faem; - The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, - ’Tis we must fetch her hame.’ - - They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn - Wi’ a’ the speed they may; - They hae landed in Noroway - Upon a Wodensday. - - -II. _The Return_ - - ‘Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a’; - Our gude ship sails the morn.’ - ‘Now ever alack, my master dear, - I fear a deadly storm. - - ‘I saw the new moon late yestreen - Wi’ the auld moon in her arm; - And if we gang to sea, master, - I fear we’ll come to harm.’ - - They hadna sail’d a league, a league, - A league but barely three, - When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, - And gurly grew the sea. - - The ankers brak, and the topmast lap, - It was sic a deadly storm: - And the waves cam owre the broken ship - Till a’ her sides were torn. - - lift] sky. lap] sprang. - - ‘Go fetch a web o’ the silken claith, - Another o’ the twine, - And wap them into our ship’s side, - And let nae the sea come in.’ - - They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith, - Another o’ the twine, - And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side, - But still the sea came in. - - O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords - To wet their cork-heel’d shoon; - But lang or a’ the play was play’d - They wat their hats aboon. - - And mony was the feather bed - That flatter’d on the faem; - And mony was the gude lord’s son - That never mair cam hame. - - O lang, lang may the ladies sit, - Wi’ their fans into their hand, - Before they see Sir Patrick Spens - Come sailing to the strand! - - And lang, lang may the maidens sit - Wi’ their gowd kames in their hair, - A-waiting for their ain dear loves! - For them they’ll see nae mair. - - Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, - ’Tis fifty fathoms deep; - And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, - Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet! - - flatter’d] tossed afloat. kames] combs. - - -_369._ _The Lass of Lochroyan_ - - ‘O wha will shoe my bonny foot? - And wha will glove my hand? - And wha will bind my middle jimp - Wi’ a lang, lang linen band? - - ‘O wha will kame my yellow hair, - With a haw bayberry kame? - And wha will be my babe’s father - Till Gregory come hame?’ - - ‘Thy father, he will shoe thy foot, - Thy brother will glove thy hand, - Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp - Wi’ a lang, lang linen band. - - ‘Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair, - Wi’ a haw bayberry kame; - The Almighty will be thy babe’s father - Till Gregory come hame.’ - - ‘And wha will build a bonny ship, - And set it on the sea? - For I will go to seek my love, - My ain love Gregory.’ - - Up then spak her father dear, - A wafu’ man was he; - ‘And I will build a bonny ship, - And set her on the sea. - - jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry]? a corruption for ‘braw - ivory’: or bayberry may = laurel-wood. - - ‘And I will build a bonny ship, - And set her on the sea, - And ye sal gae and seek your love, - Your ain love Gregory.’ - - Then he’s gart build a bonny ship, - And set it on the sea, - Wi’ four-and-twenty mariners, - To bear her company. - - O he’s gart build a bonny ship, - To sail on the salt sea; - The mast was o’ the beaten gold, - The sails o’ cramoisie. - - The sides were o’ the gude stout aik, - The deck o’ mountain pine, - The anchor o’ the silver shene, - The ropes o’ silken twine. - - She hadna sail’d but twenty leagues, - But twenty leagues and three, - When she met wi’ a rank reiver, - And a’ his companie. - - ‘Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie, - Come to pardon a’ our sin? - Or are ye Mary Magdalane, - Was born at Bethlam?’ - - ‘I’m no the Queen of Heaven hie, - Come to pardon ye your sin, - Nor am I Mary Magdalane, - Was born in Bethlam. - - cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber. - - ‘But I’m the lass of Lochroyan, - That’s sailing on the sea - To see if I can find my love, - My ain love Gregory.’ - - ‘O see na ye yon bonny bower? - It’s a’ covered owre wi’ tin; - When thou hast sail’d it round about, - Lord Gregory is within.’ - - And when she saw the stately tower, - Shining both clear and bright, - Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave, - Built on a rock of height, - - Says, ‘Row the boat, my mariners, - And bring me to the land, - For yonder I see my love’s castle, - Close by the salt sea strand.’ - - She sail’d it round, and sail’d it round, - And loud and loud cried she, - ‘Now break, now break your fairy charms, - And set my true-love free.’ - - She’s ta’en her young son in her arms. - And to the door she’s gane, - And long she knock’d, and sair she ca’d. - But answer got she nane. - - ‘O open, open, Gregory! - O open! if ye be within; - For here’s the lass of Lochroyan, - Come far fra kith and kin. - - - ‘O open the door, Lord Gregory! - O open and let me in! - The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory, - The rain drops fra my chin. - - ‘The shoe is frozen to my foot, - The glove unto my hand, - The wet drops fra my yellow hair, - Na langer dow I stand.’ - - O up then spak his ill mither, - --An ill death may she die! - ‘Ye’re no the lass of Lochroyan, - She’s far out-owre the sea. - - ‘Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman, - Ye’re no come here for gude; - Ye’re but some witch or wil’ warlock, - Or mermaid o’ the flood.’ - - ‘I am neither witch nor wil’ warlock, - Nor mermaid o’ the sea, - But I am Annie of Lochroyan, - O open the door to me!’ - - ‘Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan, - As I trow thou binna she, - Now tell me of some love-tokens - That pass’d ’tween thee and me.’ - - ‘O dinna ye mind, love Gregory, - As we sat at the wine, - We changed the rings frae our fingers? - And I can shew thee thine. - - dow] can. - - ‘O yours was gude, and gude enough, - But ay the best was mine, - For yours was o’ the gude red gowd, - But mine o’ the diamond fine. - - ‘Yours was o’ the gude red gowd, - Mine o’ the diamond fine; - Mine was o’ the purest troth, - But thine was false within.’ - - ‘If ye be the lass of Lochroyan, - As I kenna thou be, - Tell me some mair o’ the love-tokens - Pass’d between thee and me.’ - - ‘And dinna ye mind, love Gregory! - As we sat on the hill, - Thou twin’d me o’ my maidenheid, - Right sair against my will? - - ‘Now open the door, love Gregory! - Open the door! I pray; - For thy young son is in my arms, - And will be dead ere day.’ - - ‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman, - So loud I hear ye lie; - For Annie of the Lochroyan - Is far out-owre the sea.’ - - Fair Annie turn’d her round about: - ‘Weel, sine that it be sae, - May ne’er woman that has borne a son - Hae a heart sae fu’ o’ wae! - - - ‘Tak down, tak down that mast o’ gowd, - Set up a mast of tree; - It disna become a forsaken lady - To sail sae royallie.’ - - When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn, - And the sun began to peep, - Up then raise Lord Gregory, - And sair, sair did he weep. - - ‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither, - I wish it may bring good! - That the bonny lass of Lochroyan - At my bower window stood. - - ‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither, - The thought o’t gars me greet! - That fair Annie of Lochroyan - Lay dead at my bed-feet.’ - - ‘Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan - That ye mak a’ this mane, - She stood last night at your bower-door, - But I hae sent her hame.’ - - ‘O wae betide ye, ill woman, - An ill death may ye die! - That wadna open the door yoursell - Nor yet wad waken me.’ - - O he’s gane down to yon shore-side, - As fast as he could dree, - And there he saw fair Annie’s bark - A rowing owre the sea. - - - ‘O Annie, Annie,’ loud he cried, - ‘O Annie, O Annie, bide!’ - But ay the mair he cried ‘Annie,’ - The braider grew the tide. - - ‘O Annie, Annie, dear Annie, - Dear Annie, speak to me!’ - But ay the louder he gan call, - The louder roar’d the sea. - - The wind blew loud, the waves rose hie - And dash’d the boat on shore; - Fair Annie’s corpse was in the faem, - The babe rose never more. - - Lord Gregory tore his gowden locks - And made a wafu’ moan; - Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet, - His bonny son was gone. - - ‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek, - And gowden was her hair, - And coral, coral was her lips, - Nane might with her compare,’ - - Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek, - And syne he kiss’d her chin, - And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips, - There was na breath within. - - ‘O wae betide my ill mither, - An ill death may she die! - She turn’d my true-love frae my door, - Who cam so far to me. - - - ‘O wae betide my ill mither, - An ill death may she die! - She has no been the deid o’ ane, - But she’s been the deid of three.’ - - Then he’s ta’en out a little dart, - Hung low down by his gore, - He thrust it through and through his heart, - And words spak never more. - - _369._ gore] skirt, waist. - - -_370._ _The Dowie Houms of Yarrow_ - - Late at een, drinkin’ the wine, - And ere they paid the lawin’, - They set a combat them between, - To fight it in the dawin’. - - ‘O stay at hame, my noble lord! - O stay at hame, my marrow! - My cruel brother will you betray, - On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ - - ‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay! - O fare ye weel, my Sarah! - For I maun gae, tho’ I ne’er return - Frae the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ - - She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, - As she had done before, O; - She belted on his noble brand, - An’ he’s awa to Yarrow. - - _370._ lawin’] reckoning. marrow] mate, husband or wife. dowie] - doleful. houms] water-meads. - - O he’s gane up yon high, high hill-- - I wat he gaed wi’ sorrow-- - An’ in a den spied nine arm’d men, - I’ the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. - - ‘O are ye come to drink the wine, - As ye hae doon before, O? - Or are ye come to wield the brand, - On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow?’ - - ‘I am no come to drink the wine, - As I hae don before, O, - But I am come to wield the brand, - On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow.’ - - Four he hurt, an’ five he slew, - On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow, - Till that stubborn knight came him behind, - An’ ran his body thorrow. - - ‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, - An’ tell your sister Sarah - To come an’ lift her noble lord, - Who’s sleepin’ sound on Yarrow.’ - - ‘Yestreen I dream’d a dolefu’ dream; - I ken’d there wad be sorrow; - I dream’d I pu’d the heather green, - On the dowie banks o’ Yarrow.’ - - She gaed up yon high, high hill-- - I wat she gaed wi’ sorrow-- - An’ in a den spied nine dead men, - On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. - - - She kiss’d his cheek, she kamed his hair, - As oft she did before, O; - She drank the red blood frae him ran, - On the dowie houms o’ Yarrow. - - ‘O haud your tongue, my douchter dear, - For what needs a’ this sorrow? - I’ll wed you on a better lord - Than him you lost on Yarrow.’ - - ‘O haud your tongue, my father dear, - An’ dinna grieve your Sarah; - A better lord was never born - Than him I lost on Yarrow. - - ‘Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye, - For they hae bred our sorrow; - I wiss that they had a’ gane mad - Whan they cam first to Yarrow.’ - - -_371._ _Clerk Saunders_ - - Clerk Saunders and may Margaret - Walk’d owre yon garden green; - And deep and heavy was the love - That fell thir twa between. - - ‘A bed, a bed,’ Clerk Saunders said, - ‘A bed for you and me!’ - ‘Fye na, fye na,’ said may Margaret, - ’Till anes we married be!’ - - ‘Then I’ll take the sword frae my scabbard - And slowly lift the pin; - And you may swear, and save your aith, - Ye ne’er let Clerk Saunders in. - - - ‘Take you a napkin in your hand, - And tie up baith your bonnie e’en, - And you may swear, and save your aith, - Ye saw me na since late yestreen.’ - - It was about the midnight hour, - When they asleep were laid, - When in and came her seven brothers, - Wi’ torches burning red: - - When in and came her seven brothers, - Wi’ torches burning bright: - They said, ‘We hae but one sister, - And behold her lying with a knight!’ - - Then out and spake the first o’ them, - ‘I bear the sword shall gar him die.’ - And out and spake the second o’ them, - ‘His father has nae mair but he.’ - - And out and spake the third o’ them, - ‘I wot that they are lovers dear.’ - And out and spake the fourth o’ them, - ‘They hae been in love this mony a year.’ - - Then out and spake the fifth o’ them, - ‘It were great sin true love to twain.’ - And out and spake the sixth o’ them, - ‘It were shame to slay a sleeping man.’ - - Then up and gat the seventh o’ them, - And never a word spake he; - But he has striped his bright brown brand - Out through Clerk Saunders’ fair bodye. - - striped] thrust. - - Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turn’d - Into his arms as asleep she lay; - And sad and silent was the night - That was atween thir twae. - - And they lay still and sleepit sound - Until the day began to daw’; - And kindly she to him did say, - ‘It is time, true love, you were awa’.’ - - But he lay still, and sleepit sound, - Albeit the sun began to sheen; - She look’d atween her and the wa’, - And dull and drowsie were his e’en. - - Then in and came her father dear; - Said, ‘Let a’ your mourning be; - I’ll carry the dead corse to the clay, - And I’ll come back and comfort thee.’ - - ‘Comfort weel your seven sons, - For comforted I will never be: - I ween ’twas neither knave nor loon - Was in the bower last night wi’ me.’ - - The clinking bell gaed through the town, - To carry the dead corse to the clay; - And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret’s window, - I wot, an hour before the day. - - ‘Are ye sleeping, Marg’ret?’ he says, - ‘Or are ye waking presentlie? - Give me my faith and troth again, - I wot, true love, I gied to thee.’ - - - ‘Your faith and troth ye sail never get, - Nor our true love sail never twin, - Until ye come within my bower, - And kiss me cheik and chin.’ - - ‘My mouth it is full cold, Marg’ret; - It has the smell, now, of the ground; - And if I kiss thy comely mouth, - Thy days of life will not be lang. - - ‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; - I wot the wild fowls are boding day; - Give me my faith and troth again, - And let me fare me on my way.’ - - ‘Thy faith and troth thou sallna get, - And our true love sail never twin, - Until ye tell what comes o’ women, - I wot, who die in strong traivelling?’ - - ‘Their beds are made in the heavens high, - Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee, - Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers; - I wot, sweet company for to see. - - ‘O cocks are crowing a merry midnight; - I wot the wild fowls are boding day; - The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, - And I, ere now, will be miss’d away.’ - - Then she has taken a crystal wand, - And she has stroken her troth thereon; - She has given it him out at the shot-window, - Wi’ mony a sad sigh and heavy groan. - - twin] part in two. - - ‘I thank ye, Marg’ret; I thank ye, Marg’ret; - And ay I thank ye heartilie; - Gin ever the dead come for the quick, - Be sure, Marg’ret, I’ll come for thee.’ - - It’s hosen and shoon, and gown alone, - She climb’d the wall, and follow’d him, - Until she came to the green forest, - And there she lost the sight o’ him. - - ‘Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? - Is there ony room at your feet? - Or ony room at your side, Saunders, - Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?’ - - ‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret, - There’s nae room at my feet; - My bed it is fu’ lowly now, - Amang the hungry worms I sleep. - - ‘Cauld mould is my covering now, - But and my winding-sheet; - The dew it falls nae sooner down - Than my resting-place is weet. - - ‘But plait a wand o’ bonny birk, - And lay it on my breast; - And shed a tear upon my grave, - And wish my saul gude rest.’ - - Then up and crew the red, red cock, - And up and crew the gray: - ‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret, - That you were going away. - - - ‘And fair Marg’ret, and rare Marg’ret, - And Marg’ret o’ veritie, - Gin e’er ye love another man, - Ne’er love him as ye did me.’ - - -_372._ _Fair Annie_ - - The reivers they stole Fair Annie, - As she walk’d by the sea; - But a noble knight was her ransom soon, - Wi’ gowd and white monie. - - She bided in strangers’ land wi’ him, - And none knew whence she cam; - She lived in the castle wi’ her love, - But never told her name. - - ‘It’s narrow, narrow, mak your bed, - And learn to lie your lane; - For I’m gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie, - A braw Bride to bring hame. - Wi’ her I will get gowd and gear, - Wi’ you I ne’er gat nane. - - ‘But wha will bake my bridal bread, - Or brew my bridal ale? - And wha will welcome my bright Bride, - That I bring owre the dale?’ - - ‘It’s I will bake your bridal bread, - And brew your bridal ale; - And I will welcome your bright Bride, - That you bring owre the dale.’ - - - ‘But she that welcomes my bright Bride - Maun gang like maiden fair; - She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, - And comely braid her hair. - - ‘Bind up, bind up your yellow hair, - And tie it on your neck; - And see you look as maiden-like - As the day that first we met.’ - - ‘O how can I gang maiden-like, - When maiden I am nane? - Have I not borne six sons to thee, - And am wi’ child again?’ - - ‘I’ll put cooks into my kitchen, - And stewards in my hall, - And I’ll have bakers for my bread, - And brewers for my ale; - But you’re to welcome my bright Bride, - That I bring owre the dale.’ - - Three months and a day were gane and past, - Fair Annie she gat word - That her love’s ship was come at last, - Wi’ his bright young Bride aboard. - - She ’s ta’en her young son in her arms, - Anither in her hand; - And she’s gane up to the highest tower, - Looks over sea and land. - - jimp] trim. - - ‘Come doun, come doun, my mother dear, - Come aff the castle wa’! - I fear if langer ye stand there, - Ye’ll let yoursell doun fa’.’ - - She’s ta’en a cake o’ the best bread, - A stoup o’ the best wine, - And a’ the keys upon her arm, - And to the yett is gane. - - ‘O ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord, - To your castles and your towers; - Ye’re welcome hame, my ain gude lord, - To your ha’s, but and your bowers. - And welcome to your hame, fair lady! - For a’ that’s here is yours.’ - - ‘O whatna lady’s that, my lord, - That welcomes you and me? - Gin I be lang about this place, - Her friend I mean to be.’ - - Fair Annie served the lang tables - Wi’ the white bread and the wine; - But ay she drank the wan water - To keep her colour fine. - - And she gaed by the first table, - And smiled upon them a’; - But ere she reach’d the second table, - The tears began to fa’. - - yett] gate. - - She took a napkin lang and white, - And hung it on a pin; - It was to wipe away the tears, - As she gaed out and in. - - When bells were rung and mass was sung, - And a’ men bound for bed, - The bridegroom and the bonny Bride - In ae chamber were laid. - - Fair Annie’s ta’en a harp in her hand, - To harp thir twa asleep; - But ay, as she harpit and she sang, - Fu’ sairly did she weep. - - ‘O gin my sons were seven rats, - Rinnin’ on the castle wa’, - And I mysell a great grey cat, - I soon wad worry them a’! - - ‘O gin my sons were seven hares, - Rinnin’ owre yon lily lea, - And I mysell a good greyhound, - Soon worried they a’ should be!’ - - Then out and spak the bonny young Bride, - In bride-bed where she lay: - ‘That’s like my sister Annie,’ she says; - ‘Wha is it doth sing and play? - - ‘I’ll put on my gown,’ said the new-come Bride, - ‘And my shoes upon my feet; - I will see wha doth sae sadly sing, - And what is it gars her greet. - - - ‘What ails you, what ails you, my housekeeper, - That ye mak sic a mane? - Has ony wine-barrel cast its girds, - Or is a’ your white bread gane?’ - - ‘It isna because my wine is spilt, - Or that my white bread’s gane; - But because I’ve lost my true love’s love, - And he’s wed to anither ane.’ - - ‘Noo tell me wha was your father?’ she says, - ‘Noo tell me wha was your mother? - And had ye ony sister?’ she says, - ‘And had ye ever a brother?’ - - ‘The Earl of Wemyss was my father, - The Countess of Wemyss my mother, - Young Elinor she was my sister dear, - And Lord John he was my brother.’ - - ‘If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, - I wot sae was he mine; - And it’s O my sister Annie! - Your love ye sallna tyne. - - ‘Tak your husband, my sister dear; - You ne’er were wrang’d for me, - Beyond a kiss o’ his merry mouth - As we cam owre the sea. - - ‘Seven ships, loaded weel, - Cam owre the sea wi’ me; - Ane o’ them will tak me hame, - And six I’ll gie to thee.’ - - tyne] lose. - - -_373._ _Edward, Edward_ - - ‘Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, - Edward, Edward? - Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, - And why sae sad gang ye, O?’ - ‘O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude, - Mither, mither; - O I hae kill’d my hawk sae gude, - And I had nae mair but he, O.’ - - ‘Your hawk’s blude was never sae red, - Edward, Edward; - Your hawk’s blude was never sae red, - My dear son, I tell thee, O.’ - ‘O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed, - Mither, mither; - O I hae kill’d my red-roan steed, - That erst was sae fair and free, O.’ - - ‘Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, - Edward, Edward; - Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; - Some other dule ye dree, O.’ - ‘O I hae kill’d my father dear, - Mither, mither; - O I hae kill’d my father dear, - Alas, and wae is me, O!’ - - dule ye dree] grief you suffer. - - ‘And whatten penance will ye dree for that, - Edward, Edward? - Whatten penance will ye dree for that? - My dear son, now tell me, O.’ - ‘I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, - Mither, mither; - I’ll set my feet in yonder boat, - And I’ll fare over the sea, O.’ - - ‘And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’, - Edward, Edward? - And what will ye do wi’ your tow’rs and your ha’, - That were sae fair to see, O?’ - ‘I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’, - Mither, mither; - I’ll let them stand till they doun fa’, - For here never mair maun I be, O.’ - - ‘And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, - Edward, Edward? - And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, - When ye gang owre the sea, O?’ - ‘The warld’s room: let them beg through life, - Mither, mither; - The warld’s room: let them beg through life; - For them never mair will I see, O.’ - - ‘And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear. - Edward, Edward? - And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, - My dear son, now tell me, O?’ - ‘The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, - Mither, mither; - The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: - Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!’ - - -_374._ _Edom o’ Gordon_ - - It fell about the Martinmas, - When the wind blew shrill and cauld, - Said Edom o’ Gordon to his men, - ‘We maun draw to a hauld. - - ‘And what a hauld sall we draw to, - My merry men and me? - We will gae to the house o’ the Rodes, - To see that fair ladye.’ - - The lady stood on her castle wa’, - Beheld baith dale and down; - There she was ware of a host of men - Cam riding towards the town. - - ‘O see ye not, my merry men a’, - O see ye not what I see? - Methinks I see a host of men; - I marvel wha they be.’ - - She ween’d it had been her lovely lord, - As he cam riding hame; - It was the traitor, Edom o’ Gordon, - Wha reck’d nae sin nor shame. - - town] stead. - - She had nae sooner buskit hersell, - And putten on her gown, - But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men - Were round about the town. - - They had nae sooner supper set, - Nae sooner said the grace, - But Edom o’ Gordon an’ his men - Were lighted about the place. - - The lady ran up to her tower-head, - Sae fast as she could hie, - To see if by her fair speeches - She could wi’ him agree. - - ‘Come doun to me, ye lady gay, - Come doun, come doun to me; - This night sall ye lig within mine arms, - To-morrow my bride sall be.’ - - ‘I winna come down, ye fals Gordon, - I winna come down to thee; - I winna forsake my ain dear lord, - That is sae far frae me.’ - - ‘Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, - Gie owre your house to me; - Or I sall brenn yoursel therein, - But and your babies three.’ - - ‘I winna gie owre, ye fals Gordon, - To nae sic traitor as yee; - And if ye brenn my ain dear babes, - My lord sail mak ye dree. - - buskit] attired. - - ‘Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, - And charge ye weel my gun; - For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher, - My babes, we been undone!’ - - She stood upon her castle wa’, - And let twa bullets flee: - She miss’d that bluidy butcher’s heart, - And only razed his knee. - - ‘Set fire to the house!’ quo’ fals Gordon, - All wud wi’ dule and ire: - ‘Fals lady, ye sail rue this deid - As ye brenn in the fire!’ - - Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man! - I paid ye weel your fee; - Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane, - Lets in the reek to me? - - ‘And e’en wae worth ye, Jock, my man! - I paid ye weel your hire; - Why pu’ ye out the grund-wa’ stane, - To me lets in the fire?’ - - ‘Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, - Ye paid me weel my fee: - But now I’m Edom o’ Gordon’s man-- - Maun either do or die.’ - - O then bespake her little son, - Sat on the nurse’s knee: - Says, ‘Mither dear, gie owre this house, - For the reek it smithers me.’ - - wud] mad. grund-wa’] ground-wall. - - ‘I wad gie a’ my gowd, my bairn, - Sae wad I a’ my fee, - For ae blast o’ the western wind, - To blaw the reek frae thee.’ - - O then bespake her dochter dear-- - She was baith jimp and sma’: - ‘O row me in a pair o’ sheets, - And tow me owre the wa’!’ - - They row’d her in a pair o’ sheets, - And tow’d her owre the wa’; - But on the point o’ Gordon’s spear - She gat a deadly fa’. - - O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, - And cherry were her cheiks, - And clear, clear was her yellow hair, - Whereon the red blood dreips. - - Then wi’ his spear he turn’d her owre; - O gin her face was wane! - He said, ‘Ye are the first that e’er - I wish’d alive again.’ - - He turn’d her owre and owre again; - O gin her skin was white! - ‘I might hae spared that bonnie face - To hae been some man’s delight. - - ‘Busk and boun, my merry men a’, - For ill dooms I do guess; - I canna look in that bonnie face - As it lies on the grass.’ - - jimp] slender, trim. row] roll, wrap. Busk and boun] trim up and - prepare to go. - - ‘Wha looks to freits, my master dear, - It’s freits will follow them; - Let it ne’er be said that Edom o’ Gordon - Was daunted by a dame.’ - - But when the lady saw the fire - Come flaming owre her head, - She wept, and kiss’d her children twain, - Says, ‘Bairns, we been but dead.’ - - The Gordon then his bugle blew, - And said, ‘Awa’, awa’! - This house o’ the Rodes is a’ in a flame; - I hauld it time to ga’.’ - - And this way lookit her ain dear lord, - As he cam owre the lea; - He saw his castle a’ in a lowe, - As far as he could see. - - Then sair, O sair, his mind misgave, - And all his heart was wae: - ‘Put on, put on, my wighty men, - Sae fast as ye can gae. - - ‘Put on, put on, my wighty men, - Sae fast as ye can drie! - For he that’s hindmost o’ the thrang - Sall ne’er get good o’ me.’ - - Then some they rade, and some they ran, - Out-owre the grass and bent; - But ere the foremost could win up, - Baith lady and babes were brent. - - freits] ill omens. lowe] flame. wighty] stout, doughty. - - And after the Gordon he is gane, - Sae fast as he might drie; - And soon i’ the Gordon’s foul heart’s blude - He’s wroken his dear ladye. - - wroken] avenged. - - -_375._ _The Queen’s Marie_ - - Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, - Wi’ ribbons in her hair; - The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton - Than ony that were there. - - Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane - Wi’ ribbons on her breast; - The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton - Than he listen’d to the priest. - - Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, - Wi’ gloves upon her hands; - The King thought mair o’ Marie Hamilton - Than the Queen and a’ her lands. - - She hadna been about the King’s court - A month, but barely one, - Till she was beloved by a’ the King’s court - And the King the only man. - - She hadna been about the King’s court - A month, but barely three, - Till frae the King’s court Marie Hamilton, - Marie Hamilton durstna be. - - - The King is to the Abbey gane, - To pu’ the Abbey tree, - To scale the babe frae Marie’s heart; - But the thing it wadna be. - - O she has row’d it in her apron, - And set it on the sea-- - ‘Gae sink ye or swim ye, bonny babe, - Ye’se get nae mair o’ me.’ - - Word is to the kitchen gane, - And word is to the ha’, - And word is to the noble room - Amang the ladies a’, - That Marie Hamilton’s brought to bed, - And the bonny babe’s miss’d and awa’. - - Scarcely had she lain down again, - And scarcely fa’en asleep, - When up and started our gude Queen - Just at her bed-feet; - Saying--‘Marie Hamilton, where’s your babe? - For I am sure I heard it greet.’ - - ‘O no, O no, my noble Queen! - Think no sic thing to be; - ’Twas but a stitch into my side, - And sair it troubles me!’ - - ‘Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton: - Get up and follow me; - For I am going to Edinburgh town, - A rich wedding for to see.’ - - row’d] rolled, wrapped. greet] cry. - - O slowly, slowly rase she up, - And slowly put she on; - And slowly rade she out the way - Wi’ mony a weary groan. - - The Queen was clad in scarlet, - Her merry maids all in green; - And every town that they cam to, - They took Marie for the Queen. - - ‘Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, - Ride hooly now wi’ me! - For never, I am sure, a wearier burd - Rade in your companie.’-- - - But little wist Marie Hamilton, - When she rade on the brown, - That she was gaen to Edinburgh town, - And a’ to be put down. - - ‘Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, - Why look ye so on me? - O I am going to Edinburgh town, - A rich wedding to see.’ - - When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, - The corks frae her heels did flee; - And lang or e’er she cam down again, - She was condemn’d to die. - - When she cam to the Netherbow port, - She laugh’d loud laughters three; - But when she came to the gallows foot - The tears blinded her e’e. - - hooly] gently. - - ‘Yestreen the Queen had four Maries, - The night she’ll hae but three; - There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton, - And Marie Carmichael, and me. - - ‘O often have I dress’d my Queen - And put gowd upon her hair; - But now I’ve gotten for my reward - The gallows to be my share. - - ‘Often have I dress’d my Queen - And often made her bed; - But now I’ve gotten for my reward - The gallows tree to tread. - - ‘I charge ye all, ye mariners, - When ye sail owre the faem, - Let neither my father nor mother get wit - But that I’m coming hame. - - ‘I charge ye all, ye mariners, - That sail upon the sea, - That neither my father nor mother get wit - The dog’s death I’m to die. - - ‘For if my father and mother got wit, - And my bold brethren three, - O mickle wad be the gude red blude - This day wad be spilt for me! - - ‘O little did my mother ken, - The day she cradled me, - The lands I was to travel in - Or the death I was to die! - - -_376._ _Binnorie_ - - There were twa sisters sat in a bour; - _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! - There cam a knight to be their wooer, - _By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie_. - - He courted the eldest with glove and ring, - But he lo’ed the youngest abune a thing. - - The eldest she was vexèd sair, - And sair envied her sister fair. - - Upon a morning fair and clear, - She cried upon her sister dear: - - ‘O sister, sister, tak my hand, - And let’s go down to the river-strand.’ - - She’s ta’en her by the lily hand, - And led her down to the river-strand. - - The youngest stood upon a stane, - The eldest cam and push’d her in. - - ‘O sister, sister, reach your hand! - And ye sall be heir o’ half my land: - - ‘O sister, reach me but your glove! - And sweet William sall be your love.’ - - Sometimes she sank, sometimes she swam, - Until she cam to the miller’s dam. - - Out then cam the miller’s son, - And saw the fair maid soummin’ in. - - ‘O father, father, draw your dam! - There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’ - - soummin’] swimming. - - The miller hasted and drew his dam, - And there he found a drown’d womàn. - - You couldna see her middle sma’, - Her gowden girdle was sae braw. - - You couldna see her lily feet, - Her gowden fringes were sae deep. - - All amang her yellow hair - A string o’ pearls was twisted rare. - - You couldna see her fingers sma’, - Wi’ diamond rings they were cover’d a’. - - And by there cam a harper fine, - That harpit to the king at dine. - - And when he look’d that lady on, - He sigh’d and made a heavy moan. - - He’s made a harp of her breast-bane, - Whose sound wad melt a heart of stane. - - He’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, - And wi’ them strung his harp sae rare. - - He went into her father’s hall, - And there was the court assembled all. - - He laid his harp upon a stane, - And straight it began to play by lane. - - ‘O yonder sits my father, the King, - And yonder sits my mother, the Queen; - ‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh, - And by him my William, sweet and true.’ - - But the last tune that the harp play’d then-- - _Binnorie, O Binnorie_! - Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helèn!’ - _By the bonnie milldams o’ Binnorie._ - - -_377._ _The Bonnie House o’ Airlie_ - - It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day, - When green grew aits and barley, - That there fell out a great dispute - Between Argyll and Airlie. - - Argyll has raised an hunder men, - An hunder harness’d rarely, - And he’s awa’ by the back of Dunkell, - To plunder the castle of Airlie. - - Lady Ogilvie looks o’er her bower-window, - And O but she looks warely! - And there she spied the great Argyll, - Come to plunder the bonnie house of Airlie. - - ‘Come down, come down, my Lady Ogilvie, - Come down and kiss me fairly:’ - ‘O I winna kiss the fause Argyll, - If he shouldna leave a standing stane in Airlie.’ - - He hath taken her by the left shoulder, - Says, ‘Dame, where lies thy dowry?’ - ‘O it’s east and west yon wan water side, - And it’s down by the banks of the Airlie.’ - - - They hae sought it up, they hae sought it down, - They hae sought it maist severely, - Till they fand it in the fair plum-tree - That shines on the bowling-green of Airlie. - - He hath taken her by the middle sae small, - And O but she grat sairly! - And laid her down by the bonnie burn-side, - Till they plunder’d the castle of Airlie. - - ‘Gif my gude lord war here this night, - As he is with King Charlie, - Neither you, nor ony ither Scottish lord, - Durst avow to the plundering of Airlie. - - ‘Gif my gude lord war now at hame, - As he is with his king, - There durst nae a Campbell in a’ Argyll - Set fit on Airlie green. - - ‘Ten bonnie sons I have borne unto him, - The eleventh ne’er saw his daddy; - But though I had an hunder mair, - I’d gie them a’ to King Charlie!’ - - -_378._ _The Wife of Usher’s Well_ - - There lived a wife at Usher’s well, - And a wealthy wife was she; - She had three stout and stalwart sons, - And sent them o’er the sea. - - - They hadna been a week from her, - A week but barely ane, - When word came to the carline wife - That her three sons were gane. - - They hadna been a week from her, - A week but barely three, - When word came to the carline wife - That her sons she’d never see. - - ‘I wish the wind may never cease. - Nor fashes in the flood, - Till my three sons come hame to me, - In earthly flesh and blood!’ - - It fell about the Martinmas, - When nights are lang and mirk, - The carline wife’s three sons came hame, - And their hats were o’ the birk. - - It neither grew in syke nor ditch, - Nor yet in ony sheugh; - But at the gates o’ Paradise - That birk grew fair eneugh. - - ‘Blow up the fire, my maidens! - Bring water from the well! - For a’ my house shall feast this night, - Since my three sons are well.’ - - And she has made to them a bed, - She’s made it large and wide; - And she’s ta’en her mantle her about, - Sat down at the bedside. - - fashes] troubles. syke] marsh. sheugh] trench. - - Up then crew the red, red cock, - And up and crew the gray; - The eldest to the youngest said. - ‘’Tis time we were away.’ - - The cock he hadna craw’d but once, - And clapp’d his wings at a’, - When the youngest to the eldest said, - ‘Brother, we must awa’. - - ‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, - The channerin’ worm doth chide; - Gin we be miss’d out o’ our place, - A sair pain we maun bide.’ - - ‘Lie still, lie still but a little wee while, - Lie still but if we may; - Gin my mother should miss us when she wakes, - She’ll go mad ere it be day.’ - - ‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear! - Fareweel to barn and byre! - And fare ye weel, the bonny lass - That kindles my mother’s fire!’ - - _378._ channerin’] fretting. - - -_379._ _The Three Ravens_ - - There were three ravens sat on a tree, - They were as black as they might be. - - The one of them said to his make, - ‘Where shall we our breakfast take?’ - - _379._ make] mate. - - ‘Down in yonder greene field - There lies a knight slain under his shield; - - ‘His hounds they lie down at his feet, - So well they can their master keep; - - ‘His hawks they flie so eagerly, - There ’s no fowl dare come him nigh.’ - - Down there comes a fallow doe - As great with young as she might goe. - - She lift up his bloudy head - And kist his wounds that were so red. - - She gat him up upon her back - And carried him to earthen lake. - - She buried him before the prime, - She was dead herself ere evensong time. - - God send every gentleman - Such hounds, such hawks, and such a leman. - - -_380._ _The Twa Corbies_ - -(SCOTTISH VERSION) - - As I was walking all alane - I heard twa corbies making a mane: - The tane unto the tither did say, - ‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’ - - _380._ corbies] ravens. - - ‘--In behint yon auld fail dyke - I wot there lies a new-slain knight; - And naebody kens that he lies there - But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. - - ‘His hound is to the hunting gane, - His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, - His lady’s ta’en anither mate, - So we may mak our dinner sweet. - - ‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane, - And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en: - Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair - We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare. - - ‘Mony a one for him maks mane, - But nane sall ken whar he is gane: - O’er his white banes, when they are bare, - The wind sall blaw for evermair.’ - - _380._ fail] turf. hause] neck. theek] thatch. - - -_381._ _A Lyke-Wake Dirge_ - - This ae nighte, this ae nighte, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - When thou from hence away art past, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - _381._ fleet] house-room. - - If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - Sit thee down and put them on; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane - --_Every nighte and alle_, - The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - If ever thou gavest meat or drink, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - The fire sall never make thee shrink; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - This ae nighte, this ae nighte, - --_Every nighte and alle_, - Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, - _And Christe receive thy saule_. - - -_382._ _The Seven Virgins._ - -A CAROL - - All under the leaves and the leaves of life - I met with virgins seven, - And one of them was Mary mild, - Our Lord’s mother of Heaven. - - ‘O what are you seeking, you seven fair maids. - All under the leaves of life? - Come tell, come tell, what seek you - All under the leaves of life?’ - - ‘We’re seeking for no leaves, Thomas, - But for a friend of thine; - We’re seeking for sweet Jesus Christ, - To be our guide and thine.’ - - ‘Go down, go down, to yonder town, - And sit in the gallery, - And there you’ll see sweet Jesus Christ - Nail’d to a big yew-tree.’ - - So down they went to yonder town - As fast as foot could fall, - And many a grievous bitter tear - From the virgins’ eyes did fall. - - ‘O peace, Mother, O peace, Mother, - Your weeping doth me grieve: - I must suffer this,’ He said, - ‘For Adam and for Eve. - - - ‘O Mother, take you John Evangelist - All for to be your son, - And he will comfort you sometimes, - Mother, as I have done.’ - - ‘O come, thou John Evangelist, - Thou’rt welcome unto me; - But more welcome my own dear Son, - Whom I nursed on my knee.’ - - Then He laid His head on His right shoulder, - Seeing death it struck Him nigh-- - ‘The Holy Ghost be with your soul, - I die, Mother dear, I die.’ - - O the rose, the gentle rose, - And the fennel that grows so green! - God give us grace in every place - To pray for our king and queen. - - Furthermore for our enemies all - Our prayers they should be strong: - Amen, good Lord; your charity - Is the ending of my song. - - -_383._ _Two Rivers_ - - Says Tweed to Till-- - ‘What gars ye rin sae still?’ - Says Till to Tweed-- - ‘Though ye rin with speed - And I rin slaw, - For ae man that ye droon - I droon twa.’ - - -_384._ _Cradle Song_ - - O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit, - Prepare thy creddil in my spreit, - And I sall rock thee in my hert - And never mair from thee depart. - - But I sall praise thee evermoir - With sangis sweit unto thy gloir; - The knees of my hert sall I bow, - And sing that richt _Balulalow_! - - -_385._ _The Call_ - - My blood so red - For thee was shed, - Come home again, come home again; - My own sweet heart, come home again! - You’ve gone astray - Out of your way, - Come home again, come home again! - - -_386._ _The Bonny Earl of Murray_ - - Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, - O where hae ye been? - They hae slain the Earl of Murray, - And hae laid him on the green. - - Now wae be to thee, Huntley! - And whairfore did ye sae! - I bade you bring him wi’ you. - But forbade you him to slay. - - - He was a braw gallant, - And he rid at the ring; - And the bonny Earl of Murray, - O he might hae been a king! - - He was a braw gallant, - And he play’d at the ba’; - And the bonny Earl of Murray - Was the flower amang them a’! - - He was a braw gallant, - And he play’d at the gluve; - And the bonny Earl of Murray, - O he was the Queen’s luve! - - O lang will his Lady - Look owre the Castle Downe, - Ere she see the Earl of Murray - Come sounding through the town! - - -_387._ _Helen of Kirconnell_ - - I wish I were where Helen lies, - Night and day on me she cries; - O that I were where Helen lies, - On fair Kirconnell lea! - - Curst be the heart that thought the thought, - And curst the hand that fired the shot, - When in my arms burd Helen dropt, - And died to succour me! - - O think na ye my heart was sair, - When my Love dropp’d and spak nae mair! - There did she swoon wi’ meikle care, - On fair Kirconnell lea. - - - As I went down the water side, - None but my foe to be my guide, - None but my foe to be my guide, - On fair Kirconnell lea; - - I lighted down my sword to draw, - I hackèd him in pieces sma’, - I hackèd him in pieces sma’, - For her sake that died for me. - - O Helen fair, beyond compare! - I’ll mak a garland o’ thy hair, - Shall bind my heart for evermair, - Until the day I die! - - O that I were where Helen lies! - Night and day on me she cries; - Out of my bed she bids me rise, - Says, ‘Haste, and come to me!’ - - O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! - If I were with thee, I’d be blest, - Where thou lies low and taks thy rest, - On fair Kirconnell lea. - - I wish my grave were growing green, - A winding-sheet drawn owre my e’en, - And I in Helen’s arms lying, - On fair Kirconnell lea. - - I wish I were where Helen lies! - Night and day on me she cries; - And I am weary of the skies, - For her sake that died for me. - - -_388._ _Waly, Waly_ - - O waly, waly, up the bank, - And waly, waly, doun the brae, - And waly, waly, yon burn-side, - Where I and my Love wont to gae! - I lean’d my back unto an aik, - I thocht it was a trustie tree; - But first it bow’d and syne it brak-- - Sae my true love did lichtlie me. - - O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie - A little time while it is new! - But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld, - And fades awa’ like morning dew. - O wherefore should I busk my heid, - Or wherefore should I kame my hair? - For my true Love has me forsook, - And says he’ll never lo’e me mair. - - Now Arthur’s Seat sall be my bed, - The sheets sall ne’er be ’filed by me; - Saint Anton’s well sall be my drink; - Since my true Love has forsaken me. - Marti’mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, - And shake the green leaves aff the tree? - O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? - For of my life I am wearìe. - - ’Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, - Nor blawing snaw’s inclemencie, - ’Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; - But my Love’s heart grown cauld to me. - When we cam in by Glasgow toun, - We were a comely sicht to see; - My Love was clad in the black velvèt, - And I mysel in cramasie. - - But had I wist, before I kist, - That love had been sae ill to win, - I had lock’d my heart in a case o’ gowd. - And pinn’d it wi’ a siller pin. - And O! if my young babe were born, - And set upon the nurse’s knee; - And I mysel were dead and gane, - And the green grass growing over me! - - _388._ cramasie] crimson. - - -_389._ _Barbara Allen’s Cruelty_ - - In Scarlet town, where I was born, - There was a fair maid dwellin’, - Made every youth cry _Well-a-way_! - Her name was Barbara Allen. - - All in the merry month of May, - When green buds they were swellin’, - Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, - For love of Barbara Allen. - - He sent his man in to her then, - To the town where she was dwellin’, - ‘O haste and come to my master dear, - If your name be Barbara Allen.’ - - So slowly, slowly rase she up, - And slowly she came nigh him, - And when she drew the curtain by-- - ‘Young man, I think you’re dyin’.’ - - - ‘O it’s I am sick and very very sick, - And it’s all for Barbara Allen.’ - ‘O the better for me ye’se never be, - Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’! - - ‘O dinna ye mind, young man,’ says she, - ‘When the red wine ye were fillin’, - That ye made the healths go round and round, - And slighted Barbara Allen?’ - - He turn’d his face unto the wall, - And death was with him dealin’: - ‘Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, - And be kind to Barbara Allen!’ - - As she was walking o’er the fields, - She heard the dead-bell knellin’; - And every jow the dead-bell gave - Cried ‘Woe to Barbara Allen.’ - - ‘O mother, mother, make my bed, - O make it saft and narrow: - My love has died for me to-day, - I’ll die for him to-morrow. - - ‘Farewell,’ she said, ‘ye virgins all, - And shun the fault I fell in: - Henceforth take warning by the fall - Of cruel Barbara Allen.’ - - _389._ jow] beat, toll. - - -_390._ _Pipe and Can_ - - -I - - The Indian weed witherèd quite; - Green at morn, cut down at night; - Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay: - Thus think, then drink Tobacco. - - - And when the smoke ascends on high, - Think thou behold’st the vanity - Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff: - Thus think, then drink Tobacco. - - But when the pipe grows foul within, - Think of thy soul defiled with sin, - And that the fire doth it require: - Thus think, then drink Tobacco. - - The ashes, that are left behind, - May serve to put thee still in mind - That unto dust return thou must: - Thus think, then drink Tobacco. - - -II - - When as the chill Charokko blows, - And Winter tells a heavy tale; - When pyes and daws and rooks and crows - Sit cursing of the frosts and snows; - Then give me ale. - - Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, - Such as will make grimalkin prate; - Bids valour burgeon in tall men, - Quickens the poet’s wit and pen, - Despises fate. - - Ale, that the absent battle fights, - And frames the march of Swedish drum, - Disputes with princes, laws, and rights, - What’s done and past tells mortal wights, - And what’s to come. - - Charokko] Scirocco. - - Ale, that the plowman’s heart up-keeps - And equals it with tyrants’ thrones, - That wipes the eye that over-weeps, - And lulls in sure and dainty sleeps - Th’ o’er-wearied bones. - - Grandchild of Ceres, Bacchus’ daughter, - Wine’s emulous neighbour, though but stale, - Ennobling all the nymphs of water, - And filling each man’s heart with laughter-- - Ha! give me ale! - - -_391._ _Love will find out the Way_ - - Over the mountains - And over the waves, - Under the fountains - And under the graves; - Under floods that are deepest, - Which Neptune obey, - Over rocks that are steepest, - Love will find out the way. - - When there is no place - For the glow-worm to lie, - When there is no space - For receipt of a fly; - When the midge dares not venture - Lest herself fast she lay, - If Love come, he will enter - And will find out the way. - - - You may esteem him - A child for his might; - Or you may deem him - A coward for his flight; - But if she whom Love doth honour - Be conceal’d from the day-- - Set a thousand guards upon her, - Love will find out the way. - - Some think to lose him - By having him confined; - And some do suppose him, - Poor heart! to be blind; - But if ne’er so close ye wall him, - Do the best that ye may, - Blind Love, if so ye call him, - He will find out his way. - - You may train the eagle - To stoop to your fist; - Or you may inveigle - The Phœnix of the east; - The lioness, you may move her - To give over her prey; - But you’ll ne’er stop a lover-- - He will find out the way. - - If the earth it should part him, - He would gallop it o’er; - If the seas should o’erthwart him, - He would swim to the shore; - Should his Love become a swallow, - Through the air to stray, - Love will lend wings to follow, - And will find out the way. - - - There is no striving - To cross his intent; - There is no contriving - His plots to prevent; - But if once the message greet him - That his True Love doth stay, - If Death should come and meet him, - Love will find out the way! - - -_392._ _Phillada flouts Me_ - - O what a plague is love! - How shall I bear it? - She will inconstant prove, - I greatly fear it. - She so torments my mind - That my strength faileth, - And wavers with the wind - As a ship saileth. - Please her the best I may, - She loves still to gainsay; - Alack and well-a-day! - Phillada flouts me. - - At the fair yesterday - She did pass by me; - She look’d another way - And would not spy me: - I woo’d her for to dine, - But could not get her; - Will had her to the wine-- - He might entreat her. - With Daniel she did dance, - On me she look’d askance: - O thrice unhappy chance! - Phillada flouts me. - - Fair maid, be not so coy, - Do not disdain me! - I am my mother’s joy: - Sweet, entertain me! - She’ll give me, when she dies, - All that is fitting: - Her poultry and her bees, - And her goose sitting, - A pair of mattrass beds, - And a bag full of shreds; - And yet, for all this guedes, - Phillada flouts me! - - She hath a clout of mine - Wrought with blue Coventry, - Which she keeps for a sign - Of my fidelity: - But i’ faith, if she flinch - She shall not wear it; - To Tib, my t’other wench, - I mean to bear it. - And yet it grieves my heart - So soon from her to part: - Death strike me with his dart! - Phillada flouts me. - - Thou shalt eat crudded cream - All the year lasting, - - guedes] goods, property of any kind. - - And drink the crystal stream - Pleasant in tasting; - Whig and whey whilst thou lust, - And bramble-berries, - Pie-lid and pastry-crust, - Pears, plums, and cherries. - Thy raiment shall be thin, - Made of a weevil’s skin-- - Yet all’s not worth a pin! - Phillada flouts me. - - In the last month of May - I made her posies; - I heard her often say - That she loved roses. - Cowslips and gillyflowers - And the white lily - I brought to deck the bowers - For my sweet Philly. - But she did all disdain, - And threw them back again; - Therefore ’tis flat and plain - Phillada flouts me. - - Fair maiden, have a care, - And in time take me; - I can have those as fair - If you forsake me: - For Doll the dairy-maid - Laugh’d at me lately, - And wanton Winifred - Favours me greatly. - One throws milk on my clothes, - T’other plays with my nose; - What wanting signs are those? - Phillada flouts me. - - I cannot work nor sleep - At all in season: - Love wounds my heart so deep - Without all reason. - I ’gin to pine away - In my love’s shadow, - Like as a fat beast may, - Penn’d in a meadow. - I shall be dead, I fear, - Within this thousand year: - And all for that my dear - Phillada flouts me. - - - - -WILLIAM STRODE - -1602-1645 - - -_393._ _Chloris in the Snow_ - - I saw fair Chloris walk alone, - When feather’d rain came softly down, - As Jove descending from his Tower - To court her in a silver shower: - The wanton snow flew to her breast, - Like pretty birds into their nest, - But, overcome with whiteness there, - For grief it thaw’d into a tear: - Thence falling on her garments’ hem, - To deck her, froze into a gem. - - - - -THOMAS STANLEY - -1625-1678 - - -_394._ _The Relapse_ - - Turn away those cruel eyes, - The stars of my undoing! - Or death, in such a bright disguise, - May tempt a second wooing. - - Punish their blind and impious pride, - Who dare contemn thy glory; - It was my fall that deified - Thy name, and seal’d thy story. - - Yet no new sufferings can prepare - A higher praise to crown thee; - Though my first death proclaim thee fair, - My second will unthrone thee. - - Lovers will doubt thou canst entice - No other for thy fuel, - And if thou burn one victim twice, - Both think thee poor and cruel. - - - - -THOMAS D’URFEY - -1653-1723 - - -_395._ _Chloe Divine_ - - Chloe’s a Nymph in flowery groves, - A Nereid in the streams; - Saint-like she in the temple moves, - A woman in my dreams. - - Love steals artillery from her eyes, - The Graces point her charms; - Orpheus is rivalled in her voice, - And Venus in her arms. - - - Never so happily in one - Did heaven and earth combine: - And yet ’tis flesh and blood alone - That makes her so divine. - - - - -CHARLES COTTON - -1630-1687 - - -_396._ _To Cœlia_ - - When, Cœlia, must my old day set, - And my young morning rise - In beams of joy so bright as yet - Ne’er bless’d a lover’s eyes? - My state is more advanced than when - I first attempted thee: - I sued to be a servant then, - But now to be made free. - - I’ve served my time faithful and true, - Expecting to be placed - In happy freedom, as my due, - To all the joys thou hast: - Ill husbandry in love is such - A scandal to love’s power, - We ought not to misspend so much - As one poor short-lived hour. - - Yet think not, sweet, I’m weary grown. - That I pretend such haste; - Since none to surfeit e’er was known - Before he had a taste: - My infant love could humbly wait - When, young, it scarce knew how - To plead; but grown to man’s estate, - He is impatient now. - - - - -KATHERINE PHILIPS (‘ORINDA’) - -1631-1664 - - -_397._ _To One persuading a Lady to Marriage_ - - Forbear, bold youth; all’s heaven here, - And what you do aver - To others courtship may appear, - ’Tis sacrilege to her. - She is a public deity; - And were’t not very odd - She should dispose herself to be - A petty household god? - - First make the sun in private shine - And bid the world adieu, - That so he may his beams confine - In compliment to you: - But if of that you do despair, - Think how you did amiss - To strive to fix her beams which are - More bright and large than his. - - - - -JOHN DRYDEN - -1631-1700 - - -_398._ _Ode_ - - _To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady, Mrs. Anne - Killigrew, excellent in the two sister arts of Poesy and Painting_ - - Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, - Made in the last promotion of the blest; - Whose palms, new pluck’d from Paradise, - In spreading branches more sublimely rise, - Rich with immortal green above the rest: - Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star, - Thou roll’st above us, in thy wandering race, - Or, in procession fixt and regular, - Mov’d with the heaven’s majestic pace; - Or, called to more superior bliss, - Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss: - Whatever happy region is thy place, - Cease thy celestial song a little space; - Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, - Since Heaven’s eternal year is thine. - Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, - In no ignoble verse; - But such as thy own voice did practise here, - When thy first-fruits of Poesy were given, - To make thyself a welcome inmate there; - While yet a young probationer, - And candidate of heaven. - - If by traduction came thy mind, - Our wonder is the less, to find - A soul so charming from a stock so good; - Thy father was transfus’d into thy blood: - So wert thou born into the tuneful strain, - An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. - But if thy pre-existing soul - Was form’d at first with myriads more, - It did through all the mighty poets roll - Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, - And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. - If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! - Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore: - Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, - Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: - Return, to fill or mend the quire of thy celestial kind. - - May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, - New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth? - For sure the milder planets did combine - On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, - And even the most malicious were in trine. - Thy brother-angels at thy birth - Strung each his lyre, and tun’d it high, - That all the people of the sky - Might know a poetess was born on earth; - And then, if ever, mortal ears - Had heard the music of the spheres. - And if no clust’ring swarm of bees - On thy sweet mouth distill’d their golden dew, - ’Twas that such vulgar miraclès - Heaven had not leisure to renew: - For all the blest fraternity of love - Solemniz’d there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. - - O gracious God! how far have we - Profan’d thy heavenly gift of Poesy! - Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, - Debas’d to each obscene and impious use, - Whose harmony was first ordain’d above, - For tongues of angels and for hymns of love! - O wretched we! why were we hurried down - This lubrique and adulterate age - (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own), - To increase the streaming ordures of the stage? - What can we say to excuse our second fall? - Let this thy Vestal, Heaven, atone for all! - Her Arethusian stream remains unsoil’d, - Unmixt with foreign filth, and undefil’d; - Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child. - - Art she had none, yet wanted none, - For Nature did that want supply: - So rich in treasures of her own, - She might our boasted stores defy: - Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, - That it seem’d borrowed, where ’twas only born. - Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, - By great examples daily fed, - What in the best of books, her father’s life, she read. - And to be read herself she need not fear; - Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, - Though Epictetus with his lamp were there. - Even love (for love sometimes her Muse exprest) - Was but a lambent flame which play’d about her breast, - Light as the vapours of a morning dream; - So cold herself, whilst she such warmth exprest, - ’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream.... - - Now all those charms, that blooming grace, - The well-proportion’d shape, and beauteous face, - Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; - In earth the much-lamented virgin lies. - Not wit, nor piety could fate prevent; - Nor was the cruel destiny content - To finish all the murder at a blow, - To sweep at once her life and beauty too; - But, like a hardened felon, took a pride - To work more mischievously slow, - And plunder’d first, and then destroyed. - O double sacrilege on things divine, - To rob the relic, and deface the shrine! - But thus Orinda died: - Heaven, by the same disease, did both translate; - As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate. - - Meantime, her warlike brother on the seas - His waving streamers to the winds displays, - And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. - Ah, generous youth! that wish forbear, - The winds too soon will waft thee here! - Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, - Alas, thou know’st not, thou art wreck’d at home! - No more shalt thou behold thy sister’s face, - Thou hast already had her last embrace. - But look aloft, and if thou kenn’st from far, - Among the Pleiads a new kindl’d star, - If any sparkles than the rest more bright, - ’Tis she that shines in that propitious light. - - When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, - To raise the nations under ground; - When, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, - The judging God shall close the book of Fate, - And there the last assizes keep - For those who wake and those who sleep; - When rattling bones together fly - From the four corners of the sky; - When sinews o’er the skeletons are spread, - Those cloth’d with flesh, and life inspires the dead; - The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, - And foremost from the tomb shall bound, - For they are cover’d with the lightest ground; - And straight, with inborn vigour, on the wing, - Like mounting larks, to the new morning sing. - There thou, sweet Saint, before the quire shalt go, - As harbinger of Heaven, the way to show, - The way which thou so well hast learn’d below. - - -_399._ _A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day, 1687_ - - From harmony, from heavenly harmony, - This universal frame began: - When nature underneath a heap - Of jarring atoms lay, - And could not heave her head, - The tuneful voice was heard from high, - ‘Arise, ye more than dead!’ - Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, - In order to their stations leap, - And Music’s power obey. - From harmony, from heavenly harmony, - This universal frame began: - From harmony to harmony - Through all the compass of the notes it ran, - The diapason closing full in Man. - - What passion cannot Music raise and quell? - When Jubal struck the chorded shell, - His listening brethren stood around, - And, wondering, on their faces fell - To worship that celestial sound: - Less than a God they thought there could not dwell - Within the hollow of that shell, - That spoke so sweetly, and so well. - What passion cannot Music raise and quell? - - - The trumpet’s loud clangour - Excites us to arms, - With shrill notes of anger, - And mortal alarms. - The double double double beat - Of the thundering drum - Cries Hark! the foes come; - Charge, charge, ’tis too late to retreat! - - The soft complaining flute, - In dying notes, discovers - The woes of hopeless lovers, - Whose dirge is whisper’d by the warbling lute. - - Sharp violins proclaim - Their jealous pangs and desperation, - Fury, frantic indignation, - Depth of pains, and height of passion. - For the fair, disdainful dame. - - But O, what art can teach, - What human voice can reach, - The sacred organ’s praise? - Notes inspiring holy love, - Notes that wing their heavenly ways - To mend the choirs above. - - Orpheus could lead the savage race; - And trees unrooted left their place, - Sequacious of the lyre; - But bright Cecilia rais’d the wonder higher: - When to her organ vocal breath was given, - An angel heard, and straight appear’d - Mistaking Earth for Heaven. - - -GRAND CHORUS. - - As from the power of sacred lays - The spheres began to move, - And sung the great Creator’s praise - To all the Blest above; - So when the last and dreadful hour - This crumbling pageant shall devour, - The trumpet shall be heard on high, - The dead shall live, the living die, - And Music shall untune the sky! - - -_400._ _Ah, how sweet it is to love!_ - - Ah, how sweet it is to love! - Ah, how gay is young Desire! - And what pleasing pains we prove - When we first approach Love’s fire! - Pains of love be sweeter far - Than all other pleasures are. - - Sighs which are from lovers blown - Do but gently heave the heart: - Ev’n the tears they shed alone - Cure, like trickling balm, their smart: - Lovers, when they lose their breath, - Bleed away in easy death. - - Love and Time with reverence use, - Treat them like a parting friend; - Nor the golden gifts refuse - Which in youth sincere they send: - For each year their price is more, - And they less simple than before. - - - Love, like spring-tides full and high, - Swells in every youthful vein; - But each tide does less supply, - Till they quite shrink in again: - If a flow in age appear, - ’Tis but rain, and runs not clear. - - -_401._ _Hidden Flame_ - - I feed a flame within, which so torments me - That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me: - ’Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, - That I had rather die than once remove it. - - Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it; - My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it. - Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses, - But they fall silently, like dew on roses. - - Thus, to prevent my Love from being cruel, - My heart’s the sacrifice, as ’tis the fuel; - And while I suffer this to give him quiet, - My faith rewards my love, though he deny it. - - On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me; - While I conceal my love no frown can fright me. - To be more happy I dare not aspire, - Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher. - - -_402._ _Song to a Fair Young Lady, going out of the Town in the Spring_ - - Ask not the cause why sullen Spring - So long delays her flowers to bear; - Why warbling birds forget to sing, - And winter storms invert the year: - Chloris is gone; and fate provides - To make it Spring where she resides. - - Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; - She cast not back a pitying eye: - But left her lover in despair - To sigh, to languish, and to die: - Ah! how can those fair eyes endure - To give the wounds they will not cure? - - Great God of Love, why hast thou made - A face that can all hearts command, - That all religions can invade, - And change the laws of every land? - Where thou hadst plac’d such power before, - Thou shouldst have made her mercy more. - - When Chloris to the temple comes, - Adoring crowds before her fall; - She can restore the dead from tombs - And every life but mine recall. - I only am by Love design’d - To be the victim for mankind. - - - - -CHARLES WEBBE - -c. 1678 - - -_403._ _Against Indifference_ - - More love or more disdain I crave, - Sweet, be not still indifferent: - O send me quickly to my grave, - Or else afford me more content! - Or love or hate me more or less, - For love abhors all lukewarmness. - - Give me a tempest if ’twill drive - Me to the place where I would be; - Or if you’ll have me still alive, - Confess you will be kind to me. - Give hopes of bliss or dig my grave: - More love or more disdain I crave. - - - - -SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE - -1635-1691 - - -_404._ _Song_ - - Ladies, though to your conquering eyes - Love owes his chiefest victories, - And borrows those bright arms from you - With which he does the world subdue, - Yet you yourselves are not above - The empire nor the griefs of love. - - Then rack not lovers with disdain, - Lest Love on you revenge their pain: - You are not free because you’re fair: - The Boy did not his Mother spare. - Beauty’s but an offensive dart: - It is no armour for the heart. - - -_405._ _To a Lady asking him how long he would love her_ - - It is not, Celia, in our power - To say how long our love will last; - It may be we within this hour - May lose those joys we now do taste; - The Blessèd, that immortal be, - From change in love are only free. - - Then since we mortal lovers are, - Ask not how long our love will last; - But while it does, let us take care - Each minute be with pleasure past: - Were it not madness to deny - To live because we’re sure to die? - - - - -THOMAS TRAHERNE - -1637?-1674 - - -_406._ _News_ - - News from a foreign country came - As if my treasure and my wealth lay there; - So much it did my heart inflame, - ’Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear; - Which thither went to meet - The approaching sweet, - And on the threshold stood - To entertain the unknown Good. - It hover’d there - As if ’twould leave mine ear, - And was so eager to embrace - The joyful tidings as they came, - ’Twould almost leave its dwelling-place - To entertain that same. - - As if the tidings were the things, - My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure-- - Or else did bear them on their wings-- - With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure. - My Soul stood at that gate - To recreate - Itself with bliss, and to - Be pleased with speed. A fuller view - It fain would take, - Yet journeys back would make - Unto my heart; as if ’twould fain - Go out to meet, yet stay within - To fit a place to entertain - And bring the tidings in. - - What sacred instinct did inspire - My soul in childhood with a hope so strong? - What secret force moved my desire - To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young? - Felicity I knew - Was out of view, - And being here alone, - I saw that happiness was gone - From me! For this - I thirsted absent bliss, - And thought that sure beyond the seas, - Or else in something near at hand-- - I knew not yet--since naught did please - I knew--my Bliss did stand. - - - But little did the infant dream - That all the treasures of the world were by: - And that himself was so the cream - And crown of all which round about did lie. - Yet thus it was: the Gem, - The Diadem, - The ring enclosing all - That stood upon this earthly ball, - The Heavenly eye, - Much wider than the sky, - Wherein they all included were, - The glorious Soul, that was the King - Made to possess them, did appear - A small and little thing! - - - - -THOMAS FLATMAN - -1637-1688 - - -_407._ _The Sad Day_ - - O the sad day! - When friends shall shake their heads, and say - Of miserable me-- - ‘Hark, how he groans! - Look, how he pants for breath! - See how he struggles with the pangs of death!’ - When they shall say of these dear eyes-- - ‘How hollow, O how dim they be! - Mark how his breast doth rise and swell - Against his potent enemy!’ - When some old friend shall step to my bedside, - Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide. - But--when his next companions say - ‘How does he do? What hopes?’--shall turn away, - Answering only, with a lift-up hand-- - ‘Who can his fate withstand?’ - - Then shall a gasp or two do more - Than e’er my rhetoric could before: - Persuade the world to trouble me no more! - - - - -CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET - -1638-1706 - - -_408._ _Song_ - -_Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an -Engagement._ - - To all you ladies now at land - We men at sea indite; - But first would have you understand - How hard it is to write: - The Muses now, and Neptune too, - We must implore to write to you-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - For though the Muses should prove kind, - And fill our empty brain, - Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind - To wave the azure main, - Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, - Roll up and down our ships at sea-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - - Then if we write not by each post, - Think not we are unkind; - Nor yet conclude our ships are lost - By Dutchmen or by wind: - Our tears we’ll send a speedier way, - The tide shall bring them twice a day-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - The King with wonder and surprise - Will swear the seas grow bold, - Because the tides will higher rise - Than e’er they did of old: - But let him know it is our tears - Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - Should foggy Opdam chance to know - Our sad and dismal story, - The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, - And quit their fort at Goree: - For what resistance can they find - From men who’ve left their hearts behind?-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - Let wind and weather do its worst, - Be you to us but kind; - Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, - No sorrow we shall find: - ’Tis then no matter how things go, - Or who’s our friend, or who’s our foe-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - To pass our tedious hours away - We throw a merry main, - Or else at serious ombre play; - But why should we in vain - Each other’s ruin thus pursue? - We were undone when we left you-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - But now our fears tempestuous grow - And cast our hopes away; - Whilst you, regardless of our woe, - Sit careless at a play: - Perhaps permit some happier man - To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - When any mournful tune you hear, - That dies in every note - As if it sigh’d with each man’s care - For being so remote, - Think then how often love we’ve made - To you, when all those tunes were play’d-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - In justice you cannot refuse - To think of our distress, - When we for hopes of honour lose - Our certain happiness: - All those designs are but to prove - Ourselves more worthy of your love-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - And now we’ve told you all our loves, - And likewise all our fears, - In hopes this declaration moves - Some pity for our tears: - Let’s hear of no inconstancy-- - We have too much of that at sea-- - With a fa, la, la, la, la. - - - - -SIR CHARLES SEDLEY - -1639-1701 - - -_409._ _To Chloris_ - - Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit - As unconcern’d as when - Your infant beauty could beget - No pleasure, nor no pain! - When I the dawn used to admire, - And praised the coming day, - I little thought the growing fire - Must take my rest away. - - Your charms in harmless childhood lay - Like metals in the mine; - Age from no face took more away - Than youth conceal’d in thine. - But as your charms insensibly - To their perfection prest, - Fond love as unperceived did fly, - And in my bosom rest. - - My passion with your beauty grew, - And Cupid at my heart, - Still as his mother favour’d you, - Threw a new flaming dart: - Each gloried in their wanton part; - To make a lover, he - Employ’d the utmost of his art-- - To make a beauty, she. - - -_410._ _To Celia_ - - Not, Celia, that I juster am - Or better than the rest! - For I would change each hour, like them, - Were not my heart at rest. - - - But I am tied to very thee - By every thought I have; - Thy face I only care to see, - Thy heart I only crave. - - All that in woman is adored - In thy dear self I find-- - For the whole sex can but afford - The handsome and the kind. - - Why then should I seek further store, - And still make love anew? - When change itself can give no more, - ’Tis easy to be true! - - - - -APHRA BEHN - -1640-1689 - - -_411._ _Song_ - - Love in fantastic triumph sate - Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow’d, - For whom fresh pains he did create - And strange tyrannic power he show’d: - From thy bright eyes he took his fires, - Which round about in sport he hurl’d; - But ’twas from mine he took desires - Enough t’ undo the amorous world. - - From me he took his sighs and tears, - From thee his pride and cruelty; - From me his languishments and fears, - And every killing dart from thee. - Thus thou and I the god have arm’d - And set him up a deity; - But my poor heart alone is harm’d, - Whilst thine the victor is, and free! - - -_412._ _The Libertine_ - - A thousand martyrs I have made, - All sacrificed to my desire, - A thousand beauties have betray’d - That languish in resistless fire: - The untamed heart to hand I brought, - And fix’d the wild and wand’ring thought. - - I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain, - But both, tho’ false, were well received; - The fair are pleased to give us pain, - And what they wish is soon believed: - And tho’ I talk’d of wounds and smart, - Love’s pleasures only touch’d my heart. - - Alone the glory and the spoil - I always laughing bore away; - The triumphs without pain or toil, - Without the hell the heaven of joy; - And while I thus at random rove - Despise the fools that whine for love. - - - - -JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER - -1647-1680 - - -_413._ _Return_ - - Absent from thee, I languish still; - Then ask me not, When I return? - The straying fool ’twill plainly kill - To wish all day, all night to mourn. - - - Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, - That my fantastic mind may prove - The torments it deserves to try, - That tears my fix’d heart from my love. - - When, wearied with a world of woe, - To thy safe bosom I retire, - Where love, and peace, and truth does flow, - May I contented there expire! - - Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, - I fall on some base heart unblest; - Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven-- - And lose my everlasting rest. - - -_414._ _Love and Life_ - - All my past life is mine no more; - The flying hours are gone, - Like transitory dreams given o’er, - Whose images are kept in store - By memory alone. - - The time that is to come is not; - How can it then be mine? - The present moment’s all my lot; - And that, as fast as it is got, - Phillis, is only thine. - - Then talk not of inconstancy. - False hearts, and broken vows; - If I by miracle can be - This live-long minute true to thee, - ’Tis all that Heaven allows. - - -_415._ _Constancy_ - - I cannot change as others do, - Though you unjustly scorn; - Since that poor swain that sighs for you - For you alone was born. - No, Phillis, no; your heart to move - A surer way I’ll try; - And, to revenge my slighted love, - Will still love on and die. - - When kill’d with grief Amyntas lies, - And you to mind shall call - The sighs that now unpitied rise, - The tears that vainly fall-- - That welcome hour, that ends this smart, - Will then begin your pain; - For such a faithful tender heart - Can never break in vain. - - -_416._ _To His Mistress_ - -(_After Quarles_) - - Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why - Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny - The sunshine of the Sun’s enlivening eye? - - Without thy light what light remains in me? - Thou art my life; my way, my light’s in thee; - I live, I move, and by thy beams I see. - - Thou art my life--if thou but turn away - My life’s a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-- - Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray. - - - My light thou art--without thy glorious sight - My eyes are darken’d with eternal night. - My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light. - - Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. - Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I! - Thou art my life; if thou withdraw’st, I die. - - My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see: - To whom or whither should my darkness flee, - But to that light?--and who’s that light but thee? - - If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, - Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? - Love, shall a lamb of Israel’s sheepfold stray? - - My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; - I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; - Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way? - - And yet thou turn’st thy face away and fly’st me! - And yet I sue for grace and thou deny’st me! - Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try’st me? - - Thou art the pilgrim’s path, the blind man’s eye, - The dead man’s life. On thee my hopes rely: - If I but them remove, I surely die. - - Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! - See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray! - --O thou that art my life, my light, my way! - - Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee, - My reason shall obey, my wings shall be - Stretch’d out no farther than from me to thee! - - - - -JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE - -1649-1720 - - -_417._ _The Reconcilement_ - - Come, let us now resolve at last - To live and love in quiet; - We’ll tie the knot so very fast - That Time shall ne’er untie it. - - The truest joys they seldom prove - Who free from quarrels live: - ’Tis the most tender part of love - Each other to forgive. - - When least I seem’d concern’d, I took - No pleasure nor no rest; - And when I feign’d an angry look, - Alas! I loved you best. - - Own but the same to me--you’ll find - How blest will be our fate. - O to be happy--to be kind-- - Sure never is too late! - - -_418._ _On One who died discovering her Kindness_ - - Some vex their souls with jealous pain, - While others sigh for cold disdain: - Love’s various slaves we daily see-- - Yet happy all compared with me! - - - Of all mankind I loved the best - A nymph so far above the rest - That we outshined the Blest above; - In beauty she, as I in love. - - And therefore They, who could not bear - To be outdone by mortals here, - Among themselves have placed her now, - And left me wretched here below. - - All other fate I could have borne, - And even endured her very scorn; - But oh! thus all at once to find - That dread account--both dead and kind! - What heart can hold? If yet I live, - ’Tis but to show how much I grieve. - - - - -THOMAS OTWAY - -1652-1685 - - -_419._ _The Enchantment_ - - I did but look and love awhile, - ’Twas but for one half-hour; - Then to resist I had no will, - And now I have no power. - - To sigh and wish is all my ease; - Sighs which do heat impart - Enough to melt the coldest ice, - Yet cannot warm your heart. - - O would your pity give my heart - One corner of your breast, - ’Twould learn of yours the winning art, - And quickly steal the rest. - - - - -JOHN OLDHAM - -1653-1683 - - -_420._ _A Quiet Soul_ - - Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep, - As if humanity were lull’d asleep; - So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath, - Time’s unheard feet scarce make less noise, - Or the soft journey which a planet goes: - Life seem’d all calm as its last breath. - A still tranquillity so hush’d thy breast, - As if some Halcyon were its guest, - And there had built her nest; - It hardly now enjoys a greater rest. - - - - -JOHN CUTTS, LORD CUTTS - -1661-1707 - - -_421._ _Song_ - - Only tell her that I love: - Leave the rest to her and Fate: - Some kind planet from above - May perhaps her pity move: - Lovers on their stars must wait.-- - Only tell her that I love! - - Why, O why should I despair! - Mercy’s pictured in her eye: - If she once vouchsafe to hear, - Welcome Hope and farewell Fear! - She’s too good to let me die.-- - Why, O why should I despair? - - - - -MATTHEW PRIOR - -1664-1721 - - -_422._ _The Question to Lisetta_ - - What nymph should I admire or trust, - But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just? - What nymph should I desire to see, - But her who leaves the plain for me? - To whom should I compose the lay, - But her who listens when I play? - To whom in song repeat my cares, - But her who in my sorrow shares? - For whom should I the garland make, - But her who joys the gift to take, - And boasts she wears it for my sake? - In love am I not fully blest? - Lisetta, prithee tell the rest. - - -LISETTA’S REPLY - - Sure Chloe just, and Chloe fair, - Deserves to be your only care; - But, when you and she to-day - Far into the wood did stray, - And I happened to pass by, - Which way did you cast your eye? - But, when your cares to her you sing, - You dare not tell her whence they spring; - Does it not more afflict your heart, - That in those cares she bears a part? - When you the flowers for Chloe twine, - Why do you to her garland join - The meanest bud that falls from mine? - Simplest of swains! the world may see - Whom Chloe loves, and who loves me. - - -_423._ _To a Child of Quality, Five Years Old, 1704. The Author then -Forty_ - - Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band - That wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters, - Were summoned by her high command - To show their passions by their letters. - - My pen amongst the rest I took, - Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, - Should dart their kindling fire, and look - The power they have to be obey’d. - - Nor quality, nor reputation, - Forbid me yet my flame to tell; - Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, - And I may write till she can spell. - - For, while she makes her silkworms beds - With all the tender things I swear; - Whilst all the house my passion reads, - In papers round her baby’s hair; - - She may receive and own my flame; - For, though the strictest prudes should know it, - She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame, - And I for an unhappy poet. - - Then too, alas! when she shall tear - The rhymes some younger rival sends, - She’ll give me leave to write, I fear, - And we shall still continue friends. - - For, as our different ages move, - ’Tis so ordain’d (would Fate but mend it!), - That I shall be past making love - When she begins to comprehend it. - - -_424._ _Song_ - - The merchant, to secure his treasure, - Conveys it in a borrow’d name: - Euphelia serves to grace my measure; - But Chloe is my real flame. - - My softest verse, my darling lyre, - Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay; - When Chloe noted her desire - That I should sing, that I should play. - - My lyre I tune, my voice I raise; - But with my numbers mix my sighs: - And while I sing Euphelia’s praise, - I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes. - - Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d: - I sung, and gazed: I play’d, and trembled: - And Venus to the Loves around - Remark’d, how ill we all dissembled. - - -_425._ _On My Birthday, July 21_ - - I, my dear, was born to-day-- - So all my jolly comrades say: - They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth, - And ask to celebrate my birth: - Little, alas! my comrades know - That I was born to pain and woe; - To thy denial, to thy scorn, - Better I had ne’er been born: - I wish to die, even whilst I say-- - ‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’ - - - I, my dear, was born to-day: - Shall I salute the rising ray, - Well-spring of all my joy and woe? - Clotilda, thou alone dost know. - Shall the wreath surround my hair? - Or shall the music please my ear? - Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive, - And bless my birth, and wish to live? - Then let me see great Venus chase - Imperious anger from thy face; - Then let me hear thee smiling say-- - ‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’ - - -_426._ _The Lady who offers her Looking-Glass to Venus_ - - Venus, take my votive glass: - Since I am not what I was, - What from this day I shall be, - Venus, let me never see. - - -_427._ _A Letter_ - -_to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child_ - - My noble, lovely, little Peggy, - Let this my First Epistle beg ye, - At dawn of morn, and close of even, - To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. - In double duty say your prayer: - _Our Father_ first, then _Notre Père_. - - - And, dearest child, along the day, - In every thing you do and say, - Obey and please my lord and lady, - So God shall love and angels aid ye. - - If to these precepts you attend, - No second letter need I send, - And so I rest your constant friend. - - -_428._ _For my own Monument_ - - As doctors give physic by way of prevention, - Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; - For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention - May haply be never fulfill’d by his heir. - - Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid; - That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; - Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, - For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie. - - Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, - His virtues and vices were as other men’s are; - High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears, - In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care. - - Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, - He strove to make interest and freedom agree; - In public employments industrious and grave, - And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he! - - Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, - Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust; - And whirl’d in the round as the wheel turn’d about, - He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. - - - This verse, little polish’d, tho’ mighty sincere, - Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; - It says that his relics collected lie here, - And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true. - - Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, - So Mat may be kill’d, and his bones never found; - False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, - So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d. - - If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, - To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; - And if passing thou giv’st him a smile or a tear, - He cares not--yet, prithee, be kind to his fame. - - - - -WILLIAM WALSH - -1663-1708 - - -_429._ _Rivals_ - - Of all the torments, all the cares, - With which our lives are curst; - Of all the plagues a lover bears, - Sure rivals are the worst! - By partners in each other kind - Afflictions easier grow; - In love alone we hate to find - Companions of our woe. - - Sylvia, for all the pangs you see - Are labouring in my breast, - I beg not you would favour me, - Would you but slight the rest! - How great soe’er your rigours are, - With them alone I’ll cope; - I can endure my own despair, - But not another’s hope. - - - - -LADY GRISEL BAILLIE - -1665-1746 - - -_430._ _Werena my Hearts licht I wad dee_ - - There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men; - She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen; - But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day! - Come doun the green gait and come here away! - - When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea, - He said he saw naething sae lovely as me; - He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things-- - And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee. - - He had a wee titty that lo’ed na me, - Because I was twice as bonnie as she; - She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his mother - That werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee. - - The day it was set, and the bridal to be: - The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee; - She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain, - Till he vow’d he never wad see me again. - - His kin was for ane of a higher degree, - Said--What had he do wi’ the likes of me? - Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie-- - And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee. - - They said I had neither cow nor calf, - Nor dribbles o’ drink rins thro’ the draff, - Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill-e’e-- - And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee. - - may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] promised. titty] - sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] suppose. pickles] small - quantities. - - His titty she was baith wylie and slee: - She spied me as I cam owre the lea; - And then she ran in and made a loud din-- - Believe your ain e’en, an ye trow not me. - - His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow, - His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new: - But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing, - And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing. - - And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes, - And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes: - The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e-- - And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee. - - Were I but young for thee, as I hae been, - We should hae been gallopin’ doun in yon green, - And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea-- - And wow, gin I were but young for thee! - - _430._ hing] hang. dowie] dejectedly. hund the tykes] direct the - dogs. steeks] closes. linkin’] tripping. - - - - -WILLIAM CONGREVE - -1670-1729. - - -_431._ _False though She be_ - - False though she be to me and love, - I’ll ne’er pursue revenge; - For still the charmer I approve, - Though I deplore her change. - - In hours of bliss we oft have met: - They could not always last; - And though the present I regret, - I’m grateful for the past. - - -_432._ _A Hue and Cry after Fair Amoret_ - - Fair Amoret is gone astray-- - Pursue and seek her, ev’ry lover; - I’ll tell the signs by which you may - The wand’ring Shepherdess discover. - - Coquette and coy at once her air, - Both studied, tho’ both seem neglected; - Careless she is, with artful care, - Affecting to seem unaffected. - - With skill her eyes dart ev’ry glance, - Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect them, - For she’d persuade they wound by chance, - Tho’ certain aim and art direct them. - - She likes herself, yet others hates - For that which in herself she prizes; - And, while she laughs at them, forgets - She is the thing that she despises. - - - - -JOSEPH ADDISON - -1672-1719 - - -_433._ _Hymn_ - - The spacious firmament on high, - With all the blue ethereal sky, - And spangled heavens, a shining frame, - Their great Original proclaim. - Th’ unwearied Sun from day to day - Does his Creator’s power display; - And publishes to every land - The work of an Almighty hand. - - - Soon as the evening shades prevail, - The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; - And nightly to the listening Earth - Repeats the story of her birth: - Whilst all the stars that round her burn, - And all the planets in their turn, - Confirm the tidings as they roll, - And spread the truth from pole to pole. - - What though in solemn silence all - Move round the dark terrestrial ball; - What though nor real voice nor sound - Amidst their radiant orbs be found? - In Reason’s ear they all rejoice, - And utter forth a glorious voice; - For ever singing as they shine, - ‘The Hand that made us is divine.’ - - - - -ISAAC WATTS - -1674-1748 - - -_434._ _The Day of Judgement_ - - When the fierce North-wind with his airy forces - Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury; - And the red lightning with a storm of hail comes - Rushing amain down; - - How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble, - While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet, - Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters - Quick to devour them. - - - Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder - (If things eternal may be like these earthly), - Such the dire terror when the great Archangel - Shakes the creation; - - Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven, - Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes, - Sees the graves open, and the bones arising, - Flames all around them. - - Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches! - Lively bright horror and amazing anguish - Stare thro’ their eyelids, while the living worm lies - Gnawing within them. - - Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings, - And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds the - Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance - Rolling afore him. - - Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver, - While devils push them to the pit wide-yawning - Hideous and gloomy, to receive them headlong - Down to the centre! - - Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid - Doleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus, - How He sits God-like! and the saints around Him - Throned, yet adoring! - - O may I sit there when He comes triumphant, - Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory, - While our Hosannas all along the passage - Shout the Redeemer. - - -_435._ _A Cradle Hymn_ - - Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, - Holy angels guard thy bed! - Heavenly blessings without number - Gently falling on thy head. - - Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, - House and home, thy friends provide; - All without thy care or payment: - All thy wants are well supplied. - - How much better thou’rt attended - Than the Son of God could be, - When from heaven He descended - And became a child like thee! - - Soft and easy is thy cradle: - Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, - When His birthplace was a stable - And His softest bed was hay. - - Blessèd babe! what glorious features-- - Spotless fair, divinely bright! - Must He dwell with brutal creatures? - How could angels bear the sight? - - Was there nothing but a manger - Cursèd sinners could afford - To receive the heavenly stranger? - Did they thus affront their Lord? - - - Soft, my child: I did not chide thee, - Though my song might sound too hard; - ’Tis thy mother sits beside thee, - And her arms shall be thy guard. - - Yet to read the shameful story - How the Jews abused their King, - How they served the Lord of Glory, - Makes me angry while I sing. - - See the kinder shepherds round Him, - Telling wonders from the sky! - Where they sought Him, there they found Him, - With His Virgin mother by. - - See the lovely babe a-dressing; - Lovely infant, how He smiled! - When He wept, the mother’s blessing - Soothed and hush’d the holy child. - - Lo, He slumbers in His manger, - Where the hornèd oxen fed: - Peace, my darling; here’s no danger, - Here’s no ox anear thy bed. - - ’Twas to save thee, child, from dying, - Save my dear from burning flame, - Bitter groans and endless crying, - That thy blest Redeemer came. - - May’st thou live to know and fear Him, - Trust and love Him all thy days; - Then go dwell for ever near Him, - See His face, and sing His praise! - - - - -THOMAS PARNELL - -1679-1718 - - -_436._ _Song_ - - When thy beauty appears - In its graces and airs - All bright as an angel new dropp’d from the sky, - At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears: - So strangely you dazzle my eye! - - But when without art - Your kind thoughts you impart, - When your love runs in blushes through every vein; - When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart, - Then I know you’re a woman again. - - There’s a passion and pride - In our sex (she replied), - And thus, might I gratify both, I would do: - Still an angel appear to each lover beside, - But still be a woman to you. - - - - -ALLAN RAMSAY - -1686-1758 - - -_437._ _Peggy_ - - My Peggy is a young thing, - Just enter’d in her teens, - Fair as the day, and sweet as May, - Fair as the day, and always gay; - My Peggy is a young thing, - And I’m not very auld, - Yet well I like to meet her at - The wawking of the fauld. - - My Peggy speaks sae sweetly - Whene’er we meet alane, - I wish nae mair to lay my care, - I wish nae mair of a’ that’s rare; - My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, - To a’ the lave I’m cauld, - But she gars a’ my spirits glow - At wawking of the fauld. - - My Peggy smiles sae kindly - Whene’er I whisper love, - That I look down on a’ the town, - That I look down upon a crown; - My Peggy smiles sae kindly, - It makes me blyth and bauld, - And naething gi’es me sic delight - As wawking of the fauld. - - My Peggy sings sae saftly - When on my pipe I play, - By a’ the rest it is confest, - By a’ the rest, that she sings best; - My Peggy sings sae saftly, - And in her sangs are tauld - With innocence the wale of sense, - At wawking of the fauld. - - wawking] watching. lave] rest. wale] choice, best. - - - - -WILLIAM OLDYS - -1687-1761 - - -_438._ _On a Fly drinking out of his Cup_ - - Busy, curious, thirsty fly! - Drink with me and drink as I: - Freely welcome to my cup, - Couldst thou sip and sip it up: - Make the most of life you may, - Life is short and wears away. - - Both alike are mine and thine - Hastening quick to their decline: - Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more, - Though repeated to threescore. - Threescore summers, when they’re gone, - Will appear as short as one! - - - - -JOHN GAY - -1688-1732 - - -_439._ _Song_ - - O ruddier than the cherry! - O sweeter than the berry! - O nymph more bright - Than moonshine night, - Like kidlings blithe and merry! - Ripe as the melting cluster! - No lily has such lustre; - Yet hard to tame - As raging flame, - And fierce as storms that bluster! - - - - -ALEXANDER POPE - -1688-1744 - - -_440._ _On a certain Lady at Court_ - - I know a thing that’s most uncommon; - (Envy, be silent and attend!) - I know a reasonable woman, - Handsome and witty, yet a friend. - - Not warp’d by passion, awed by rumour; - Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; - An equal mixture of good-humour - And sensible soft melancholy. - - ‘Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?’ - Yes, she has one, I must aver: - When all the world conspires to praise her, - The woman’s deaf, and does not hear. - - -_441._ _Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady_ - - What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade - Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? - ’Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored, - Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? - O, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, - Is it, in Heav’n, a crime to love too well? - To bear too tender or too firm a heart, - To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part? - Is there no bright reversion in the sky - For those who greatly think, or bravely die? - Why bade ye else, ye Pow’rs! her soul aspire - Above the vulgar flight of low desire? - Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; - The glorious fault of angels and of gods; - Thence to their images on earth it flows, - And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. - Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age, - Dull sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage: - Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, - Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; - Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, - And close confined to their own palace, sleep. - From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die) - Fate snatch’d her early to the pitying sky. - As into air the purer spirits flow, - And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below, - So flew the soul to its congenial place, - Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. - But thou, false guardian of a charge too good! - Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! - See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, - These cheeks now fading at the blast of Death: - Cold is that breast which warm’d the world before, - And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. - Thus, if eternal Justice rules the ball, - Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; - On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, - And frequent herses shall besiege your gates. - There passengers shall stand, and pointing say - (While the long fun’rals blacken all the way), - ‘Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steel’d - And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.’ - Thus unlamented pass the proud away, - The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! - So perish all whose breast ne’er learn’d to glow - For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe! - What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) - Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? - No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear - Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier. - By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, - By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, - By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn’d, - By strangers honour’d, and by strangers mourn’d! - What tho’ no friends in sable weeds appear, - Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, - And bear about the mockery of woe - To midnight dances, and the public show? - What tho’ no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, - Nor polish’d marble emulate thy face? - What tho’ no sacred earth allow thee room, - Nor hallow’d dirge be mutter’d o’er thy tomb? - Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest, - And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: - There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, - There the first roses of the year shall blow; - While angels with their silver wings o’ershade - The ground now sacred by thy reliques made. - So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, - What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. - How loved, how honour’d once, avails thee not, - To whom related, or by whom begot; - A heap of dust alone remains of thee, - ’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! - Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, - Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. - Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, - Shall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays; - Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, - And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; - Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er, - The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! - - -_442._ _The Dying Christian to his Soul_ - - Vital spark of heav’nly flame! - Quit, O quit this mortal frame: - Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, - O the pain, the bliss of dying! - Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, - And let me languish into life. - - Hark! they whisper; angels say, - Sister Spirit, come away! - What is this absorbs me quite? - Steals my senses, shuts my sight, - Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? - Tell me, my soul, can this be death? - - The world recedes; it disappears! - Heav’n opens on my eyes! my ears - With sounds seraphic ring! - Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! - O Grave! where is thy victory? - O Death! where is thy sting? - - - - -GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON, LORD MELCOMBE - -1691?-1762 - - -_443._ _Shorten Sail_ - - Love thy country, wish it well, - Not with too intense a care; - ’Tis enough that, when it fell, - Thou its ruin didst not share. - - Envy’s censure, Flattery’s praise, - With unmoved indifference view: - Learn to tread Life’s dangerous maze - With unerring Virtue’s clue. - - Void of strong desire and fear, - Life’s wide ocean trust no more; - Strive thy little bark to steer - With the tide, but near the shore. - - Thus prepared, thy shorten’d sail - Shall, whene’er the winds increase, - Seizing each propitious gale, - Waft thee to the port of Peace. - - Keep thy conscience from offence - And tempestuous passions free, - So, when thou art call’d from hence, - Easy shall thy passage be. - - --Easy shall thy passage be, - Cheerful thy allotted stay, - Short the account ’twixt God and thee, - Hope shall meet thee on thy way. - - - - -HENRY CAREY - -1693?-1743 - - -_444._ _Sally in our Alley_ - - Of all the girls that are so smart - There’s none like pretty Sally; - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - There is no lady in the land - Is half so sweet as Sally; - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - - Her father he makes cabbage-nets, - And through the streets does cry ’em; - Her mother she sells laces long - To such as please to buy ’em: - But sure such folks could ne’er beget - So sweet a girl as Sally! - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - - When she is by, I leave my work, - I love her so sincerely; - My master comes like any Turk, - And bangs me most severely: - But let him bang his bellyful, - I’ll bear it all for Sally; - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - - Of all the days that’s in the week - I dearly love but one day-- - And that’s the day that comes betwixt - A Saturday and Monday; - For then I’m drest all in my best - To walk abroad with Sally; - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - - My master carries me to church, - And often am I blamèd - Because I leave him in the lurch - As soon as text is namèd; - I leave the church in sermon-time - And slink away to Sally; - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - - When Christmas comes about again, - O, then I shall have money; - I’ll hoard it up, and box it all, - I’ll give it to my honey: - I would it were ten thousand pound, - I’d give it all to Sally; - She is the darling of my heart, - And she lives in our alley. - - My master and the neighbours all - Make game of me and Sally, - And, but for her, I’d better be - A slave and row a galley; - But when my seven long years are out, - O, then I’ll marry Sally; - O, then we’ll wed, and then we’ll bed-- - But not in our alley! - - -_445._ _A Drinking-Song_ - - Bacchus must now his power resign-- - I am the only God of Wine! - It is not fit the wretch should be - In competition set with me, - Who can drink ten times more than he. - - Make a new world, ye powers divine! - Stock’d with nothing else but Wine: - Let Wine its only product be, - Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea-- - And let that Wine be all for me! - - - - -WILLIAM BROOME - -?-1745 - - -_446._ _The Rosebud_ - - Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose, - The beauties of thy leaves disclose! - --But thou, fair Nymph, thyself survey - In this sweet offspring of a day. - That miracle of face must fail, - Thy charms are sweet, but charms are frail: - Swift as the short-lived flower they fly, - At morn they bloom, at evening die: - Though Sickness yet a while forbears, - Yet Time destroys what Sickness spares: - Now Helen lives alone in fame, - And Cleopatra’s but a name: - Time must indent that heavenly brow, - And thou must be what they are now. - - -_447._ _Belinda’s Recovery from Sickness_ - - Thus when the silent grave becomes - Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; - When the wide seas and spacious earth - Resign us to our second birth; - Our moulder’d frame rebuilt assumes - New beauty, and for ever blooms, - And, crown’d with youth’s immortal pride, - We angels rise, who mortals died. - - - - -JAMES THOMSON - -1700-1748 - - -_448._ _On the Death of a particular Friend_ - - As those we love decay, we die in part, - String after string is sever’d from the heart; - Till loosen’d life, at last but breathing clay, - Without one pang is glad to fall away. - - Unhappy he who latest feels the blow! - Whose eyes have wept o’er every friend laid low, - Dragg’d ling’ring on from partial death to death, - Till, dying, all he can resign is--breath. - - - - -GEORGE LYTTELTON, LORD LYTTELTON - -1709-1773 - - -_449._ _Tell me, my Heart if this be Love_ - - When Delia on the plain appears, - Awed by a thousand tender fears - I would approach, but dare not move: - Tell me, my heart, if this be love? - - - Whene’er she speaks, my ravish’d ear - No other voice than hers can hear, - No other wit but hers approve: - Tell me, my heart, if this be love? - - If she some other youth commend, - Though I was once his fondest friend, - His instant enemy I prove: - Tell me, my heart, if this be love? - - When she is absent, I no more - Delight in all that pleased before-- - The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: - Tell me, my heart, if this be love? - - When fond of power, of beauty vain, - Her nets she spread for every swain, - I strove to hate, but vainly strove: - Tell me, my heart, if this be love? - - - - -SAMUEL JOHNSON - -1709-1784 - - -_450._ _One-and-Twenty_ - - Long-expected one-and-twenty, - Ling’ring year, at length is flown: - Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, - Great *** ****, are now your own. - - Loosen’d from the minor’s tether, - Free to mortgage or to sell, - Wild as wind, and light as feather, - Bid the sons of thrift farewell. - - - Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, - All the names that banish care; - Lavish of your grandsire’s guineas, - Show the spirit of an heir. - - All that prey on vice and folly - Joy to see their quarry fly: - There the gamester, light and jolly, - There the lender, grave and sly. - - Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, - Let it wander as it will; - Call the jockey, call the pander, - Bid them come and take their fill. - - When the bonny blade carouses, - Pockets full, and spirits high-- - What are acres? What are houses? - Only dirt, or wet or dry. - - Should the guardian friend or mother - Tell the woes of wilful waste, - Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother;-- - You can hang or drown at last! - - -_451._ _On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in Physic_ - - Condemn’d to Hope’s delusive mine, - As on we toil from day to day, - By sudden blasts or slow decline - Our social comforts drop away. - - - Well tried through many a varying year, - See Levet to the grave descend, - Officious, innocent, sincere, - Of every friendless name the friend. - - Yet still he fills affection’s eye, - Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; - Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny - Thy praise to merit unrefined. - - When fainting nature call’d for aid, - And hov’ring death prepared the blow, - His vig’rous remedy display’d - The power of art without the show. - - In Misery’s darkest cavern known, - His useful care was ever nigh, - Where hopeless Anguish pour’d his groan, - And lonely Want retired to die. - - No summons mock’d by chill delay, - No petty gain disdain’d by pride; - The modest wants of every day - The toil of every day supplied. - - His virtues walk’d their narrow round, - Nor made a pause, nor left a void; - And sure th’ Eternal Master found - The single talent well employ’d. - - The busy day, the peaceful night, - Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; - His frame was firm--his powers were bright, - Though now his eightieth year was nigh. - - - Then with no fiery throbbing pain, - No cold gradations of decay, - Death broke at once the vital chain, - And freed his soul the nearest way. - - - - -RICHARD JAGO - -1715-1781 - - -_452._ _Absence_ - - With leaden foot Time creeps along - While Delia is away: - With her, nor plaintive was the song, - Nor tedious was the day. - - Ah, envious Pow’r! reverse my doom; - Now double thy career, - Strain ev’ry nerve, stretch ev’ry plume, - And rest them when she’s here! - - - - -THOMAS GRAY - -1716-1771 - - -_453._ _Elegy written in a Country Churchyard_ - - The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, - The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, - The plowman homeward plods his weary way, - And leaves the world to darkness and to me. - - Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, - And all the air a solemn stillness holds, - Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, - And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; - Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r - The moping owl does to the moon complain - Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r, - Molest her ancient solitary reign. - - Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, - Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, - Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, - The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. - - The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, - The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, - The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, - No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. - - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, - Or busy housewife ply her evening care: - No children run to lisp their sire’s return, - Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. - - Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, - Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: - How jocund did they drive their team afield! - How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! - - Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, - Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; - Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile - The short and simple annals of the poor. - - The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, - And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, - Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour: - The paths of glory lead but to the grave. - - - Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, - If Memory o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise, - Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault - The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. - - Can storied urn or animated bust - Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? - Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, - Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? - - Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid - Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; - Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, - Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. - - But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page - Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; - Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, - And froze the genial current of the soul. - - Full many a gem of purest ray serene - The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: - Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, - And waste its sweetness on the desert air. - - Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast - The little tyrant of his fields withstood, - Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, - Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. - - Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command, - The threats of pain and ruin to despise, - To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, - And read their history in a nation’s eyes, - Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone - Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; - Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. - And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, - - The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, - To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, - Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride - With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. - - Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife - Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; - Along the cool sequester’d vale of life - They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. - - Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect - Some frail memorial still erected nigh, - With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, - Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. - - Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse, - The place of fame and elegy supply: - And many a holy text around she strews, - That teach the rustic moralist to die. - - For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, - This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, - Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, - Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind? - - On some fond breast the parting soul relies, - Some pious drops the closing eye requires; - E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, - E’en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. - - - For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead, - Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; - If chance, by lonely contemplation led, - Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, - - Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, - ‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn - Brushing with hasty steps the dews away - To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. - - ‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech - That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, - His listless length at noontide would he stretch, - And pore upon the brook that babbles by. - - ‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, - Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove, - Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, - Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love. - - ‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill. - Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree; - Another came; nor yet beside the rill, - Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; - - ‘The next with dirges due in sad array - Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. - Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay - Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:’ - - -_THE EPITAPH._ - - _Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth_ - _A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown._ - _Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,_ - _And Melancholy marked him for her own._ - - - _Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,_ - _Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:_ - _He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,_ - _He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend._ - - _No farther seek his merits to disclose,_ - _Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,_ - _(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)_ - _The bosom of his Father and his God._ - - -_454._ _The Curse upon Edward_ - - Weave the warp, and weave the woof, - The winding-sheet of Edward’s race. - Give ample room, and verge enough - The characters of hell to trace. - Mark the year, and mark the night, - When Severn shall re-echo with affright - The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkley’s roofs that ring, - Shrieks of an agonizing King! - She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, - That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate, - From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs - The scourge of Heav’n. What terrors round him wait! - Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, - And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind. - - Mighty Victor, mighty Lord! - Low on his funeral couch he lies! - No pitying heart, no eye, afford - A tear to grace his obsequies. - Is the sable warrior fled? - Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. - The swarm that in thy noon tide beam were born? - Gone to salute the rising morn. - Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, - While proudly riding o’er the azure realm - In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; - Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; - Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, - That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey, - - Fill high the sparkling bowl, - The rich repast prepare; - Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: - Close by the regal chair - Fell Thirst and Famine scowl - A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. - Heard ye the din of battle bray, - Lance to lance, and horse to horse? - Long years of havoc urge their destined course, - And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way. - Ye Towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame, - With many a foul and midnight murder fed, - Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame, - And spare the meek usurper’s holy head. - Above, below, the rose of snow, - Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: - The bristled boar in infant-gore - Wallows beneath the thorny shade. - Now, brothers, bending o’er th’ accursèd loom - Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. - - Edward, lo! to sudden fate - (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun) - Half of thy heart we consecrate. - (The web is wove. The work is done.) - - -_455._ _The Progress of Poesy_ - -A PINDARIC ODE - - Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, - And give to rapture all thy trembling strings, - From Helicon’s harmonious springs - A thousand rills their mazy progress take: - The laughing flowers, that round them blow, - Drink life and fragrance as they flow. - Now the rich stream of music winds along - Deep, majestic, smooth and strong, - Thro’ verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign: - Now rolling down the steep amain, - Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; - The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. - - O Sovereign of the willing soul, - Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, - Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares - And frantic Passions hear thy soft controul. - On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War - Has curb’d the fury of his car, - And dropp’d his thirsty lance at thy command. - Perching on the sceptred hand - Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather’d king - With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: - Quench’d in dark clouds of slumber lie - The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. - - Thee the voice, the dance, obey, - Temper’d to thy warbled lay. - O’er Idalia’s velvet-green - The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen - On Cytherea’s day - With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, - Frisking light in frolic measures; - Now pursuing, now retreating, - Now in circling troops they meet: - To brisk notes in cadence beating, - Glance their many-twinkling feet. - Slow melting strains their Queen’s approach declare: - Where’er she turns the Graces homage pay. - With arms sublime, that float upon the air, - In gliding state she wins her easy way: - O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move - The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. - - Man’s feeble race what ills await, - Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, - Disease, and Sorrow’s weeping train, - And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! - The fond complaint, my song, disprove - And justify the laws of Jove. - Say, has he giv’n in vain the heav’nly Muse? - Night, and all her sickly dews, - Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, - He gives to range the dreary sky: - Till down the eastern cliffs afar - Hyperion’s march they spy, and glitt’ring shafts of war. - - In climes beyond the solar road, - Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam, - The Muse has broke the twilight gloom - To cheer the shiv’ring native’s dull abode. - And oft, beneath the od’rous shade - Of Chili’s boundless forests laid, - She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat - In loose numbers wildly sweet - Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. - Her track, where’er the Goddess roves, - Glory pursue and generous Shame, - Th’ unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame. - - Woods, that wave o’er Delphi’s steep, - Isles, that crown th’ Ægean deep, - Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, - Or where Mæander’s amber waves - In lingering lab’rinths creep, - How do your tuneful echoes languish, - Mute, but to the voice of anguish? - Where each old poetic mountain - Inspiration breathed around: - Ev’ry shade and hallow’d fountain - Murmur’d deep a solemn sound: - Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour, - Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. - Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, - And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. - When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, - They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. - - Far from the sun and summer gale, - In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid, - What time, where lucid Avon stray’d, - To Him the mighty mother did unveil - Her awful face: the dauntless child - Stretch’d forth his little arms, and smiled. - This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear - Richly paint the vernal year: - Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! - This can unlock the gates of joy; - Of horror that, and thrilling fears, - Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. - - Nor second he, that rode sublime - Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, - The secrets of th’ abyss to spy. - He pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time: - The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, - Where Angels tremble while they gaze, - He saw; but blasted with excess of light, - Closed his eyes in endless night. - Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car, - Wide o’er the fields of glory bear - Two coursers of ethereal race, - With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. - - Hark, his hands the lyre explore! - Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o’er - Scatters from her pictured urn - Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. - But ah! ’tis heard no more---- - O Lyre divine! what daring Spirit - Wakes thee now? Tho’ he inherit - Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, - That the Theban eagle bear - Sailing with supreme dominion - Thro’ the azure deep of air: - Yet oft before his infant eyes would run - Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray, - With orient hues, unborrow’d of the Sun: - Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way - Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, - Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great. - - -_456._ _On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes_ - - Twas on a lofty vase’s side, - Where China’s gayest art had dyed - The azure flowers that blow; - Demurest of the tabby kind, - The pensive Selima reclined, - Gazed on the lake below. - - Her conscious tail her joy declared; - The fair round face, the snowy beard, - The velvet of her paws, - Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, - Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, - She saw; and purr’d applause. - - Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide - Two angel forms were seen to glide, - The Genii of the stream: - Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue - Thro’ richest purple to the view - Betray’d a golden gleam. - - The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: - A whisker first and then a claw, - With many an ardent wish, - She stretch’d in vain to reach the prize. - What female heart can gold despise? - What Cat’s averse to fish? - - - Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent - Again she stretch’d, again she bent, - Nor knew the gulf between. - (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) - The slipp’ry verge her feet beguiled, - She tumbled headlong in. - - Eight times emerging from the flood - She mew’d to ev’ry wat’ry god, - Some speedy aid to send. - No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr’d: - Nor cruel _Tom_, nor _Susan_ heard. - A Fav’rite has no friend! - - From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, - Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved, - And be with caution bold. - Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes - And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; - Nor all that glisters, gold. - - - - -WILLIAM COLLINS - -1721-1759 - - -_457._ _Ode to Simplicity_ - - O thou, by Nature taught - To breathe her genuine thought - In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong: - Who first on mountains wild, - In Fancy, loveliest child, - Thy babe and Pleasure’s, nursed the pow’rs of song! - - - Thou, who with hermit heart - Disdain’st the wealth of art, - And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall: - But com’st a decent maid, - In Attic robe array’d, - O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call! - - By all the honey’d store - On Hybla’s thymy shore, - By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear, - By her whose love-lorn woe, - In evening musings slow, - Soothed sweetly sad Electra’s poet’s ear: - - By old Cephisus deep, - Who spread his wavy sweep - In warbled wand’rings round thy green retreat; - On whose enamell’d side, - When holy Freedom died, - No equal haunt allured thy future feet! - - O sister meek of Truth, - To my admiring youth - Thy sober aid and native charms infuse! - The flow’rs that sweetest breathe, - Though beauty cull’d the wreath, - Still ask thy hand to range their order’d hues. - - While Rome could none esteem, - But virtue’s patriot theme, - You loved her hills, and led her laureate band; - But stay’d to sing alone - To one distinguish’d throne, - And turn’d thy face, and fled her alter’d land. - - - No more, in hall or bow’r, - The passions own thy pow’r. - Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean; - For thou hast left her shrine, - Nor olive more, nor vine, - Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. - - Though taste, though genius bless - To some divine excess, - Faint’s the cold work till thou inspire the whole; - What each, what all supply, - May court, may charm our eye, - Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul! - - Of these let others ask, - To aid some mighty task, - I only seek to find thy temperate vale; - Where oft my reed might sound - To maids and shepherds round, - And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale. - - -_458._ _How sleep the Brave_ - - How sleep the brave, who sink to rest - By all their country’s wishes blest! - When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, - Returns to deck their hallow’d mould, - She there shall dress a sweeter sod - Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. - - By fairy hands their knell is rung; - By forms unseen their dirge is sung; - There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, - To bless the turf that wraps their clay; - And Freedom shall awhile repair - To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! - - -_459._ _Ode to Evening_ - - If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, - May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, - Like thy own solemn springs, - Thy springs and dying gales; - - O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair’d sun - Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, - With brede ethereal wove, - O’erhang his wavy bed: - - Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-eyed bat - With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, - Or where the beetle winds - His small but sullen horn, - - As oft he rises, ’midst the twilight path - Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: - Now teach me, maid composed, - To breathe some soften’d strain, - - Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, - May not unseemly with its stillness suit, - As, musing slow, I hail - Thy genial loved return! - - For when thy folding-star arising shows - His paly circlet, at his warning lamp - The fragrant hours, and elves - Who slept in buds the day, - And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, - And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, - The pensive pleasures sweet, - Prepare thy shadowy car: - - Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake - Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow’d pile, - Or upland fallows grey - Reflect its last cool gleam. - - Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, - Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut - That from the mountain’s side - Views wilds and swelling floods, - - And hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d spires, - And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all - Thy dewy fingers draw - The gradual dusky veil. - - While Spring shall pour his show’rs, as oft he wont, - And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! - While Summer loves to sport - Beneath thy lingering light; - - While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, - Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, - Affrights thy shrinking train, - And rudely rends thy robes: - - So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, - Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp’d Health - Thy gentlest influence own, - And hymn thy favourite name! - - -_460._ _Fidele_ - - To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb - Soft maids and village hinds shall bring - Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, - And rifle all the breathing Spring. - - No wailing ghost shall dare appear - To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; - But shepherd lads assemble here, - And melting virgins own their love. - - No wither’d witch shall here be seen, - No goblins lead their nightly crew; - The female fays shall haunt the green, - And dress thy grave with pearly dew. - - The redbreast oft at evening hours - Shall kindly lend his little aid, - With hoary moss, and gather’d flowers, - To deck the ground where thou art laid. - - When howling winds, and beating rain, - In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; - Or ’midst the chase, on every plain, - The tender thought on thee shall dwell; - - Each lonely scene shall thee restore, - For thee the tear be duly shed; - Beloved, till life can charm no more; - And mourn’d, till Pity’s self be dead. - - - - -MARK AKENSIDE - -1721-1770 - - -_461._ _Amoret_ - - If rightly tuneful bards decide, - If it be fix’d in Love’s decrees, - That Beauty ought not to be tried - But by its native power to please, - Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell-- - What fair can Amoret excel? - - Behold that bright unsullied smile, - And wisdom speaking in her mien: - Yet--she so artless all the while, - So little studious to be seen-- - We naught but instant gladness know, - Nor think to whom the gift we owe. - - But neither music, nor the powers - Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, - Add half the sunshine to the hours, - Or make life’s prospect half so clear, - As memory brings it to the eye - From scenes where Amoret was by. - - This, sure, is Beauty’s happiest part; - This gives the most unbounded sway; - This shall enchant the subject heart - When rose and lily fade away; - And she be still, in spite of Time, - Sweet Amoret in all her prime. - - -_462._ _The Complaint_ - - Away! away! - Tempt me no more, insidious Love: - Thy soothing sway - Long did my youthful bosom prove: - At length thy treason is discerned, - At length some dear-bought caution earn’d: - Away! nor hope my riper age to move. - - I know, I see - Her merit. Needs it now be shown, - Alas! to me? - How often, to myself unknown, - The graceful, gentle, virtuous maid - Have I admired! How often said-- - What joy to call a heart like hers one’s own! - - But, flattering god, - O squanderer of content and ease - In thy abode - Will care’s rude lesson learn to please? - O say, deceiver, hast thou won - Proud Fortune to attend thy throne, - Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees? - - -_463._ _The Nightingale_ - - To-night retired, the queen of heaven - With young Endymion stays; - And now to Hesper it is given - Awhile to rule the vacant sky, - Till she shall to her lamp supply - A stream of brighter rays. - - - Propitious send thy golden ray, - Thou purest light above! - Let no false flame seduce to stray - Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; - But lead where music’s healing charm - May soothe afflicted love. - - To them, by many a grateful song - In happier seasons vow’d, - These lawns, Olympia’s haunts, belong: - Oft by yon silver stream we walk’d, - Or fix’d, while Philomela talk’d, - Beneath yon copses stood. - - Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs - That roofless tower invade, - We came, while her enchanting Muse - The radiant moon above us held: - Till, by a clamorous owl compell’d, - She fled the solemn shade. - - But hark! I hear her liquid tone! - Now Hesper guide my feet! - Down the red marl with moss o’ergrown, - Through yon wild thicket next the plain, - Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane - Which leads to her retreat. - - See the green space: on either hand - Enlarged it spreads around: - See, in the midst she takes her stand, - Where one old oak his awful shade - Extends o’er half the level mead, - Enclosed in woods profound. - - - Hark! how through many a melting note - She now prolongs her lays: - How sweetly down the void they float! - The breeze their magic path attends; - The stars shine out; the forest bends; - The wakeful heifers graze. - - Whoe’er thou art whom chance may bring - To this sequester’d spot, - If then the plaintive Siren sing, - O softly tread beneath her bower - And think of Heaven’s disposing power, - Of man’s uncertain lot. - - O think, o’er all this mortal stage - What mournful scenes arise: - What ruin waits on kingly rage; - How often virtue dwells with woe; - How many griefs from knowledge flow; - How swiftly pleasure flies! - - O sacred bird! let me at eve, - Thus wandering all alone, - Thy tender counsel oft receive, - Bear witness to thy pensive airs, - And pity Nature’s common cares, - Till I forget my own. - - - - -TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT - -1721-1771 - - -_464._ _To Leven Water_ - - Pure stream, in whose transparent wave - My youthful limbs I wont to lave; - No torrents stain thy limpid source, - No rocks impede thy dimpling course - Devolving from thy parent lake - A charming maze thy waters make - By bowers of birch and groves of pine - And edges flower’d with eglantine. - - Still on thy banks so gaily green - May numerous herds and flocks be seen, - And lasses chanting o’er the pail, - And shepherds piping in the dale, - And ancient faith that knows no guile, - And industry embrown’d with toil, - And hearts resolved and hands prepared - The blessings they enjoy to guard. - - - - -CHRISTOPHER SMART - -1722-1770 - - -_465._ _Song to David_ - - Sublime--invention ever young, - Of vast conception, tow’ring tongue - To God th’ eternal theme; - Notes from yon exaltations caught, - Unrivall’d royalty of thought - O’er meaner strains supreme. - - - His muse, bright angel of his verse, - Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, - For all the pangs that rage; - Blest light still gaining on the gloom, - The more than Michal of his bloom, - Th’ Abishag of his age. - - He sang of God--the mighty source - Of all things--the stupendous force - On which all strength depends; - From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, - All period, power, and enterprise - Commences, reigns, and ends. - - Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said - To Moses; while earth heard in dread, - And, smitten to the heart, - At once above, beneath, around, - All Nature, without voice or sound, - Replied, O LORD, THOU ART. - - The world, the clustering spheres, He made; - The glorious light, the soothing shade, - Dale, champaign, grove, and hill; - The multitudinous abyss, - Where Secrecy remains in bliss, - And Wisdom hides her skill. - - The pillars of the Lord are seven, - Which stand from earth to topmost heaven; - His Wisdom drew the plan; - His Word accomplished the design, - From brightest gem to deepest mine; - From Christ enthroned, to Man. - - - For Adoration all the ranks - Of Angels yield eternal thanks, - And David in the midst; - With God’s good poor, which, last and least - In man’s esteem, Thou to Thy feast, - O blessèd Bridegroom, bidd’st! - - For Adoration, David’s Psalms - Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; - And he, who kneels and chants, - Prevails his passions to control, - Finds meat and medicine to the soul, - Which for translation pants. - - For Adoration, in the dome - Of Christ, the sparrows find a home, - And on His olives perch: - The swallow also dwells with thee, - O man of God’s humility, - Within his Saviour’s church. - - Sweet is the dew that falls betimes, - And drops upon the leafy limes; - Sweet, Hermon’s fragrant air: - Sweet is the lily’s silver bell, - And sweet the wakeful tapers’ smell - That watch for early prayer. - - Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, - Which smiles o’er sleeping innocence; - Sweet, when the lost arrive: - Sweet the musician’s ardour beats, - While his vague mind’s in quest of sweets, - The choicest flowers to hive. - - - Strong is the horse upon his speed; - Strong in pursuit the rapid glede, - Which makes at once his game: - Strong the tall ostrich on the ground; - Strong through the turbulent profound - Shoots Xiphias to his aim. - - Strong is the lion--like a coal - His eyeball,--like a bastion’s mole - His chest against the foes: - Strong the gier-eagle on his sail; - Strong against tide th’ enormous whale - Emerges as he goes. - - But stronger still, in earth and air, - And in the sea, the man of prayer, - And far beneath the tide: - And in the seat to faith assigned, - Where ask is have, where seek is find, - Where knock is open wide. - - Precious the penitential tear; - And precious is the sigh sincere, - Acceptable to God: - And precious are the winning flowers, - In gladsome Israel’s feast of bowers - Bound on the hallow’d sod. - - Glorious the sun in mid career; - Glorious th’ assembled fires appear; - Glorious the comet’s train: - Glorious the trumpet and alarm; - Glorious the Almighty’s stretch’d-out arm; - Glorious th’ enraptured main: - - glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish. - - Glorious the northern lights astream; - Glorious the song, when God’s the theme; - Glorious the thunder’s roar: - Glorious Hosanna from the den; - Glorious the catholic Amen; - Glorious the martyr’s gore: - - Glorious--more glorious--is the crown - Of Him that brought salvation down, - By meekness call’d thy Son: - Thou that stupendous truth believed;-- - And now the matchless deed’s achieved, - Determined, dared, and done! - - - - -JANE ELLIOT - -1727-1805 - - -_466._ _A Lament for Flodden_ - - I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, - Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day; - But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning. - Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; - Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, - Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. - - In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, - Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray: - At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - _466._ loaning] lane, field-track. wede] weeded. bughts] - sheep-folds. daffing] joking. leglin] milk-pail. hairst] harvest. - bandsters] binders. lyart] gray-haired. runkled] wrinkled. - fleeching] coaxing. - - At e’en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming - ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play; - But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! - The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; - The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, - The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. - - We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking; - Women and bairns are heartless and wae; - Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- - The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. - - _466._ swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] - mourning. - - - - -OLIVER GOLDSMITH - -1728-1774 - - -_467._ _Woman_ - - When lovely woman stoops to folly, - And finds too late that men betray, - What charm can soothe her melancholy? - What art can wash her tears away? - - The only art her guilt to cover, - To hide her shame from ev’ry eye, - To give repentance to her lover, - And wring his bosom is--to die. - - -_468._ _Memory_ - - O memory, thou fond deceiver, - Still importunate and vain, - To former joys recurring ever, - And turning all the past to pain: - - Thou, like the world, th’ oppress’d oppressing, - Thy smiles increase the wretch’s woe: - And he who wants each other blessing - In thee must ever find a foe. - - - - -ROBERT CUNNINGHAME-GRAHAM OF GARTMORE - -1735-1797 - - -_469._ _If Doughty Deeds_ - - If doughty deeds my lady please, - Right soon I’ll mount my steed; - And strong his arm and fast his seat, - That bears frae me the meed. - I’ll wear thy colours in my cap, - Thy picture in my heart; - And he that bends not to thine eye - Shall rue it to his smart! - Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; - O tell me how to woo thee! - For thy dear sake nae care I’ll take, - Tho’ ne’er another trow me. - - If gay attire delight thine eye - I’ll dight me in array; - I’ll tend thy chamber door all night, - And squire thee all the day. - If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, - These sounds I’ll strive to catch; - Thy voice I’ll steal to woo thysel’, - That voice that nane can match. - Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ... - - But if fond love thy heart can gain, - I never broke a vow; - Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, - I never loved but you. - For you alone I ride the ring, - For you I wear the blue; - For you alone I strive to sing, - O tell me how to woo! - Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; - O tell me how to woo thee! - For thy dear sake nae care I’ll take - Tho’ ne’er another trow me. - - - - -WILLIAM COWPER - -1731-1800 - - -_470._ _To Mary Unwin_ - - Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, - Such aid from Heaven as some have feign’d they drew, - An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new - And undebased by praise of meaner things; - That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, - I may record thy worth with honour due, - In verse as musical as thou art true, - And that immortalizes whom it sings: - But thou hast little need. There is a Book - By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, - On which the eyes of God not rarely look, - A chronicle of actions just and bright-- - There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine; - And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine. - - -_471._ _My Mary_ - - The twentieth year is wellnigh past - Since first our sky was overcast; - Ah, would that this might be the last! - My Mary! - - Thy spirits have a fainter flow, - I see thee daily weaker grow; - ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, - My Mary! - - Thy needles, once a shining store, - For my sake restless heretofore, - Now rust disused, and shine no more; - My Mary! - - For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil - The same kind office for me still, - Thy sight now seconds not thy will, - My Mary! - - But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, - And all thy threads with magic art - Have wound themselves about this heart, - My Mary! - - Thy indistinct expressions seem - Like language utter’d in a dream; - Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, - My Mary! - - - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, - Are still more lovely in my sight - Than golden beams of orient light, - My Mary! - - For could I view nor them nor thee, - What sight worth seeing could I see? - The sun would rise in vain for me, - My Mary! - - Partakers of thy sad decline, - Thy hands their little force resign; - Yet, gently press’d, press gently mine, - My Mary! - - Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st, - That now at every step thou mov’st - Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st, - My Mary! - - And still to love, though press’d with ill, - In wintry age to feel no chill, - With me is to be lovely still, - My Mary! - - But ah! by constant heed I know - How oft the sadness that I show - Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, - My Mary! - - And should my future lot be cast - With much resemblance of the past, - Thy worn-out heart will break at last-- - My Mary! - - - - -JAMES BEATTIE - -1735-1803 - - -_472._ _An Epitaph_ - - Like thee I once have stemm’d the sea of life, - Like thee have languish’d after empty joys, - Like thee have labour’d in the stormy strife, - Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys. - - Forget my frailties; thou art also frail: - Forgive my lapses; for thyself may’st fall: - Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale-- - I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all. - - - - -ISOBEL PAGAN - -1740-1821 - - -_473._ _Ca’ the Yowes to the Knowes_ - - Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, - Ca’ them where the heather grows, - Ca’ them where the burnie rows, - My bonnie dearie. - - As I gaed down the water side, - There I met my shepherd lad; - He row’d me sweetly in his plaid, - And he ca’d me his dearie. - - ‘Will ye gang down the water side, - And see the waves sae sweetly glide - Beneath the hazels spreading wide? - The moon it shines fu’ clearly.’ - - _473._ yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. - row’d] rolled, wrapped. - - ‘I was bred up at nae sic school, - My shepherd lad, to play the fool, - And a’ the day to sit in dool, - And naebody to see me.’ - - ‘Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, - Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, - And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep, - And ye sall be my dearie.’ - - ‘If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said, - I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad, - And ye may row me in your plaid, - And I sall be your dearie.’ - - ‘While waters wimple to the sea, - While day blinks in the lift sae hie, - Till clay-cauld death sail blin’ my e’e, - Ye aye sall be my dearie!’ - - _473._ dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky. - - - - -ANNA LÆTITIA BARBAULD - -1743-1825 - - -_474._ _Life_ - - Life! I know not what thou art, - But know that thou and I must part; - And when, or how, or where we met, - I own to me’s a secret yet. - But this I know, when thou art fled, - Where’er they lay these limbs, this head, - No clod so valueless shall be - As all that then remains of me. - O whither, whither dost thou fly? - Where bend unseen thy trackless course? - And in this strange divorce, - Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? - To the vast ocean of empyreal flame - From whence thy essence came - Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed - From matter’s base encumbering weed? - Or dost thou, hid from sight, - Wait, like some spell-bound knight, - Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour - To break thy trance and reassume thy power? - Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? - O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee? - - Life! we have been long together, - Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; - ’Tis hard to part when friends are dear; - Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;-- - Then steal away, give little warning, - Choose thine own time; - Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime - Bid me Good-morning! - - - - -FANNY GREVILLE - -18th Cent. - - -_475._ _Prayer for Indifference_ - - I ask no kind return of love, - No tempting charm to please; - Far from the heart those gifts remove, - That sighs for peace and ease. - - Nor peace nor ease the heart can know, - That, like the needle true, - Turns at the touch of joy or woe, - But, turning, trembles too. - - Far as distress the soul can wound, - ’Tis pain in each degree: - ’Tis bliss but to a certain bound, - Beyond is agony. - - - - -JOHN LOGAN - -1748-1788 - - -_476._ _To the Cuckoo_ - - Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! - Thou messenger of Spring! - Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, - And woods thy welcome ring. - - What time the daisy decks the green, - Thy certain voice we hear: - Hast thou a star to guide thy path, - Or mark the rolling year? - - Delightful visitant! with thee - I hail the time of flowers, - And hear the sound of music sweet - From birds among the bowers. - - The schoolboy, wand’ring through the wood - To pull the primrose gay, - Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, - And imitates thy lay. - - What time the pea puts on the bloom, - Thou fli’st thy vocal vale, - An annual guest in other lands, - Another Spring to hail. - - Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, - Thy sky is ever clear; - Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, - No Winter in thy year! - - O could I fly, I’d fly with thee! - We’d make, with joyful wing, - Our annual visit o’er the globe, - Companions of the Spring. - - - - -LADY ANNE LINDSAY - -1750-1825 - - -_477._ _Auld Robin Gray_ - - When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, - And a’ the warld to rest are gane, - The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e, - While my gudeman lies sound by me. - - Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; - But saving a croun he had naething else beside: - To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; - And the croun and the pund were baith for me. - - He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa, - When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa’; - My mother she fell sick,--and my Jamie at the sea-- - And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me. - - My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; - I toil’d day and night, but their bread I couldna win; - Auld Rob maintain’d them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e - Said, ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!’ - - My heart it said nay; I look’d for Jamie back; - But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; - His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee? - Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me! - - My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; - But she look’d in my face till my heart was like to break: - They gi’ed him my hand, tho’ my heart was in the sea; - Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. - - I hadna been a wife a week but only four, - When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door, - I saw my Jamie’s wraith,--for I couldna think it he, - Till he said, ‘I’m come hame to marry thee.’ - - O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; - We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: - I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee; - And why was I born to say, Wae’s me! - - I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; - I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; - But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be, - For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. - - - - -SIR WILLIAM JONES - -1746-1794 - - -_478._ _Epigram_ - - On parent knees, a naked new-born child, - Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled: - So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep, - Calm thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep. - - - - -THOMAS CHATTERTON - -1752-1770 - - -_479._ _Song from Ælla_ - - O sing unto my roundelay, - O drop the briny tear with me; - Dance no more at holyday, - Like a running river be: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - Black his cryne as the winter night, - White his rode as the summer snow, - Red his face as the morning light, - Cold he lies in the grave below: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note, - Quick in dance as thought can be, - Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; - O he lies by the willow-tree! - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - _479._ cryne] hair. rode] complexion. - - - Hark! the raven flaps his wing - In the brier’d dell below; - Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing - To the nightmares, as they go: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - See! the white moon shines on high; - Whiter is my true-love’s shroud: - Whiter than the morning sky, - Whiter than the evening cloud: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - Here upon my true-love’s grave - Shall the barren flowers be laid; - Not one holy saint to save - All the coldness of a maid: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - With my hands I’ll dent the briers - Round his holy corse to gre: - Ouph and fairy, light your fires, - Here my body still shall be: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf. - - Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, - Drain my heartès blood away; - Life and all its good I scorn, - Dance by night, or feast by day: - My love is dead, - Gone to his death-bed - All under the willow-tree. - - - - -GEORGE CRABBE - -1754-1832 - - -_480._ _Meeting_ - - My Damon was the first to wake - The gentle flame that cannot die; - My Damon is the last to take - The faithful bosom’s softest sigh: - The life between is nothing worth, - O cast it from thy thought away! - Think of the day that gave it birth, - And this its sweet returning day. - - Buried be all that has been done, - Or say that naught is done amiss; - For who the dangerous path can shun - In such bewildering world as this? - But love can every fault forgive, - Or with a tender look reprove; - And now let naught in memory live - But that we meet, and that we love. - - -_481._ _Late Wisdom_ - - We’ve trod the maze of error round, - Long wandering in the winding glade; - And now the torch of truth is found, - It only shows us where we strayed: - By long experience taught, we know-- - Can rightly judge of friends and foes; - Can all the worth of these allow, - And all the faults discern in those. - - Now, ’tis our boast that we can quell - The wildest passions in their rage, - Can their destructive force repel, - And their impetuous wrath assuage.-- - Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now - This bold rebellious race are fled? - When all these tyrants rest, and thou - Art warring with the mighty dead? - - -_482._ _A Marriage Ring_ - - The ring, so worn as you behold, - So thin, so pale, is yet of gold: - The passion such it was to prove-- - Worn with life’s care, love yet was love. - - - - -WILLIAM BLAKE - -1757-1827 - - -_483._ _To the Muses_ - - Whether on Ida’s shady brow - Or in the chambers of the East, - The chambers of the Sun, that now - From ancient melody have ceased; - - Whether in heaven ye wander fair, - Or the green corners of the earth, - Or the blue regions of the air - Where the melodious winds have birth; - - Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, - Beneath the bosom of the sea, - Wandering in many a coral grove; - Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; - - How have you left the ancient love - That bards of old enjoy’d in you! - The languid strings do scarcely move, - The sound is forced, the notes are few. - - -_484._ _To Spring_ - - O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down - Through the clear windows of the morning, turn - Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, - Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! - - The hills tell one another, and the listening - Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d - Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth - And let thy holy feet visit our clime! - - - Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds - Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste - Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls - Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. - - O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour - Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put - Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head, - Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee. - - -_485._ _Song_ - - My silks and fine array, - My smiles and languish’d air, - By Love are driven away; - And mournful lean Despair - Brings me yew to deck my grave: - Such end true lovers have. - - His face is fair as heaven - When springing buds unfold: - O why to him was’t given, - Whose heart is wintry cold? - His breast is Love’s all-worshipp’d tomb, - Where all Love’s pilgrims come. - - Bring me an axe and spade, - Bring me a winding-sheet; - When I my grave have made, - Let winds and tempests beat: - Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay: - True love doth pass away! - - -_486._ _Reeds of Innocence_ - - Piping down the valleys wild, - Piping songs of pleasant glee, - On a cloud I saw a child, - And he laughing said to me: - - ‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’ - So I piped with merry cheer. - ‘Piper, pipe that song again;’ - So I piped: he wept to hear. - - ‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; - Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’ - So I sung the same again, - While he wept with joy to hear. - - ‘Piper, sit thee down and write - In a book that all may read.’ - So he vanish’d from my sight; - And I pluck’d a hollow reed, - - And I made a rural pen, - And I stain’d the water clear, - And I wrote my happy songs - Every child may joy to hear. - - -_487._ _The Little Black Boy_ - - My mother bore me in the southern wild, - And I am black, but O, my soul is white! - White as an angel is the English child, - But I am black, as if bereaved of light. - - - My mother taught me underneath a tree, - And, sitting down before the heat of day, - She took me on her lap and kissèd me, - And, pointing to the East, began to say: - - ‘Look at the rising sun: there God does live, - And gives His light, and gives His heat away, - And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive - Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. - - ‘And we are put on earth a little space, - That we may learn to bear the beams of love; - And these black bodies and this sunburnt face - Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. - - ‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear, - The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, - Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care, - And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’ - - Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me, - And thus I say to little English boy. - When I from black and he from white cloud free, - And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, - - I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear - To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee; - And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair, - And be like him, and he will then love me. - - -_488._ _Hear the Voice_ - - Hear the voice of the Bard, - Who present, past, and future, sees; - Whose ears have heard - The Holy Word - That walk’d among the ancient trees; - - Calling the lapsèd soul, - And weeping in the evening dew; - That might control - The starry pole, - And fallen, fallen light renew! - - ‘O Earth, O Earth, return! - Arise from out the dewy grass! - Night is worn, - And the morn - Rises from the slumbrous mass. - - ‘Turn away no more; - Why wilt thou turn away? - The starry floor, - The watery shore, - Is given thee till the break of day.’ - - -_489._ _The Tiger_ - - Tiger, tiger, burning bright - In the forests of the night, - What immortal hand or eye - Could frame thy fearful symmetry? - - - In what distant deeps or skies - Burnt the fire of thine eyes? - On what wings dare he aspire? - What the hand dare seize the fire? - - And what shoulder and what art - Could twist the sinews of thy heart? - And, when thy heart began to beat, - What dread hand and what dread feet? - - What the hammer? What the chain? - In what furnace was thy brain? - What the anvil? What dread grasp - Dare its deadly terrors clasp? - - When the stars threw down their spears, - And watered heaven with their tears, - Did He smile His work to see? - Did He who made the lamb make thee? - - Tiger, tiger, burning bright - In the forests of the night, - What immortal hand or eye - Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? - - -_490._ _Cradle Song_ - - Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, - Dreaming in the joys of night; - Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep - Little sorrows sit and weep. - - Sweet babe, in thy face - Soft desires I can trace, - Secret joys and secret smiles, - Little pretty infant wiles. - - As thy softest limbs I feel - Smiles as of the morning steal - O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast - Where thy little heart doth rest. - - O the cunning wiles that creep - In thy little heart asleep! - When thy little heart doth wake, - Then the dreadful night shall break. - - -_491._ _Night_ - - The sun descending in the west, - The evening star does shine; - The birds are silent in their nest. - And I must seek for mine. - The moon, like a flower - In heaven’s high bower, - With silent delight - Sits and smiles on the night. - - Farewell, green fields and happy grove, - Where flocks have took delight: - Where lambs have nibbled, silent move - The feet of angels bright; - Unseen they pour blessing - And joy without ceasing - On each bud and blossom, - On each sleeping bosom. - - They look in every thoughtless nest - Where birds are cover’d warm; - They visit caves of every beast, - To keep them all from harm: - If they see any weeping - That should have been sleeping, - They pour sleep on their head, - And sit down by their bed. - - When wolves and tigers howl for prey, - They pitying stand and weep, - Seeking to drive their thirst away - And keep them from the sheep. - But, if they rush dreadful, - The angels, most heedful, - Receive each mild spirit, - New worlds to inherit. - - And there the lion’s ruddy eyes - Shall flow with tears of gold: - And pitying the tender cries, - And walking round the fold: - Saying, ‘Wrath by His meekness, - And, by His health, sickness, - Are driven away - From our immortal day. - - ‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb, - I can lie down and sleep, - Or think on Him who bore thy name, - Graze after thee, and weep. - For, wash’d in life’s river, - My bright mane for ever - Shall shine like the gold - As I guard o’er the fold.’ - - -_492._ _Love’s Secret_ - - Never seek to tell thy love, - Love that never told can be; - For the gentle wind doth move - Silently, invisibly. - - I told my love, I told my love, - I told her all my heart, - Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. - Ah! she did depart! - - Soon after she was gone from me, - A traveller came by, - Silently, invisibly: - He took her with a sigh. - - - - -ROBERT BURNS - -1759-1796 - - -_493._ _Mary Morison_ - - O Mary, at thy window be, - It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! - Those smiles and glances let me see, - That make the miser’s treasure poor: - How blythely wad I bide the stour - A weary slave frae sun to sun, - Could I the rich reward secure, - The lovely Mary Morison! - - Yestreen, when to the trembling string - The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’, - To thee my fancy took its wing, - I sat, but neither heard nor saw: - - _493._ stour] dust, turmoil. - - Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw, - And yon the toast of a’ the town, - I sigh’d, and said amang them a’, - ‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’ - - O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, - Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? - Or canst thou break that heart of his, - Whase only faut is loving thee? - If love for love thou wiltna gie, - At least be pity to me shown; - A thought ungentle canna be - The thought o’ Mary Morison. - - -_494._ _Jean_ - - Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, - I dearly like the west, - For there the bonnie lassie lives, - The lassie I lo’e best: - There wild woods grow, and rivers row, - And monie a hill between; - But day and night my fancy’s flight - Is ever wi’ my Jean. - - I see her in the dewy flowers, - I see her sweet and fair: - I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, - I hear her charm the air: - There’s not a bonnie flower that springs - By fountain, shaw, or green; - There’s not a bonnie bird that sings, - But minds me o’ my Jean. - - _494._ airts] points of the compass. row] roll. - - -_495._ _Auld Lang Syne_ - - Should auld acquaintance be forgot, - And never brought to min’? - Should auld acquaintance be forgot, - And days o’ lang syne? - - We twa hae rin about the braes, - And pu’d the gowans fine; - But we’ve wandered monie a weary fit - Sin’ auld lang syne. - - We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn, - Frae mornin’ sun till dine; - But seas between us braid hae roar’d - Sin’ auld lang syne. - - And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere, - And gie’s a hand o’ thine; - And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught - For auld lang syne. - - And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp, - And surely I’ll be mine; - And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet - For auld lang syne! - - For auld lang syne, my dear, - For auld lang syne, - We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet - For auld lang syne. - - gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. - guid-willie waught] friendly draught. - - -_496._ _My Bonnie Mary_ - - Go fetch to me a pint ’o wine, - An’ fill it in a silver tassie, - That I may drink, before I go, - A service to my bonnie lassie. - The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith, - Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, - The ship rides by the Berwick-law, - And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. - - The trumpets sound, the banners fly, - The glittering spears are rankèd ready; - The shouts o’ war are heard afar, - The battle closes thick and bloody; - But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shore - Wad mak me langer wish to tarry; - Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar-- - It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary! - - _496._ tassie] cup. - - -_497._ _John Anderson, my Jo_ - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - When we were first acquent, - Your locks were like the raven, - Your bonnie brow was brent; - But now your brow is beld, John, - Your locks are like the snow; - But blessings on your frosty pow, - John Anderson, my jo! - - _497._ jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow] - pate. - - John Anderson, my jo, John, - We clamb the hill thegither; - And monie a canty day, John, - We’ve had wi’ ane anither: - Now we maun totter down, John, - But hand in hand we’ll go, - And sleep thegither at the foot, - John Anderson, my jo. - - _497._ canty] cheerful. - - -_498._ _The Banks o’ Doon_ - - Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, - How can ye blume sae fair! - How can ye chant, ye little birds, - And I sae fu’ o’ care! - - Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, - That sings upon the bough; - Thou minds me o’ the happy days - When my fause luve was true. - - Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, - That sings beside thy mate; - For sae I sat, and sae I sang, - And wistna o’ my fate. - - Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, - To see the woodbine twine; - And ilka bird sang o’ its luve, - And sae did I o’ mine. - - Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose - Upon a morn in June; - And sae I flourish’d on the morn, - And sae was pu’d or’ noon. - - _498._ or’] ere. - - - Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose - Upon its thorny tree; - But my fause luver staw my rose, - And left the thorn wi’ me. - - _498._ staw] stole. - - -_499._ _Ae Fond Kiss_ - - Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; - Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! - Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, - Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee! - - Who shall say that Fortune grieves him - While the star of hope she leaves him? - Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me, - Dark despair around benights me. - - I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy; - Naething could resist my Nancy; - But to see her was to love her, - Love but her, and love for ever. - - Had we never loved sae kindly, - Had we never loved sae blindly, - Never met--or never parted, - We had ne’er been broken-hearted. - - Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! - Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! - Thine be ilka joy and treasure, - Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! - - Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! - Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! - Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, - Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee! - - _499._ wage] stake, plight. - - -_500._ _Bonnie Lesley_ - - O saw ye bonnie Lesley - As she gaed o’er the Border? - She’s gane, like Alexander, - To spread her conquests farther. - - To see her is to love her, - And love but her for ever; - For Nature made her what she is, - And ne’er made sic anither! - - Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, - Thy subjects we, before thee: - Thou art divine, fair Lesley, - The hearts o’ men adore thee. - - The Deil he couldna scaith thee, - Or aught that wad belang thee; - He’d look into thy bonnie face - And say, ‘I canna wrang thee!’ - - The Powers aboon will tent thee, - Misfortune sha’na steer thee: - Thou’rt like themsel’ sae lovely, - That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. - - Return again, fair Lesley, - Return to Caledonie! - That we may brag we hae a lass - There’s nane again sae bonnie! - - scaith] harm. tent] watch. steer] molest. - - -_501._ _Highland Mary_ - - Ye banks and braes and streams around - The castle o’ Montgomery, - Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, - Your waters never drumlie! - There simmer first unfauld her robes, - And there the langest tarry; - For there I took the last fareweel - O’ my sweet Highland Mary. - - How sweetly bloom’d the gay green birk, - How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, - As underneath their fragrant shade - I clasp’d her to my bosom! - The golden hours on angel wings - Flew o’er me and my dearie; - For dear to me as light and life - Was my sweet Highland Mary. - - Wi’ monie a vow and lock’d embrace - Our parting was fu’ tender; - And, pledging aft to meet again, - We tore oursels asunder; - But oh! fell Death’s untimely frost, - That nipt my flower sae early! - Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, - That wraps my Highland Mary! - - O pale, pale now, those rosy lips - I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly! - And closed for aye the sparkling glance - That dwelt on me sae kindly! - - drumlie] miry. - - And mouldering now in silent dust - That heart that lo’ed me dearly! - But still within my bosom’s core - Shall live my Highland Mary. - - -_502._ _O were my Love yon Lilac fair_ - - O were my Love yon lilac fair, - Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring, - And I a bird to shelter there, - When wearied on my little wing; - How I wad mourn when it was torn - By autumn wild and winter rude! - But I wad sing on wanton wing - When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d. - - O gin my Love were yon red rose - That grows upon the castle wa’, - And I mysel a drap o’ dew, - Into her bonnie breast to fa’; - O there, beyond expression blest, - I’d feast on beauty a’ the night; - Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest, - Till fley’d awa’ by Phœbus’ light. - - -_503._ _A Red, Red Rose_ - - O my Luve’s like a red, red rose - That’s newly sprung in June: - O my Luve’s like the melodie - That’s sweetly play’d in tune! - - As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, - So deep in luve am I: - And I will luve thee still, my dear, - Till a’ the seas gang dry: - - Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, - And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; - I will luve thee still, my dear, - While the sands o’ life shall run. - - And fare thee weel, my only Luve, - And fare thee weel a while! - And I will come again, my Luve, - Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. - - -_504._ _Lament for Culloden_ - - The lovely lass o’ Inverness, - Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; - For e’en and morn she cries, ‘Alas!’ - And aye the saut tear blin’s her e’e: - ‘Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, - A waefu’ day it was to me! - For there I lost my father dear, - My father dear and brethren three. - - ‘Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, - Their graves are growing green to see; - And by them lies the dearest lad - That ever blest a woman’s e’e! - Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, - A bluidy man I trow thou be; - For monie a heart thou hast made sair, - That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee.’ - - -_505._ _The Farewell_ - - It was a’ for our rightfu’ King - We left fair Scotland’s strand; - It was a’ for our rightfu’ King - We e’er saw Irish land, - My dear-- - We e’er saw Irish land. - - Now a’ is done that men can do, - And a’ is done in vain; - My love and native land, farewell, - For I maun cross the main, - My dear-- - For I maun cross the main. - - He turn’d him right and round about - Upon the Irish shore; - And gae his bridle-reins a shake, - With, Adieu for evermore, - My dear-- - With, Adieu for evermore! - - The sodger frae the wars returns, - The sailor frae the main; - But I hae parted frae my love, - Never to meet again, - My dear-- - Never to meet again. - - When day is gane, and night is come, - And a’ folk bound to sleep, - I think on him that’s far awa’, - The lee-lang night, and weep, - My dear-- - The lee-lang night, and weep. - - lee-lang] livelong. - - -_506._ _Hark! The Mavis_ - - _Ca’ the yowes to the knowes,_ - _Ca’ them where the heather grows,_ - _Ca’ them where the burnie rows,_ - _My bonnie dearie._ - - Hark! the mavis’ evening sang - Sounding Clouden’s woods amang. - Then a-faulding let us gang, - My bonnie dearie. - - We’ll gae down by Clouden side, - Through the hazels spreading wide, - O’er the waves that sweetly glide - To the moon sae clearly. - - Yonder Clouden’s silent towers, - Where at moonshine midnight hours - O’er the dewy bending flowers - Fairies dance sae cheery. - - Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; - Thou’rt to Love and Heaven sae dear, - Nocht of ill may come thee near, - My bonnie dearie. - - Fair and lovely as thou art, - Thou hast stown my very heart; - I can die--but canna part, - My bonnie dearie. - - While waters wimple to the sea; - While day blinks in the lift sae hie; - Till clay-cauld death shall blin’ my e’e, - Ye shall be my dearie. - - _Ca’ the yowes to the knowes_ ... - - lift] sky. - - - - -HENRY ROWE - -1750-1819 - - -_507._ _Sun_ - - Angel, king of streaming morn; - Cherub, call’d by Heav’n to shine; - T’ orient tread the waste forlorn; - Guide ætherial, pow’r divine; - Thou, Lord of all within! - - Golden spirit, lamp of day, - Host, that dips in blood the plain, - Bids the crimson’d mead be gay, - Bids the green blood burst the vein; - Thou, Lord of all within! - - Soul, that wraps the globe in light; - Spirit, beckoning to arise; - Drives the frowning brow of night, - Glory bursting o’er the skies; - Thou, Lord of all within! - - -_508._ _Moon_ - - Thee too, modest tressèd maid, - When thy fallen stars appear; - When in lawn of fire array’d - Sov’reign of yon powder’d sphere; - To thee I chant at close of day, - Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray. - - Throned in sapphired ring supreme, - Pregnant with celestial juice, - On silver wing thy diamond stream - Gives what summer hours produce; - While view’d impearl’d earth’s rich inlay, - Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray. - - - Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip, - Breathed the flow’ry leaves among; - Draughts delicious wet my lip; - Drown’d in nectar drunk my song; - While tuned to Philomel the lay, - Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray. - - Dew, that od’rous ointment yields, - Sweets, that western winds disclose, - Bathing spring’s more purpled fields, - Soft’s the band that winds the rose; - While o’er thy myrtled lawns I stray - Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray. - - - - -WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES - -1762-1850 - - -_509._ _Time and Grief_ - - O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay - Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence - (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) - The faint pang stealest unperceived away; - On thee I rest my only hope at last, - And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear - That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear, - I may look back on every sorrow past, - And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile: - As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, - Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower - Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-- - Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure, - Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! - - - - -JOANNA BAILLIE - -1762-1851 - - -_510._ _The Outlaw’s Song_ - - The chough and crow to roost are gone, - The owl sits on the tree, - The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, - Like infant charity. - The wild-fire dances on the fen, - The red star sheds its ray; - Uprouse ye then, my merry men! - It is our op’ning day. - - Both child and nurse are fast asleep, - And closed is every flower, - And winking tapers faintly peep - High from my lady’s bower; - Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken - Shrink on their murky way; - Uprouse ye then, my merry men! - It is our op’ning day. - - Nor board nor garner own we now, - Nor roof nor latchèd door, - Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow - To bless a good man’s store; - Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, - And night is grown our day; - Uprouse ye then, my merry men! - And use it as ye may. - - - - -MARY LAMB - -1765-1847 - - -_511._ _A Child_ - - A child’s a plaything for an hour; - Its pretty tricks we try - For that or for a longer space-- - Then tire, and lay it by. - - But I knew one that to itself - All seasons could control; - That would have mock’d the sense of pain - Out of a grievèd soul. - - Thou straggler into loving arms, - Young climber-up of knees, - When I forget thy thousand ways - Then life and all shall cease. - - - - -CAROLINA, LADY NAIRNE - -1766-1845 - - -_512._ _The Land o’ the Leal_ - - I’m wearin’ awa’, John - Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, - I’m wearin’ awa’ - To the land o’ the leal. - There’s nae sorrow there, John, - There’s neither cauld nor care, John, - The day is aye fair - In the land o’ the leal. - - Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, - She was baith gude and fair, John; - And O! we grudged her sair - To the land o’ the leal. - But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, - And joy’s a-coming fast, John, - The joy that’s aye to last - In the land o’ the leal. - - Sae dear’s the joy was bought, John, - Sae free the battle fought, John, - That sinfu’ man e’er brought - To the land o’ the leal. - O, dry your glistening e’e, John! - My saul langs to be free, John, - And angels beckon me - To the land o’ the leal. - - O, haud ye leal and true, John! - Your day it’s wearin’ through, John, - And I’ll welcome you - To the land o’ the leal. - Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, - This warld’s cares are vain, John, - We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain, - In the land o’ the leal. - - - - -JAMES HOGG - -1770-1835 - - -_513._ _A Boy’s Song_ - - Where the pools are bright and deep, - Where the grey trout lies asleep, - Up the river and over the lea, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Where the blackbird sings the latest, - Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, - Where the nestlings chirp and flee, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - - Where the mowers mow the cleanest, - Where the hay lies thick and greenest, - There to track the homeward bee, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Where the hazel bank is steepest, - Where the shadow falls the deepest, - Where the clustering nuts fall free, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Why the boys should drive away - Little sweet maidens from the play, - Or love to banter and fight so well, - That’s the thing I never could tell. - - But this I know, I love to play - Through the meadow, among the hay; - Up the water and over the lea, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - -_514._ _Kilmeny_ - - Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen; - But it wasna to meet Duneira’s men, - Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, - For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. - It was only to hear the yorlin sing, - And pu’ the cress-flower round the spring; - The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, - And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree; - For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. - But lang may her minny look o’er the wa’, - And lang may she seek i’ the green-wood shaw; - Lang the laird o’ Duneira blame, - And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame! - - _514._ yorlin] the yellow-hammer. hindberrye] bramble. minny] - mother. greet] mourn. - - When many a day had come and fled, - When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, - When mess for Kilmeny’s soul had been sung, - When the bedesman had pray’d and the dead bell rung, - Late, late in gloamin’ when all was still, - When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, - The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane, - The reek o’ the cot hung over the plain, - Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; - When the ingle low’d wi’ an eiry leme, - Late, late in the gloamin’ Kilmeny came hame! - - ‘Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? - Lang hae we sought baith holt and den; - By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree, - Yet you are halesome and fair to see. - Where gat you that joup o’ the lily scheen? - That bonnie snood of the birk sae green? - And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? - Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?’ - - Kilmeny look’d up with a lovely grace, - But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face; - As still was her look, and as still was her e’e, - As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, - Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. - For Kilmeny had been, she knew not where, - And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; - Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, - Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew. - But it seem’d as the harp of the sky had rung, - And the airs of heaven play’d round her tongue, - - westlin] western. its lane] alone, by itself. low’d] flamed. eiry - leme] eery gleam. linn] waterfall. joup] mantle. - - When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, - And a land where sin had never been; - A land of love and a land of light, - Withouten sun, or moon, or night; - Where the river swa’d a living stream, - And the light a pure celestial beam; - The land of vision, it would seem, - A still, an everlasting dream. - - In yon green-wood there is a waik, - And in that waik there is a wene, - And in that wene there is a maike, - That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane; - And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane. - - In that green wene Kilmeny lay, - Her bosom happ’d wi’ flowerets gay; - But the air was soft and the silence deep, - And bonnie Kilmeny fell sound asleep. - She kenn’d nae mair, nor open’d her e’e, - Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. - - She ‘waken’d on a couch of the silk sae slim, - All striped wi’ the bars of the rainbow’s rim; - And lovely beings round were rife, - Who erst had travell’d mortal life; - And aye they smiled and ’gan to speer, - ‘What spirit has brought this mortal here?’-- - - ‘Lang have I journey’d, the world wide,’ - A meek and reverend fere replied; - ‘Baith night and day I have watch’d the fair, - Eident a thousand years and mair. - - swa’d] swelled. waik] a row of deep damp grass. wene]? whin, a - furze-bush. maike] a mate, match, equal. his lane] alone, by - himself. happ’d] covered. speer] inquire. fere] fellow. eident] - unintermittently. - - Yes, I have watch’d o’er ilk degree, - Wherever blooms femenitye; - But sinless virgin, free of stain - In mind and body, fand I nane. - Never, since the banquet of time, - Found I a virgin in her prime. - Till late this bonnie maiden I saw - As spotless as the morning snaw: - Full twenty years she has lived as free - As the spirits that sojourn in this countrye: - I have brought her away frae the snares of men, - That sin or death she never may ken.’-- - - They clasp’d her waist and her hands sae fair, - They kiss’d her cheek and they kemed her hair, - And round came many a blooming fere, - Saying, ‘Bonnie Kilmeny, ye’re welcome here! - Women are freed of the littand scorn: - O blest be the day Kilmeny was born! - Now shall the land of the spirits see, - Now shall it ken what a woman may be! - Many a lang year, in sorrow and pain, - Many a lang year through the world we’ve gane, - Commission’d to watch fair womankind, - For it’s they who nurice the immortal mind. - We have watch’d their steps as the dawning shone, - And deep in the green-wood walks alone; - By lily bower and silken bed, - The viewless tears have o’er them shed; - Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep, - Or left the couch of love to weep. - - kemed] combed. - - We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come, - And the angels will weep at the day of doom! - - ‘O would the fairest of mortal kind - Aye keep the holy truths in mind, - That kindred spirits their motions see, - Who watch their ways with anxious e’e, - And grieve for the guilt of humanitye! - O, sweet to Heaven the maiden’s prayer, - And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! - And dear to Heaven the words of truth, - And the praise of virtue frae beauty’s mouth! - And dear to the viewless forms of air, - The minds that kyth as the body fair! - - ‘O bonnie Kilmeny! free frae stain, - If ever you seek the world again, - That world of sin, of sorrow and fear, - O tell of the joys that are waiting here; - And tell of the signs you shall shortly see; - Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.’-- - They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, - And she walk’d in the light of a sunless day; - The sky was a dome of crystal bright, - The fountain of vision, and fountain of light: - The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, - And the flowers of everlasting blow. - Then deep in the stream her body they laid, - That her youth and beauty never might fade; - And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie - In the stream of life that wander’d bye. - And she heard a song, she heard it sung, - She kenn’d not where; but sae sweetly it rung, - - kyth] show, appear. - - It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn: - ‘O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born! - Now shall the land of the spirits see, - Now shall it ken what a woman may be! - The sun that shines on the world sae bright, - A borrow’d gleid frae the fountain of light; - And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, - Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, - Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, - And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. - But lang, lang after baith night and day, - When the sun and the world have elyed away; - When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, - Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!’-- - - They bore her away, she wist not how, - For she felt not arm nor rest below; - But so swift they wain’d her through the light, - ’Twas like the motion of sound or sight; - They seem’d to split the gales of air, - And yet nor gale nor breeze was there. - Unnumber’d groves below them grew, - They came, they pass’d, and backward flew, - Like floods of blossoms gliding on, - In moment seen, in moment gone. - O, never vales to mortal view - Appear’d like those o’er which they flew! - That land to human spirits given, - The lowermost vales of the storied heaven; - From thence they can view the world below, - And heaven’s blue gates with sapphires glow, - More glory yet unmeet to know. - - gleid] spark, glow. elyed] vanished. - - They bore her far to a mountain green, - To see what mortal never had seen; - And they seated her high on a purple sward, - And bade her heed what she saw and heard, - And note the changes the spirits wrought, - For now she lived in the land of thought. - She look’d, and she saw nor sun nor skies, - But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes: - She look’d, and she saw nae land aright, - But an endless whirl of glory and light: - And radiant beings went and came, - Far swifter than wind, or the linkèd flame. - She hid her e’en frae the dazzling view; - She look’d again, and the scene was new. - - She saw a sun on a summer sky, - And clouds of amber sailing bye; - A lovely land beneath her lay, - And that land had glens and mountains gray; - And that land had valleys and hoary piles, - And marlèd seas, and a thousand isles. - Its fields were speckled, its forests green - And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen, - Like magic mirrors, where slumbering lay - The sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray; - Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung, - On every shore they seem’d to be hung; - For there they were seen on their downward plain - A thousand times and a thousand again; - In winding lake and placid firth, - Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth. - - marlèd] variegated, parti-coloured. - - Kilmeny sigh’d and seem’d to grieve, - For she found her heart to that land did cleave; - She saw the corn wave on the vale, - She saw the deer run down the dale; - She saw the plaid and the broad claymore, - And the brows that the badge of freedom bore; - And she thought she had seen the land before. - - She saw a lady sit on a throne, - The fairest that ever the sun shone on! - A lion lick’d her hand of milk, - And she held him in a leish of silk; - And a leifu’ maiden stood at her knee, - With a silver wand and melting e’e; - Her sovereign shield till love stole in, - And poison’d all the fount within. - - Then a gruff untoward bedesman came, - And hundit the lion on his dame; - And the guardian maid wi’ the dauntless e’e, - She dropp’d a tear, and left her knee; - And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled, - Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead; - A coffin was set on a distant plain, - And she saw the red blood fall like rain; - Then bonnie Kilmeny’s heart grew sair, - And she turn’d away, and could look nae mair. - - Then the gruff grim carle girn’d amain, - And they trampled him down, but he rose again; - And he baited the lion to deeds of weir, - Till he lapp’d the blood to the kingdom dear; - - leifu’] lone, wistful. girn’d] snarled. weir] war. - - And weening his head was danger-preef, - When crown’d with the rose and clover leaf, - He gowl’d at the carle, and chased him away - To feed wi’ the deer on the mountain gray. - He gowl’d at the carle, and geck’d at Heaven, - But his mark was set, and his arles given. - Kilmeny a while her e’en withdrew; - She look’d again, and the scene was new. - - She saw before her fair unfurl’d - One half of all the glowing world, - Where oceans roll’d, and rivers ran, - To bound the aims of sinful man. - She saw a people, fierce and fell, - Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell; - Their lilies grew, and the eagle flew; - And she herkèd on her ravening crew, - Till the cities and towers were wrapp’d in a blaze, - And the thunder it roar’d o’er the lands and the seas. - The widows they wail’d, and the red blood ran, - And she threatened an end to the race of man; - She never lened, nor stood in awe, - Till caught by the lion’s deadly paw. - O, then the eagle swink’d for life, - And brainyell’d up a mortal strife; - But flew she north, or flew she south, - She met wi’ the gowl o’ the lion’s mouth. - - With a mooted wing and waefu’ maen, - The eagle sought her eiry again; - But lang may she cower in her bloody nest, - And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast, - - gowl’d] howled. geck’d] mocked. arles] money paid on striking a - bargain; fig. a beating. lened] crouched. swink’d] laboured. - brainyell’d] stirred, beat. mooted] moulted. - - Before she sey another flight, - To play with the norland lion’s might. - - But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, - So far surpassing nature’s law, - The singer’s voice wad sink away, - And the string of his harp wad cease to play. - But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye, - And all was love and harmony; - Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, - Like flakes of snaw on a winter day. - - Then Kilmeny begg’d again to see - The friends she had left in her own countrye; - To tell of the place where she had been, - And the glories that lay in the land unseen; - To warn the living maidens fair, - The loved of Heaven, the spirits’ care, - That all whose minds unmeled remain - Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. - - With distant music, soft and deep, - They lull’d Kilmeny sound asleep; - And when she awaken’d, she lay her lane, - All happ’d with flowers, in the green-wood wene. - When seven lang years had come and fled, - When grief was calm, and hope was dead; - When scarce was remember’d Kilmeny’s name, - Late, late in a gloamin’ Kilmeny came hame! - And O, her beauty was fair to see, - But still and steadfast was her e’e! - Such beauty bard may never declare, - For there was no pride nor passion there; - - sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself. - - And the soft desire of maiden’s e’en - In that mild face could never be seen. - Her seymar was the lily flower, - And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; - And her voice like the distant melodye, - That floats along the twilight sea. - But she loved to raike the lanely glen, - And keepèd afar frae the haunts of men; - Her holy hymns unheard to sing, - To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. - But wherever her peaceful form appear’d, - The wild beasts of the hill were cheer’d; - The wolf play’d blythly round the field, - The lordly byson low’d and kneel’d; - The dun deer woo’d with manner bland, - And cower’d aneath her lily hand. - And when at even the woodlands rung, - When hymns of other worlds she sung - In ecstasy of sweet devotion, - O, then the glen was all in motion! - The wild beasts of the forest came, - Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, - And goved around, charm’d and amazed; - Even the dull cattle croon’d and gazed, - And murmur’d and look’d with anxious pain - For something the mystery to explain. - The buzzard came with the throstle-cock; - The corby left her houf in the rock; - The blackbird alang wi’ the eagle flew; - The hind came tripping o’er the dew; - - seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] - milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt. - - The wolf and the kid their raike began, - And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; - The hawk and the hern attour them hung, - And the merle and the mavis forhooy’d their young; - And all in a peaceful ring were hurl’d; - It was like an eve in a sinless world! - - When a month and a day had come and gane, - Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; - There laid her down on the leaves sae green, - And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. - But O, the words that fell from her mouth - Were words of wonder, and words of truth! - But all the land were in fear and dread, - For they kendna whether she was living or dead. - It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain; - She left this world of sorrow and pain, - And return’d to the land of thought again. - - _514._ raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy’d] - neglected. - - - - -WILLIAM WORDSWORTH - -1770-1850 - - -_Lucy_ - - -_515._ _i_ - - Strange fits of passion have I known: - And I will dare to tell, - But in the lover’s ear alone, - What once to me befell. - - When she I loved look’d every day - Fresh as a rose in June, - I to her cottage bent my way, - Beneath an evening moon. - - Upon the moon I fix’d my eye, - All over the wide lea; - With quickening pace my horse drew nigh - Those paths so dear to me. - - And now we reach’d the orchard-plot; - And, as we climb’d the hill, - The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot - Came near and nearer still. - - In one of those sweet dreams I slept, - Kind Nature’s gentlest boon! - And all the while my eyes I kept - On the descending moon. - - My horse moved on; hoof after hoof - He raised, and never stopp’d: - When down behind the cottage roof, - At once, the bright moon dropp’d. - - What fond and wayward thoughts will slide - Into a lover’s head! - ‘O mercy!’ to myself I cried, - ‘If Lucy should be dead!’ - - -_516._ _ii_ - - She dwelt among the untrodden ways - Beside the springs of Dove, - A Maid whom there were none to praise - And very few to love: - - A violet by a mossy stone - Half hidden from the eye! - Fair as a star, when only one - Is shining in the sky. - - - She lived unknown, and few could know - When Lucy ceased to be; - But she is in her grave, and oh, - The difference to me! - - -_517._ _iii_ - - I traveled among unknown men, - In lands beyond the sea; - Nor, England! did I know till then - What love I bore to thee. - - ’Tis past, that melancholy dream! - Nor will I quit thy shore - A second time; for still I seem - To love thee more and more. - - Among thy mountains did I feel - The joy of my desire; - And she I cherish’d turn’d her wheel - Beside an English fire. - - Thy mornings show’d, thy nights conceal’d, - The bowers where Lucy play’d; - And thine too is the last green field - That Lucy’s eyes survey’d. - - -_518._ _iv_ - - Three years she grew in sun and shower; - Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower - On earth was never sown; - This child I to myself will take; - She shall be mine, and I will make - A lady of my own. - - - ‘Myself will to my darling be - Both law and impulse: and with me - The girl, in rock and plain, - In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, - Shall feel an overseeing power - To kindle or restrain. - - ‘She shall be sportive as the fawn - That wild with glee across the lawn - Or up the mountain springs; - And hers shall be the breathing balm, - And hers the silence and the calm - Of mute insensate things. - - ‘The floating clouds their state shall lend - To her; for her the willow bend; - Nor shall she fail to see - Even in the motions of the storm - Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form - By silent sympathy. - - ‘The stars of midnight shall be dear - To her; and she shall lean her ear - In many a secret place - Where rivulets dance their wayward round, - And beauty born of murmuring sound - Shall pass into her face. - - ‘And vital feelings of delight - Shall rear her form to stately height, - Her virgin bosom swell; - Such thoughts to Lucy I will give - While she and I together live - Here in this happy dell.’ - - - Thus Nature spake--The work was done-- - How soon my Lucy’s race was run! - She died, and left to me - This heath, this calm and quiet scene; - The memory of what has been, - And never more will be. - - -_519._ _v_ - - A slumber did my spirit seal; - I had no human fears: - She seem’d a thing that could not feel - The touch of earthly years. - - No motion has she now, no force; - She neither hears nor sees; - Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course, - With rocks, and stones, and trees. - - -_520._ _Upon Westminster Bridge_ - - Earth has not anything to show more fair: - Dull would he be of soul who could pass by - A sight so touching in its majesty: - This City now doth like a garment wear - The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, - Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie - Open unto the fields, and to the sky; - All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. - Never did sun more beautifully steep - In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; - Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! - The river glideth at his own sweet will: - Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; - And all that mighty heart is lying still! - - -_521._ _Evening on Calais Beach_ - - It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, - The holy time is quiet as a Nun - Breathless with adoration; the broad sun - Is sinking down in its tranquillity; - The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea: - Listen! the mighty Being is awake, - And doth with his eternal motion make - A sound like thunder--everlastingly. - Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, - If thou appear untouch’d by solemn thought, - Thy nature is not therefore less divine: - Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year; - And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine, - God being with thee when we know it not. - - -_522._ _On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802_ - - Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; - And was the safeguard of the West: the worth - Of Venice did not fall below her birth, - Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. - She was a maiden City, bright and free; - No guile seduced, no force could violate; - And, when she took unto herself a mate, - She must espouse the everlasting Sea. - And what if she had seen those glories fade, - Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; - Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid - When her long life hath reach’d its final day: - Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade - Of that which once was great is pass’d away. - - -_England, 1802_ - -_523._ _i_ - - O friend! I know not which way I must look - For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, - To think that now our life is only drest - For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, - Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook - In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: - The wealthiest man among us is the best: - No grandeur now in nature or in book - Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, - This is idolatry; and these we adore: - Plain living and high thinking are no more: - The homely beauty of the good old cause - Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, - And pure religion breathing household laws. - - -_524._ _ii_ - - Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: - England hath need of thee: she is a fen - Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, - Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, - Have forfeited their ancient English dower - Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; - O raise us up, return to us again, - And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power! - Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; - Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: - Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, - So didst thou travel on life’s common way, - In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart - The lowliest duties on herself did lay. - - -_525._ _iii_ - - Great men have been among us; hands that penn’d - And tongues that utter’d wisdom--better none: - The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, - Young Vane, and others who call’d Milton friend. - These moralists could act and comprehend: - They knew how genuine glory was put on; - Taught us how rightfully a nation shone - In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend - But in magnanimous meekness. France, ’tis strange, - Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. - Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! - No single volume paramount, no code, - No master spirit, no determined road; - But equally a want of books and men! - - -_526._ _iv_ - - It is not to be thought of that the flood - Of British freedom, which, to the open sea - Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity - Hath flow’d, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’-- - Roused though it be full often to a mood - Which spurns the check of salutary bands,-- - That this most famous stream in bogs and sands - Should perish; and to evil and to good - Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung - Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: - We must be free or die, who speak the tongue - That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold - Which Milton held.--In everything we are sprung - Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold. - - -_527._ _v_ - - When I have borne in memory what has tamed - Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart - When men change swords for ledgers, and desert - The student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed - I had, my Country--am I to be blamed? - Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, - Verily, in the bottom of my heart, - Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. - For dearly must we prize thee; we who find - In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; - And I by my affection was beguiled: - What wonder if a Poet now and then, - Among the many movements of his mind, - Felt for thee as a lover or a child! - -_528._ _The Solitary Reaper_ - - - - Behold her, single in the field, - Yon solitary Highland Lass! - Reaping and singing by herself; - Stop here, or gently pass! - Alone she cuts and binds the grain, - And sings a melancholy strain; - O listen! for the Vale profound - Is overflowing with the sound. - - No Nightingale did ever chaunt - More welcome notes to weary bands - Of travellers in some shady haunt, - Among Arabian sands: - - A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard - In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, - Breaking the silence of the seas - Among the farthest Hebrides. - - Will no one tell me what she sings?-- - Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow - For old, unhappy, far-off things, - And battles long ago: - Or is it some more humble lay, - Familiar matter of to-day? - Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, - That has been, and may be again? - - Whatever the theme, the Maiden sang - As if her song could have no ending; - I saw her singing at her work, - And o'er the sickle bending;-- - I listen'd, motionless and still; - And, as I mounted up the hill, - The music in my heart I bore, - Long after it was heard no more. - -_529._ _Perfect Woman_ - - She was a phantom of delight - When first she gleam’d upon my sight; - A lovely apparition, sent - To be a moment’s ornament; - Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; - Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair; - But all things else about her drawn - From May-time and the cheerful dawn; - A dancing shape, an image gay, - To haunt, to startle, and waylay. - - - I saw her upon nearer view, - A Spirit, yet a Woman too! - Her household motions light and free, - And steps of virgin liberty; - A countenance in which did meet - Sweet records, promises as sweet; - A creature not too bright or good - For human nature’s daily food; - For transient sorrows, simple wiles, - Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. - - And now I see with eye serene - The very pulse of the machine; - A being breathing thoughtful breath, - A traveller between life and death; - The reason firm, the temperate will, - Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; - A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d, - To warn, to comfort, and command; - And yet a Spirit still, and bright - With something of angelic light. - - -_530._ _Daffodils_ - - I wander’d lonely as a cloud - That floats on high o’er vales and hills, - When all at once I saw a crowd, - A host, of golden daffodils; - Beside the lake, beneath the trees, - Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. - - Continuous as the stars that shine - And twinkle on the Milky Way, - They stretch’d in never-ending line - Along the margin of a bay: - Ten thousand saw I at a glance, - Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. - - The waves beside them danced, but they - Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: - A poet could not but be gay, - In such a jocund company: - I gazed--and gazed--but little thought - What wealth the show to me had brought: - - For oft, when on my couch I lie - In vacant or in pensive mood, - They flash upon that inward eye - Which is the bliss of solitude; - And then my heart with pleasure fills, - And dances with the daffodils. - - -_531._ _Ode to Duty_ - - Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! - O Duty! if that name thou love, - Who art a light to guide, a rod - To check the erring and reprove; - Thou, who art victory and law - When empty terrors overawe; - From vain temptations dost set free; - And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity! - - There are who ask not if thine eye - Be on them; who, in love and truth, - Where no misgiving is, rely - Upon the genial sense of youth: - Glad hearts! without reproach or blot; - Who do thy work, and know it not: - O, if through confidence misplaced - They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. - - Serene will be our days and bright, - And happy will our nature be, - When love is an unerring light, - And joy its own security. - And they a blissful course may hold - Even now, who, not unwisely bold, - Live in the spirit of this creed; - Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. - - I, loving freedom, and untried; - No sport of every random gust, - Yet being to myself a guide, - Too blindly have reposed my trust: - And oft, when in my heart was heard - Thy timely mandate, I deferr’d - The task, in smoother walks to stray; - But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. - - Through no disturbance of my soul, - Or strong compunction in me wrought, - I supplicate for thy control; - But in the quietness of thought. - Me this uncharter’d freedom tires; - I feel the weight of chance-desires; - My hopes no more must change their name, - I long for a repose that ever is the same. - - Yet not the less would I throughout - Still act according to the voice - Of my own wish; and feel past doubt - That my submissiveness was choice: - Not seeking in the school of pride - For ‘precepts over dignified,’ - Denial and restraint I prize - No farther than they breed a second Will more wise. - - Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear - The Godhead’s most benignant grace; - Nor know we anything so fair - As is the smile upon thy face: - Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, - And fragrance in thy footing treads; - Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; - And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. - - To humbler functions, awful Power! - I call thee: I myself commend - Unto thy guidance from this hour; - O, let my weakness have an end! - Give unto me, made lowly wise, - The spirit of self-sacrifice; - The confidence of reason give; - And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live! - - -_532._ _The Rainbow_ - - My heart leaps up when I behold - A rainbow in the sky: - So was it when my life began; - So is it now I am a man; - So be it when I shall grow old, - Or let me die! - The Child is father of the Man; - And I could wish my days to be - Bound each to each by natural piety. - - -_The Sonnet_ - - -_533._ _i_ - - Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room, - And hermits are contented with their cells, - And students with their pensive citadels; - Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, - Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, - High as the highest peak of Furness fells, - Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: - In truth the prison unto which we doom - Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me, - In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound - Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground; - Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be) - Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, - Should find brief solace there, as I have found. - - -_534._ _ii_ - - Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, - Mindless of its just honours; with this key - Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody - Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; - A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; - With it Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief; - The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf - Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd - His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, - It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land - To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp - Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand - The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew - Soul-animating strains--alas, too few! - -_535._ _The World_ - - The world is too much with us; late and soon, - Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: - Little we see in Nature that is ours; - We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! - This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; - The winds that will be howling at all hours, - And are up-gather’d now like sleeping flowers; - For this, for everything, we are out of tune; - It moves us not.--Great God! I’d rather be - A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; - So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, - Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; - Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; - Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. - - -_536._ _Ode_ - -_Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood_ - - There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, - The earth, and every common sight, - To me did seem - Apparell’d in celestial light, - The glory and the freshness of a dream, - It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- - Turn wheresoe’er I may, - By night or day, - The things which I have seen I now can see no more. - The rainbow comes and goes, - And lovely is the rose; - The moon doth with delight - Look round her when the heavens are bare; - Waters on a starry night - Are beautiful and fair; - The sunshine is a glorious birth; - But yet I know, where’er I go, - That there hath pass’d away a glory from the earth. - - Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, - And while the young lambs bound - As to the tabor’s sound, - To me alone there came a thought of grief: - A timely utterance gave that thought relief, - And I again am strong: - The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; - No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; - I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, - The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, - And all the earth is gay; - Land and sea - Give themselves up to jollity, - And with the heart of May - Doth every beast keep holiday;-- - Thou Child of Joy, - Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! - - Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call - Ye to each other make; I see - The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; - My heart is at your festival, - My head hath its coronal, - The fullness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. - O evil day! if I were sullen - While Earth herself is adorning, - This sweet May-morning, - And the children are culling - On every side, - In a thousand valleys far and wide, - Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, - And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:-- - I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! - --But there’s a tree, of many, one, - A single field which I have look’d upon, - Both of them speak of something that is gone: - The pansy at my feet - Doth the same tale repeat: - Whither is fled the visionary gleam? - Where is it now, the glory and the dream? - - Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: - The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, - Hath had elsewhere its setting, - And cometh from afar: - Not in entire forgetfulness, - And not in utter nakedness, - But trailing clouds of glory do we come - From God, who is our home: - Heaven lies about us in our infancy! - Shades of the prison-house begin to close - Upon the growing Boy, - But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, - He sees it in his joy; - The Youth, who daily farther from the east - Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, - And by the vision splendid - Is on his way attended; - At length the Man perceives it die away, - And fade into the light of common day. - - Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; - Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, - And, even with something of a mother’s mind, - And no unworthy aim, - The homely nurse doth all she can - To make her foster-child, her inmate Man, - Forget the glories he hath known, - And that imperial palace whence he came. - - Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, - A six years’ darling of a pigmy size! - See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies, - Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses, - With light upon him from his father’s eyes! - See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, - Some fragment from his dream of human life, - Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art; - A wedding or a festival, - A mourning or a funeral; - And this hath now his heart, - And unto this he frames his song: - Then will he fit his tongue - To dialogues of business, love, or strife; - But it will not be long - Ere this be thrown aside, - And with new joy and pride - The little actor cons another part; - Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’ - With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, - That Life brings with her in her equipage; - As if his whole vocation - Were endless imitation. - - Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie - Thy soul’s immensity; - Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep - Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, - That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep, - Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- - Mighty prophet! Seer blest! - On whom those truths do rest, - Which we are toiling all our lives to find, - In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; - Thou, over whom thy Immortality - Broods like the Day, a master o’er a slave, - A presence which is not to be put by; - To whom the grave - Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight - Of day or the warm light, - A place of thought where we in waiting lie; - Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might - Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height, - Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke - The years to bring the inevitable yoke, - Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? - Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, - And custom lie upon thee with a weight, - Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! - O joy! that in our embers - Is something that doth live, - That nature yet remembers - What was so fugitive! - The thought of our past years in me doth breed - Perpetual benediction: not indeed - For that which is most worthy to be blest-- - Delight and liberty, the simple creed - Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, - With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-- - Not for these I raise - The song of thanks and praise; - But for those obstinate questionings - Of sense and outward things, - Fallings from us, vanishings; - Blank misgivings of a Creature - Moving about in worlds not realized, - High instincts before which our mortal Nature - Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: - But for those first affections, - Those shadowy recollections, - Which, be they what they may, - Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, - Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; - Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make - Our noisy years seem moments in the being - Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, - To perish never: - Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, - Nor Man nor Boy, - Nor all that is at enmity with joy, - Can utterly abolish or destroy! - Hence in a season of calm weather - Though inland far we be, - Our souls have sight of that immortal sea - Which brought us hither, - Can in a moment travel thither, - And see the children sport upon the shore, - And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. - - Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! - And let the young lambs bound - As to the tabor’s sound! - We in thought will join your throng, - Ye that pipe and ye that play, - Ye that through your hearts to-day - Feel the gladness of the May! - What though the radiance which was once so bright - Be now for ever taken from my sight, - Though nothing can bring back the hour - Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; - We will grieve not, rather find - Strength in what remains behind; - In the primal sympathy - Which having been must ever be; - In the soothing thoughts that spring - Out of human suffering; - In the faith that looks through death, - In years that bring the philosophic mind. - - And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, - Forebode not any severing of our loves! - Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; - I only have relinquished one delight - To live beneath your more habitual sway. - I love the brooks which down their channels fret, - Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they; - The innocent brightness of a new-born Day - Is lovely yet; - The clouds that gather round the setting sun - Do take a sober colouring from an eye - That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; - Another race hath been, and other palms are won. - Thanks to the human heart by which we live, - Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, - To me the meanest flower that blows can give - Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. - - -_537._ _Desideria_ - - Surprised by joy--impatient as the Wind - I turned to share the transport--O! with whom - But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, - That spot which no vicissitude can find? - Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind-- - But how could I forget thee? Through what power, - Even for the least division of an hour, - Have I been so beguiled as to be blind - To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return - Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, - Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, - Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; - That neither present time, nor years unborn - Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. - - -_538._ _Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon_ - - I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, - As being pass’d away.--Vain sympathies! - For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, - I see what was, and is, and will abide; - Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; - The Form remains, the Function never dies; - While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, - We Men, who in our morn of youth defied - The elements, must vanish;--be it so! - Enough, if something from our hands have power - To live, and act, and serve the future hour; - And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, - Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower, - We feel that we are greater than we know. - - -_539._ _Mutability_ - - From low to high doth dissolution climb, - And sink from high to low, along a scale - Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; - A musical but melancholy chime, - Which they can hear who meddle not with crime. - Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. - Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear - The longest date do melt like frosty rime, - That in the morning whiten’d hill and plain - And is no more; drop like the tower sublime - Of yesterday, which royally did wear - His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain - Some casual shout that broke the silent air, - Or the unimaginable touch of Time. - - -_540._ _The Trosachs_ - - There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass - But were an apt confessional for one - Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, - That Life is but a tale of morning grass - Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase - That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes - Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities, - Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass - Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, - If from a golden perch of aspen spray - (October’s workmanship to rival May) - The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast - That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, - Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest! - - -_541._ _Speak!_ - - Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant - Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air - Of absence withers what was once so fair? - Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? - Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant-- - Bound to thy service with unceasing care, - The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant - For naught but what thy happiness could spare. - Speak--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold - A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, - Be left more desolate, more dreary cold - Than a forsaken bird’s-nest fill’d with snow - ’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine-- - Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! - - - - -SIR WALTER SCOTT - -1771-1832 - - -_542._ _Proud Maisie_ - - Proud Maisie is in the wood, - Walking so early; - Sweet Robin sits on the bush, - Singing so rarely. - - ‘Tell me, thou bonny bird, - When shall I marry me?’ - --‘When six braw gentlemen - Kirkward shall carry ye.’ - - ‘Who makes the bridal bed, - Birdie, say truly?’ - --‘The grey-headed sexton - That delves the grave duly. - - ‘The glow-worm o’er grave and stone - Shall light thee steady; - The owl from the steeple sing - Welcome, proud lady!’ - - -_543._ _Brignall Banks_ - - O Brignall banks are wild and fair, - And Greta woods are green, - And you may gather garlands there, - Would grace a summer queen: - And as I rode by Dalton Hall, - Beneath the turrets high, - A Maiden on the castle wall - Was singing merrily:-- - - - ‘O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, - And Greta woods are green! - I’d rather rove with Edmund there - Than reign our English Queen.’ - - ‘If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me - To leave both tower and town, - Thou first must guess what life lead we, - That dwell by dale and down: - And if thou canst that riddle read, - As read full well you may, - Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed - As blithe as Queen of May.’ - - Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair, - And Greta woods are green! - I’d rather rove with Edmund there - Than reign our English Queen. - - ‘I read you by your bugle horn - And by your palfrey good, - I read you for a Ranger sworn - To keep the King’s green-wood.’ - ‘A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, - And ’tis at peep of light; - His blast is heard at merry morn, - And mine at dead of night.’ - - Yet sung she, ‘Brignall banks are fair, - And Greta woods are gay! - I would I were with Edmund there, - To reign his Queen of May! - - ‘With burnish’d brand and musketoon - So gallantly you come, - I read you for a bold Dragoon, - That lists the tuck of drum.’ - ‘I list no more the tuck of drum, - No more the trumpet hear; - But when the beetle sounds his hum, - My comrades take the spear. - - ‘And O! though Brignall banks be fair, - And Greta woods be gay, - Yet mickle must the maiden dare, - Would reign my Queen of May! - - ‘Maiden! a nameless life I lead, - A nameless death I’ll die; - The fiend whose lantern lights the mead - Were better mate than I! - And when I’m with my comrades met - Beneath the green-wood bough, - What once we were we all forget, - Nor think what we are now.’ - - _Chorus._ Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, - And Greta woods are green, - And you may gather flowers there - Would grace a summer queen. - - -_544._ _Lucy Ashton’s Song_ - - Look not thou on beauty’s charming; - Sit thou still when kings are arming; - Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; - Speak not when the people listens; - Stop thine ear against the singer; - From the red gold keep thy finger; - Vacant heart and hand and eye, - Easy live and quiet die. - - -_545._ _Answer_ - - Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! - To all the sensual world proclaim, - One crowded hour of glorious life - Is worth an age without a name. - - -_546._ _The Rover’s Adieu_ - - A weary lot is thine, fair maid, - A weary lot is thine! - To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, - And press the rue for wine. - A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien, - A feather of the blue, - A doublet of the Lincoln green-- - No more of me ye knew, - My Love! - No more of me ye knew. - - ‘This morn is merry June, I trow, - The rose is budding fain; - But she shall bloom in winter snow - Ere we two meet again.’ - --He turn’d his charger as he spake - Upon the river shore, - He gave the bridle-reins a shake, - Said ‘Adieu for evermore, - My Love! - And adieu for evermore.’ - - -_Patriotism_ - - -_547._ _1. Innominatus_ - - Breathes there the man with soul so dead, - Who never to himself hath said, - ‘This is my own, my native land!’ - Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d - As home his footsteps he hath turn’d - From wandering on a foreign strand? - If such there breathe, go, mark him well; - For him no Minstrel raptures swell; - High though his titles, proud his name, - Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; - Despite those titles, power, and pelf, - The wretch, concentred all in self, - Living, shall forfeit fair renown, - And, doubly dying, shall go down - To the vile dust from whence he sprung, - Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. - - -_548._ _2. Nelson, Pitt, Fox_ - - To mute and to material things - New life revolving summer brings; - The genial call dead Nature hears, - And in her glory reappears. - But oh, my Country’s wintry state - What second spring shall renovate? - What powerful call shall bid arise - The buried warlike and the wise; - The mind that thought for Britain’s weal, - The hand that grasp’d the victor steel? - The vernal sun new life bestows - Even on the meanest flower that blows; - But vainly, vainly may he shine - Where glory weeps o’er NELSON’S shrine; - And vainly pierce the solemn gloom - That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow’d tomb! - - Deep graved in every British heart, - O never let those names depart! - Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave, - Who victor died on Gadite wave! - To him, as to the burning levin, - Short, bright, resistless course was given. - Where’er his country’s foes were found - Was heard the fated thunder’s sound, - Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, - Roll’d, blazed, destroy’d--and was no more. - - Nor mourn ye less his perish’d worth, - Who bade the conqueror go forth, - And launch’d that thunderbolt of war - On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar; - Who, born to guide such high emprise, - For Britain’s weal was early wise; - Alas! to whom the Almighty gave, - For Britain’s sins, an early grave! - --His worth, who in his mightiest hour - A bauble held the pride of power, - Spurn’d at the sordid lust of pelf, - And served his Albion for herself; - Who, when the frantic crowd amain - Strain’d at subjection’s bursting rein, - O’er their wild mood full conquest gain’d, - The pride he would not crush, restrain’d, - Show’d their fierce zeal a worthier cause, - And brought the freeman’s arm to aid the freeman’s laws. - - Hadst thou but lived, though stripp’d of power, - A watchman on the lonely tower, - Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, - When fraud or danger were at hand; - By thee, as by the beacon-light, - Our pilots had kept course aright; - As some proud column, though alone, - Thy strength had propp’d the tottering throne. - Now is the stately column broke, - The beacon-light is quench’d in smoke, - The trumpet’s silver voice is still, - The warder silent on the hill! - - O think, how to his latest day, - When Death, just hovering, claim’d his prey. - With Palinure’s unalter’d mood - Firm at his dangerous post he stood; - Each call for needful rest repell’d, - With dying hand the rudder held, - Till in his fall with fateful sway - The steerage of the realm gave way. - Then--while on Britain’s thousand plains - One unpolluted church remains, - Whose peaceful bells ne’er sent around - The bloody tocsin’s maddening sound, - But still upon the hallow’d day - Convoke the swains to praise and pray; - While faith and civil peace are dear, - Grace this cold marble with a tear:-- - He who preserved them, PITT, lies here! - - Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, - Because his rival slumbers nigh; - Nor be thy _Requiescat_ dumb - Lest it be said o’er Fox’s tomb. - For talents mourn, untimely lost, - When best employ’d, and wanted most; - Mourn genius high, and lore profound, - And wit that loved to play, not wound; - And all the reasoning powers divine - To penetrate, resolve, combine; - And feelings keen, and fancy’s glow-- - They sleep with him who sleeps below: - And, if thou mourn’st they could not save - From error him who owns this grave, - Be every harsher thought suppress’d, - And sacred be the last long rest. - _Here_, where the end of earthly things - Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings; - Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, - Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; - _Here_, where the fretted vaults prolong - The distant notes of holy song, - As if some angel spoke agen, - ‘All peace on earth, good-will to men’; - If ever from an English heart, - O, _here_ let prejudice depart, - And, partial feeling cast aside, - Record that Fox a Briton died! - When Europe crouch’d to France’s yoke, - And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, - And the firm Russian’s purpose brave - Was bartered by a timorous slave-- - Even then dishonour’s peace he spurn’d, - The sullied olive-branch return’d, - Stood for his country’s glory fast, - And nail’d her colours to the mast! - Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave - A portion in this honour’d grave; - And ne’er held marble in its trust - Of two such wondrous men the dust. - - With more than mortal powers endow’d, - How high they soar’d above the crowd! - Theirs was no common party race, - Jostling by dark intrigue for place; - Like fabled gods, their mighty war - Shook realms and nations in its jar; - Beneath each banner proud to stand, - Look’d up the noblest of the land, - Till through the British world were known - The names of PITT and FOX alone. - Spells of such force no wizard grave - E’er framed in dark Thessalian cave, - Though his could drain the ocean dry, - And force the planets from the sky. - These spells are spent, and, spent with these, - The wine of life is on the lees. - Genius, and taste, and talent gone, - For ever tomb’d beneath the stone, - Where--taming thought to human pride!-- - The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. - Drop upon Fox’s grave the tear, - ’Twill trickle to his rival’s bier; - O’er PITT’s the mournful requiem sound, - And FOX’s shall the notes rebound. - The solemn echo seems to cry, - ‘Here let their discord with them die. - Speak not for those a separate doom - Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb; - But search the land of living men, - Where wilt thou find their like agen?’ - - - - -SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE - -1772-1834 - - -_549._ _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ - - -PART I - -[Sidenote: An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding -feast, and detaineth one.] - - It is an ancient Mariner, - And he stoppeth one of three. - ‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, - Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? - - The Bridegroom’s doors are open’d wide, - And I am next of kin; - The guests are met, the feast is set: - May’st hear the merry din.’ - - He holds him with his skinny hand, - ‘There was a ship,’ quoth he. - ‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’ - Eftsoons his hand dropt he. - -[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest is spellbound by the eye of the old -seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] - - He holds him with his glittering eye-- - The Wedding-Guest stood still, - And listens like a three years’ child: - The Mariner hath his will. - - - The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: - He cannot choose but hear; - And thus spake on that ancient man, - The bright-eyed Mariner. - - ‘The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d, - Merrily did we drop - Below the kirk, below the hill, - Below the lighthouse top. - -[Sidenote: The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good -wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.] - - The Sun came up upon the left, - Out of the sea came he! - And he shone bright, and on the right - Went down into the sea. - - Higher and higher every day, - Till over the mast at noon----’ - The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, - For he heard the loud bassoon. - -[Sidenote: The Wedding Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner -continueth his tale.] - - The bride hath paced into the hall, - Red as a rose is she; - Nodding their heads before her goes - The merry minstrelsy. - - The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, - Yet he cannot choose but hear; - And thus spake on that ancient man, - The bright-eyed Mariner. - -[Sidenote: The ship drawn by a storm toward the South Pole.] - - ‘And now the Storm-blast came, and he - Was tyrannous and strong: - He struck with his o’ertaking wings, - And chased us south along. - - - With sloping masts and dipping prow, - As who pursued with yell and blow - Still treads the shadow of his foe, - And forward bends his head, - The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast, - And southward aye we fled. - - And now there came both mist and snow, - And it grew wondrous cold: - And ice, mast-high, came floating by, - As green as emerald. - -[Sidenote: The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing -was to be seen.] - - And through the drifts the snowy clifts - Did send a dismal sheen: - Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-- - The ice was all between. - - The ice was here, the ice was there, - The ice was all around: - It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d, - Like noises in a swound! - -[Sidenote: Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the -snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.] - - At length did cross an Albatross, - Thorough the fog it came; - As if it had been a Christian soul, - We hail’d it in God’s name. - - It ate the food it ne’er had eat, - And round and round it flew. - The ice did split with a thunder-fit; - The helmsman steer’d us through! - -[Sidenote: And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and -followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating -ice.] - - And a good south wind sprung up behind; - The Albatross did follow, - And every day, for food or play, - Came to the mariners’ hollo! - - - In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, - It perch’d for vespers nine; - Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, - Glimmer’d the white moonshine.’ - -[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of -good omen.] - - ‘God save thee, ancient Mariner, - From the fiends, that plague thee thus!-- - Why look’st thou so?’--‘With my crossbow - I shot the Albatross. - - -PART II - - ‘The Sun now rose upon the right: - Out of the sea came he, - Still hid in mist, and on the left - Went down into the sea. - - And the good south wind still blew behind, - But no sweet bird did follow, - Nor any day for food or play - Came to the mariners’ hollo! - -[Sidenote: His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner for killing -the bird of good luck.] - - And I had done a hellish thing, - And it would work ’em woe: - For all averr’d I had kill’d the bird - That made the breeze to blow. - Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, - That made the breeze to blow! - -[Sidenote: But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus -make themselves accomplices in the crime.] - - Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, - The glorious Sun uprist: - Then all averr’d I had kill’d the bird - That brought the fog and mist. - ’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, - That bring the fog and mist. - -[Sidenote: The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, -and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.] - - The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, - The furrow follow’d free; - We were the first that ever burst - Into that silent sea. - -[Sidenote: The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] - - Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, - ’Twas sad as sad could be; - And we did speak only to break - The silence of the sea! - - All in a hot and copper sky, - The bloody Sun, at noon, - Right up above the mast did stand, - No bigger than the Moon. - - Day after day, day after day, - We stuck, nor breath nor motion; - As idle as a painted ship - Upon a painted ocean. - -[Sidenote: And the Albatross begins to be avenged.] - - Water, water, everywhere, - And all the boards did shrink; - Water, water, everywhere, - Nor any drop to drink. - - The very deep did rot: O Christ! - That ever this should be! - Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs - Upon the slimy sea. - - About, about, in reel and rout - The death-fires danced at night; - The water, like a witch’s oils, - Burnt green, and blue, and white. - -[Sidenote: A Spirit had followed them, one of the invisible inhabitants -of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the -learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael -Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no -climate or element without one or more.] - - And some in dreams assurèd were - Or the Spirit that plagued us so; - Nine fathom deep he had follow’d us - From the land of mist and snow. - - And every tongue, through utter drought, - Was wither’d at the root; - We could not speak, no more than if - We had been choked with soot. - -[Sidenote: The shipmates in their sore distress, would fain throw the -whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead -sea-bird round his neck.] - - Ah! well a-day! what evil looks - Had I from old and young! - Instead of the cross, the Albatross - About my neck was hung. - - -PART III - -[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar -off.] - - ‘There passed a weary time. Each throat - Was parch’d, and glazed each eye. - A weary time! a weary time! - How glazed each weary eye! - When looking westward, I beheld - A something in the sky. - - At first it seem’d a little speck, - And then it seem’d a mist; - It moved and moved, and took at last - A certain shape, I wist. - - A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! - And still it near’d and near’d: - As if it dodged a water-sprite, - It plunged, and tack’d, and veer’d. - -[Sidenote: At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a -dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.] - - With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, - We could nor laugh nor wail; - Through utter drought all dumb we stood! - I bit my arm, I suck’d the blood, - And cried, A sail! a sail! - -[Sidenote: A flash of joy;] - - With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, - Agape they heard me call: - Gramercy! they for joy did grin, - And all at once their breath drew in, - As they were drinking all. - -[Sidenote: And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward -without wind or tide?] - - See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! - Hither to work us weal-- - Without a breeze, without a tide, - She steadies with upright keel! - - The western wave was all aflame, - The day was wellnigh done! - Almost upon the western wave - Rested the broad, bright Sun; - When that strange shape drove suddenly - Betwixt us and the Sun. - -[Sidenote: It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.] - - And straight the Sun was fleck’d with bars - (Heaven’s Mother send us grace!), - As if through a dungeon-grate he peer’d - With broad and burning face. - - Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) - How fast she nears and nears! - Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, - Like restless gossameres? - -[Sidenote: And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. -The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other, on board the -skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew!] - - Are those her ribs through which the Sun - Did peer, as through a grate? - And is that Woman all her crew? - Is that a Death? and are there two? - Is Death that Woman’s mate? - - Her lips were red, her looks were free, - Her locks were yellow as gold: - Her skin was as white as leprosy, - The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, - Who thicks man’s blood with cold. - -[Sidenote: Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship’s crew, and -she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.] - - The naked hulk alongside came, - And the twain were casting dice; - “The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!” - Quoth she, and whistles thrice. - -[Sidenote: No twilight within the courts of the Sun.] - - The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: - At one stride comes the dark; - With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, - Off shot the spectre-bark. - -[Sidenote: At the rising of the Moon,] - - We listen’d and look’d sideways up! - Fear at my heart, as at a cup, - My life-blood seem’d to sip! - The stars were dim, and thick the night, - The steersman’s face by his lamp gleam’d white; - From the sails the dew did drip-- - Till clomb above the eastern bar - The hornèd Moon, with one bright star - Within the nether tip. - -[Sidenote: One after another,] - - One after one, by the star-dogg’d Moon, - Too quick for groan or sigh, - Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pang, - And cursed me with his eye. - -[Sidenote: His shipmates drop down dead.] - - Four times fifty living men - (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), - With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, - They dropp’d down one by one. - -[Sidenote: But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.] - - The souls did from their bodies fly-- - They fled to bliss or woe! - And every soul, it pass’d me by - Like the whizz of my crossbow!’ - - -PART IV - -[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him.] - - ‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner! - I fear thy skinny hand! - And thou art long, and lank, and brown, - As is the ribb’d sea-sand. - -[Sidenote: But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and -proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.] - - I fear thee and thy glittering eye, - And thy skinny hand so brown.’-- - ‘Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! - This body dropt not down. - - Alone, alone, all, all alone, - Alone on a wide, wide sea! - And never a saint took pity on - My soul in agony. - -[Sidenote: He despiseth the creatures of the calm.] - - The many men, so beautiful! - And they all dead did lie: - And a thousand thousand slimy things - Lived on; and so did I. - -[Sidenote: And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.] - - I look’d upon the rotting sea, - And drew my eyes away; - I look’d upon the rotting deck, - And there the dead men lay. - - - I look’d to heaven, and tried to pray; - But or ever a prayer had gusht, - A wicked whisper came, and made - My heart as dry as dust. - - I closed my lids, and kept them close, - And the balls like pulses beat; - But the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, - Lay like a load on my weary eye, - And the dead were at my feet. - -[Sidenote: But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.] - - The cold sweat melted from their limbs, - Nor rot nor reek did they: - The look with which they look’d on me - Had never pass’d away. - - An orphan’s curse would drag to hell - A spirit from on high; - But oh! more horrible than that - Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! - Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, - And yet I could not die. - -[Sidenote: In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the Moon, -and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere -the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their -native country and their own natural homes, which they enter -unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a -silent joy at their arrival.] - - The moving Moon went up the sky, - And nowhere did abide; - Softly she was going up, - And a star or two beside-- - - Her beams bemock’d the sultry main, - Like April hoar-frost spread; - But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, - The charmèd water burnt alway - A still and awful red. - -[Sidenote: By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God’s creatures of the -great calm.] - - Beyond the shadow of the ship, - I watch’d the water-snakes: - They moved in tracks of shining white, - And when they rear’d, the elfish light - Fell off in hoary flakes. - - Within the shadow of the ship - I watch’d their rich attire: - Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, - They coil’d and swam; and every track - Was a flash of golden fire. - -[Sidenote: Their beauty and their happiness.] - -[Sidenote: He blesseth them in his heart.] - - O happy living things! no tongue - Their beauty might declare: - A spring of love gush’d from my heart, - And I bless’d them unaware: - Sure my kind saint took pity on me, - And I bless’d them unaware. - -[Sidenote: The spell begins to break.] - - The selfsame moment I could pray; - And from my neck so free - The Albatross fell off, and sank - Like lead into the sea. - - -PART V - - ‘O sleep! it is a gentle thing, - Beloved from pole to pole! - To Mary Queen the praise be given! - She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, - That slid into my soul. - -[Sidenote: By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed -with rain.] - - The silly buckets on the deck, - That had so long remain’d, - I dreamt that they were fill’d with dew; - And when I awoke, it rain’d. - - - My lips were wet, my throat was cold, - My garments all were dank; - Sure I had drunken in my dreams, - And still my body drank. - - I moved, and could not feel my limbs: - I was so light--almost - I thought that I had died in sleep, - And was a blessèd ghost. - -[Sidenote: He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in -the sky and the element.] - - And soon I heard a roaring wind: - It did not come anear; - But with its sound it shook the sails, - That were so thin and sere. - - The upper air burst into life; - And a hundred fire-flags sheen; - To and fro they were hurried about! - And to and fro, and in and out, - The wan stars danced between. - - And the coming wind did roar more loud. - And the sails did sigh like sedge; - And the rain pour’d down from one black cloud; - The Moon was at its edge. - - The thick black cloud was cleft, and still - The Moon was at its side; - Like waters shot from some high crag, - The lightning fell with never a jag, - A river steep and wide. - -[Sidenote: The bodies of the ship’s crew are inspired, and the ship -moves on;] - - The loud wind never reached the ship, - Yet now the ship moved on! - Beneath the lightning and the Moon - The dead men gave a groan. - - - They groan’d, they stirr’d, they all uprose, - Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; - It had been strange, even in a dream, - To have seen those dead men rise. - - The helmsman steer’d, the ship moved on; - Yet never a breeze up-blew; - The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, - Where they were wont to do; - They raised their limbs like lifeless tools-- - We were a ghastly crew. - - The body of my brother’s son - Stood by me, knee to knee: - The body and I pull’d at one rope, - But he said naught to me.’ - -[Sidenote: But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or -middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the -invocation of the guardian saint.] - - ‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’ - ‘Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest: - ’Twas not those souls that fled in pain, - Which to their corses came again, - But a troop of spirits blest: - - For when it dawn’d--they dropp’d their arms, - And cluster’d round the mast; - Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, - And from their bodies pass’d. - - Around, around, flew each sweet sound, - Then darted to the Sun; - Slowly the sounds came back again, - Now mix’d, now one by one. - - Sometimes a-dropping from the sky - I heard the skylark sing; - Sometimes all little birds that are, - How they seem’d to fill the sea and air - With their sweet jargoning! - - - And now ’twas like all instruments, - Now like a lonely flute; - And now it is an angel’s song, - That makes the Heavens be mute. - - It ceased; yet still the sails made on - A pleasant noise till noon, - A noise like of a hidden brook - In the leafy month of June, - That to the sleeping woods all night - Singeth a quiet tune. - - Till noon we quietly sail’d on, - Yet never a breeze did breathe: - Slowly and smoothly went the ship, - Moved onward from beneath. - -[Sidenote: The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship -as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still -requireth vengeance.] - - Under the keel nine fathom deep, - From the land, of mist and snow, - The Spirit slid: and it was he - That made the ship to go. - The sails at noon left off their tune, - And the ship stood still also. - - The Sun, right up above the mast, - Had fix’d her to the ocean: - But in a minute she ’gan stir, - With a short uneasy motion-- - Backwards and forwards half her length - With a short uneasy motion. - - Then like a pawing horse let go, - She made a sudden bound: - It flung the blood into my head, - And I fell down in a swound. - -[Sidenote: The Polar Spirit’s fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants -of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to -the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been -accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.] - - How long in that same fit I lay, - I have not to declare; - But ere my living life return’d, - I heard, and in my soul discern’d - Two voices in the air. - - “Is it he?” quoth one, “is this the man? - By Him who died on cross, - With his cruel bow he laid full low - The harmless Albatross. - - The Spirit who bideth by himself - In the land of mist and snow, - He loved the bird that loved the man - Who shot him with his bow.” - - The other was a softer voice, - As soft as honey-dew: - Quoth he, “The man hath penance done, - And penance more will do.” - - -PART VI - - _First Voice_: - - ‘“But tell me, tell me! speak again. - Thy soft response renewing-- - What makes that ship drive on so fast? - What is the Ocean doing?” - - _Second Voice_: - - “Still as a slave before his lord, - The Ocean hath no blast; - His great bright eye most silently - Up to the Moon is cast-- - - - If he may know which way to go; - For she guides him smooth or grim. - See, brother, see! how graciously - She looketh down on him.” - -[Sidenote: The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic -power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could -endure.] - - _First Voice_: - - “But why drives on that ship so fast, - Without or wave or wind?” - - _Second Voice_: - - “The air is cut away before, - And closes from behind. - - Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! - Or we shall be belated: - For slow and slow that ship will go, - When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ - -[Sidenote: The super-natural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and -his penance begins anew.] - - I woke, and we were sailing on - As in a gentle weather: - ’Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; - The dead men stood together. - - All stood together on the deck, - For a charnel-dungeon fitter: - All fix’d on me their stony eyes, - That in the Moon did glitter. - - The pang, the curse, with which they died. - Had never pass’d away: - I could not draw my eyes from theirs, - Nor turn them up to pray. - -[Sidenote: The curse is finally expiated.] - - And now this spell was snapt: once more - I viewed the ocean green, - And look’d far forth, yet little saw - Of what had else been seen-- - - - Like one that on a lonesome road - Doth walk in fear and dread, - And having once turned round, walks on, - And turns no more his head; - Because he knows a frightful fiend - Doth close behind him tread. - - But soon there breathed a wind on me, - Nor sound nor motion made: - Its path was not upon the sea, - In ripple or in shade. - - It raised my hair, it fann’d my cheek - Like a meadow-gale of spring-- - It mingled strangely with my fears, - Yet it felt like a welcoming. - - Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, - Yet she sail’d softly too: - Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- - On me alone it blew. - -[Sidenote: And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.] - - O dream of joy! is this indeed - The lighthouse top I see? - Is this the hill? is this the kirk? - Is this mine own countree? - - We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, - And I with sobs did pray-- - O let me be awake, my God! - Or let me sleep alway. - - The harbour-bay was clear as glass, - So smoothly it was strewn! - And on the bay the moonlight lay, - And the shadow of the Moon. - - - The rock shone bright, the kirk no less - That stands above the rock: - The moonlight steep’d in silentness - The steady weathercock. - -[Sidenote: The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,] - - And the bay was white with silent light - Till rising from the same, - Full many shapes, that shadows were, - In crimson colours came. - -[Sidenote: And appear in their own forms of light.] - - A little distance from the prow - Those crimson shadows were: - I turn’d my eyes upon the deck-- - O Christ! what saw I there! - - Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, - And, by the holy rood! - A man all light, a seraph-man, - On every corse there stood. - - This seraph-band, each waved his hand: - It was a heavenly sight! - They stood as signals to the land, - Each one a lovely light; - - This seraph-band, each waved his hand, - No voice did they impart-- - No voice; but O, the silence sank - Like music on my heart. - - But soon I heard the dash of oars, - I heard the Pilot’s cheer; - My head was turn’d perforce away, - And I saw a boat appear. - - - The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, - I heard them coming fast: - Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy - The dead men could not blast. - - I saw a third--I heard his voice: - It is the Hermit good! - He singeth loud his godly hymns - That he makes in the wood. - He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away - The Albatross’s blood. - - -PART VII - -[Sidenote: The Hermit of the Wood.] - - ‘This hermit good lives in that wood - Which slopes down to the sea. - How loudly his sweet voice he rears! - He loves to talk with marineres - That come from a far countree. - - He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- - He hath a cushion plump. - It is the moss that wholly hides - The rotted old oak-stump. - - The skiff-boat near’d: I heard them talk, - “Why, this is strange, I trow! - Where are those lights so many and fair, - That signal made but now?” - -[Sidenote: Approacheth the ship with wonder.] - - “Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said-- - “And they answer’d not our cheer! - The planks look warp’d! and see those sails, - How thin they are and sere! - I never saw aught like to them, - Unless perchance it were - Brown skeletons of leaves that lag - My forest-brook along; - When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, - And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, - That eats the she-wolf’s young.” - - “Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-- - (The Pilot made reply) - I am a-fear’d.”--“Push on, push on!” - Said the Hermit cheerily. - - The boat came closer to the ship, - But I nor spake nor stirr’d; - The boat came close beneath the ship, - And straight a sound was heard. - -[Sidenote: The ship suddenly sinketh.] - - Under the water it rumbled on, - Still louder and more dread: - It reach’d the ship, it split the bay; - The ship went down like lead. - -[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot’s boat.] - - Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound, - Which sky and ocean smote, - Like one that hath been seven days drown’d - My body lay afloat; - But swift as dreams, myself I found - Within the Pilot’s boat. - - Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, - The boat spun round and round; - And all was still, save that the hill - Was telling of the sound. - - I moved my lips--the Pilot shriek’d - And fell down in a fit; - The holy Hermit raised his eyes, - And pray’d where he did sit. - - - I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, - Who now doth crazy go, - Laugh’d loud and long, and all the while - His eyes went to and fro. - “Ha! ha!” quoth he, “full plain I see - The Devil knows how to row.” - - And now, all in my own countree, - I stood on the firm land! - The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat, - And scarcely he could stand. - -[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to -shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.] - - “O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!” - The Hermit cross’d his brow. - “Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say-- - What manner of man art thou?” - - Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d - With a woful agony, - Which forced me to begin my tale; - And then it left me free. - -[Sidenote: And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony -constraineth him to travel from land to land;] - - Since then, at an uncertain hour, - That agony returns: - And till my ghastly tale is told, - This heart within me burns. - - I pass, like night, from land to land; - I have strange power of speech; - That moment that his face I see, - I know the man that must hear me: - To him my tale I teach. - - What loud uproar bursts from that door! - The wedding-guests are there: - But in the garden-bower the bride - And bride-maids singing are: - And hark, the little vesper bell, - Which biddeth me to prayer! - - O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been - Alone on a wide, wide sea: - So lonely ’twas, that God Himself - Scarce seemèd there to be. - - O sweeter than the marriage-feast, - ’Tis sweeter far to me, - To walk together to the kirk - With a goodly company!-- - - To walk together to the kirk, - And all together pray, - While each to his great Father bends, - Old men, and babes, and loving friends, - And youths and maidens gay! - -[Sidenote: And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all -things that God made and loveth.] - - Farewell, farewell! but this I tell - To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! - He prayeth well, who loveth well - Both man and bird and beast. - - He prayeth best, who loveth best - All things both great and small; - For the dear God who loveth us, - He made and loveth all.’ - - The Mariner, whose eye is bright, - Whose beard with age is hoar, - Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest - Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door, - - He went like one that hath been stunn’d, - And is of sense forlorn: - A sadder and a wiser man - He rose the morrow morn. - - -_550._ _Kubla Khan_ - - In Xanadu did Kubla Khan - A stately pleasure-dome decree: - Where Alph, the sacred river, ran - Through caverns measureless to man - Down to a sunless sea. - So twice five miles of fertile ground - With walls and towers were girdled round: - And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills - Where blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree; - And here were forests ancient as the hills, - Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. - - But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted - Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! - A savage place! as holy and enchanted - As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted - By woman wailing for her demon-lover! - And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, - As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, - A mighty fountain momently was forced; - Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst - Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, - Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: - And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever - It flung up momently the sacred river. - Five miles meandering with a mazy motion - Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, - Then reach’d the caverns measureless to man, - And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: - And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far - Ancestral voices prophesying war! - The shadow of the dome of pleasure - Floated midway on the waves; - Where was heard the mingled measure - From the fountain and the caves. - It was a miracle of rare device, - A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! - - A damsel with a dulcimer - In a vision once I saw: - It was an Abyssinian maid, - And on her dulcimer she play’d, - Singing of Mount Abora. - Could I revive within me, - Her symphony and song, - To such a deep delight ’twould win me, - That with music loud and long, - I would build that dome in air, - That sunny dome! those caves of ice! - And all who heard should see them there, - And all should cry, Beware! Beware! - His flashing eyes, his floating hair! - Weave a circle round him thrice, - And close your eyes with holy dread, - For he on honey-dew hath fed, - And drunk the milk of Paradise. - - -_551._ _Love_ - - All thoughts, all passions, all delights, - Whatever stirs this mortal frame, - All are but ministers of Love, - And feed his sacred flame. - - Oft in my waking dreams do I - Live o’er again that happy hour, - When midway on the mount I lay, - Beside the ruin’d tower. - - The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene, - Had blended with the lights of eve; - And she was there, my hope, my joy, - My own dear Genevieve! - - She lean’d against the armèd man, - The statue of the armèd Knight; - She stood and listen’d to my lay, - Amid the lingering light. - - Few sorrows hath she of her own, - My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! - She loves me best whene’er I sing - The songs that make her grieve. - - I play’d a soft and doleful air; - I sang an old and moving story-- - An old rude song, that suited well - That ruin wild and hoary. - - She listen’d with a flitting blush, - With downcast eyes and modest grace; - For well she knew I could not choose - But gaze upon her face. - - I told her of the Knight that wore - Upon his shield a burning brand; - And that for ten long years he woo’d - The Lady of the Land. - - I told her how he pined: and ah! - The deep, the low, the pleading tone - With which I sang another’s love, - Interpreted my own. - - She listened with a flitting blush, - With downcast eyes, and modest grace; - And she forgave me, that I gazed - Too fondly on her face! - - But when I told the cruel scorn - That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, - And that he cross’d the mountain-woods, - Nor rested day nor night; - - That sometimes from the savage den, - And sometimes from the darksome shade, - And sometimes starting up at once - In green and sunny glade-- - - There came and look’d him in the face - An angel beautiful and bright; - And that he knew it was a Fiend, - This miserable Knight! - - And that, unknowing what he did, - He leap’d amid a murderous band, - And saved from outrage worse than death - The Lady of the Land;-- - - And how she wept and clasp’d his knees; - And how she tended him in vain-- - And ever strove to expiate - The scorn that crazed his brain;-- - - And that she nursed him in a cave; - And how his madness went away, - When on the yellow forest leaves - A dying man he lay;-- - - His dying words--but when I reach’d - That tenderest strain of all the ditty, - My faltering voice and pausing harp - Disturb’d her soul with pity! - - All impulses of soul and sense - Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve; - The music and the doleful tale, - The rich and balmy eve; - - And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, - An undistinguishable throng, - And gentle wishes long subdued, - Subdued and cherish’d long! - - She wept with pity and delight, - She blush’d with love and virgin shame; - And like the murmur of a dream, - I heard her breathe my name. - - Her bosom heaved--she stepp’d aside, - As conscious of my look she stept-- - Then suddenly, with timorous eye - She fled to me and wept. - - She half enclosed me with her arms, - She press’d me with a meek embrace; - And bending back her head, look’d up, - And gazed upon my face. - - ’Twas partly love, and partly fear, - And partly ’twas a bashful art, - That I might rather feel, than see. - The swelling of her heart. - - I calm’d her fears, and she was calm, - And told her love with virgin pride; - And so I won my Genevieve, - My bright and beauteous Bride. - - -_552._ _Youth and Age_ - - Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying, - Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-- - Both were mine! Life went a-maying - With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, - When I was young: - When I was young?--Ah, woful When: - Ah! for the change ’twixt Now and Then! - This breathing house not built with hands, - This body that does me grievous wrong, - O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands, - How lightly then it flash’d along-- - Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, - On winding lakes and rivers wide, - That ask no aid of sail or oar, - That fear no spite of wind or tide! - Naught cared this body for wind or weather - When Youth and I lived in ’t together. - - Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like; - Friendship is a sheltering tree; - O the joys, that came down shower-like, - Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, - Ere I was old! - Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, - Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here! - O Youth! for years so many and sweet, - ’Tis known that thou and I were one; - I’ll think it but a fond conceit-- - It cannot be that thou art gone! - Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d-- - And thou wert aye a masker bold! - What strange disguise hast now put on, - To make believe that thou art gone? - I see these locks in silvery slips, - This drooping gait, this alter’d size: - But springtide blossoms on thy lips, - And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! - Life is but thought: so think I will - That Youth and I are housemates still. - - Dewdrops are the gems of morning, - But the tears of mournful eve! - Where no hope is, life’s a warning - That only serves to make us grieve, - When we are old! - That only serves to make us grieve - With oft and tedious taking-leave, - Like some poor nigh-related guest - That may not rudely be dismist. - Yet hath outstay’d his welcome while, - And tells the jest without the smile. - - -_553._ _Time, Real and Imaginary_ - -AN ALLEGORY - - On the wide level of a mountain’s head - (I knew not where, but ’twas some faery place), - Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, - Two lovely children run an endless race, - A sister and a brother! - This far outstripp’d the other; - Yet ever runs she with reverted face, - And looks and listens for the boy behind: - For he, alas! is blind! - O’er rough and smooth with even step he pass’d, - And knows not whether he be first or last. - - -_554._ _Work without Hope_ - - All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-- - The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing-- - And Winter, slumbering in the open air, - Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! - And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, - Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. - - Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, - Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. - Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, - For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! - With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll: - And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? - Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, - And Hope without an object cannot live. - - -_555._ _Glycine’s Song_ - - A sunny shaft did I behold, - From sky to earth it slanted: - And poised therein a bird so bold-- - Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted! - - He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll’d - Within that shaft of sunny mist; - His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, - All else of amethyst! - - And thus he sang: ‘Adieu! adieu! - Love’s dreams prove seldom true. - The blossoms, they make no delay: - The sparking dew-drops will not stay. - Sweet month of May, - We must away; - Far, far away! - To-day! to-day!’ - - - - -ROBERT SOUTHEY - -1774-1843 - - -_556._ _His Books_ - - My days among the Dead are past; - Around me I behold, - Where’er these casual eyes are cast, - The mighty minds of old: - My never-failing friends are they, - With whom I converse day by day. - - With them I take delight in weal - And seek relief in woe; - And while I understand and feel - How much to them I owe, - My cheeks have often been bedew’d - With tears of thoughtful gratitude. - - My thoughts are with the Dead; with them - I live in long-past years, - Their virtues love, their faults condemn, - Partake their hopes and fears; - And from their lessons seek and find - Instruction with an humble mind. - - My hopes are with the Dead; anon - My place with them will be, - And I with them shall travel on - Through all Futurity; - Yet leaving here a name, I trust, - That will not perish in the dust. - - - - -WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR - -1775-1864 - - -_557._ _The Maid’s Lament_ - - I loved him not; and yet now he is gone, - I feel I am alone. - I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, - Alas! I would not check. - For reasons not to love him once I sought, - And wearied all my thought - To vex myself and him; I now would give - My love, could he but live - Who lately lived for me, and when he found - ’Twas vain, in holy ground - He hid his face amid the shades of death. - I waste for him my breath - Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, - And this lorn bosom burns - With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, - And waking me to weep - Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years - Wept he as bitter tears. - ‘Merciful God!’ such was his latest prayer, - ‘These may she never share!’ - Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold - Than daisies in the mould, - Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, - His name and life’s brief date. - Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be, - And, O, pray too for me! - - -_558._ _Rose Aylmer_ - - Ah, what avails the sceptred race! - Ah, what the form divine! - What every virtue, every grace! - Rose Aylmer, all were thine. - - Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes - May weep, but never see, - A night of memories and sighs - I consecrate to thee. - - -_559._ _Ianthe_ - - From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass - Like little ripples down a sunny river; - Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass, - Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever. - - -_560._ _Twenty Years hence_ - - Twenty years hence my eyes may grow, - If not quite dim, yet rather so; - Yet yours from others they shall know, - Twenty years hence. - - Twenty years hence, though it may hap - That I be call’d to take a nap - In a cool cell where thunder-clap - Was never heard, - - There breathe but o’er my arch of grass - A not too sadly sigh’d ‘Alas!’ - And I shall catch, ere you can pass, - That wingèd word. - - -_561._ _Verse_ - - Past ruin’d Ilion Helen lives, - Alcestis rises from the shades; - Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that gives - Immortal youth to mortal maids. - - Soon shall Oblivion’s deepening veil - Hide all the peopled hills you see, - The gay, the proud, while lovers hail - These many summers you and me. - - -_562._ _Proud Word you never spoke_ - - Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak - Four not exempt from pride some future day. - Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, - Over my open volume you will say, - ‘This man loved me’--then rise and trip away. - - -_563._ _Resignation_ - - Why, why repine, my pensive friend, - At pleasures slipp’d away? - Some the stern Fates will never lend, - And all refuse to stay. - - I see the rainbow in the sky, - The dew upon the grass; - I see them, and I ask not why - They glimmer or they pass. - - With folded arms I linger not - To call them back; ’twere vain: - In this, or in some other spot, - I know they’ll shine again. - - -_564._ _Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel_ - - Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; - My fingers ache, my lips are dry: - O, if you felt the pain I feel! - But O, who ever felt as I? - - No longer could I doubt him true-- - All other men may use deceit; - He always said my eyes were blue, - And often swore my lips were sweet. - - -_565._ _Autumn_ - - Mild is the parting year, and sweet - The odour of the falling spray; - Life passes on more rudely fleet, - And balmless is its closing day. - - I wait its close, I court its gloom, - But mourn that never must there fall - Or on my breast or on my tomb - The tear that would have soothed it all. - - -_566._ _Remain!_ - - Remain, ah not in youth alone! - --Tho’ youth, where you are, long will stay-- - But when my summer days are gone, - And my autumnal haste away. - ‘_Can I be always by your side?_’ - No; but the hours you can, you must, - Nor rise at Death’s approaching stride, - Nor go when dust is gone to dust. - - -_567._ _Absence_ - - Here, ever since you went abroad, - If there be change, no change I see: - I only walk our wonted road, - The road is only walk’d by me. - - Yes; I forgot; a change there is-- - Was it of _that_ you bade me tell? - I catch at times, at times I miss - The sight, the tone, I know so well. - - - Only two months since you stood here? - Two shortest months? Then tell me why - Voices are harsher than they were, - And tears are longer ere they dry. - - -_568._ _Of Clementina_ - - In Clementina’s artless mien - Lucilla asks me what I see, - And are the roses of sixteen - Enough for me? - - Lucilla asks, if that be all, - Have I not cull’d as sweet before: - Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fall - I still deplore. - - I now behold another scene, - Where Pleasure beams with Heaven’s own light, - More pure, more constant, more serene, - And not less bright. - - Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, - Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, - And Modesty who, when she goes, - Is gone for ever. - - -_569._ _Ianthe’s Question_ - - ‘Do you remember me? or are you proud?’ - Lightly advancing thro’ her star-trimm’d crowd, - Ianthe said, and look’d into my eyes. - ‘A _yes_, a _yes_ to both: for Memory - Where you but once have been must ever be, - And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.’ - - -_570._ _On Catullus_ - - Tell me not what too well I know - About the bard of Sirmio. - Yes, in Thalia’s son - Such stains there are--as when a Grace - Sprinkles another’s laughing face - With nectar, and runs on. - - -_571._ _Dirce_ - - Stand close around, ye Stygian set, - With Dirce in one boat convey’d! - Or Charon, seeing, may forget - That he is old and she a shade. - - -_572._ _Alciphron and Leucippe_ - - An ancient chestnut’s blossoms threw - Their heavy odour over two: - Leucippe, it is said, was one; - The other, then, was Alciphron. - ‘Come, come! why should we stand beneath - This hollow tree’s unwholesome breath?’ - Said Alciphron, ‘here’s not a blade - Of grass or moss, and scanty shade. - Come; it is just the hour to rove - In the lone dingle shepherds love; - There, straight and tall, the hazel twig - Divides the crookèd rock-held fig, - O’er the blue pebbles where the rill - In winter runs and may run still. - Come then, while fresh and calm the air, - And while the shepherds are not there.’ - - _Leucippe._ But I would rather go when they - Sit round about and sing and play. - Then why so hurry me? for you - Like play and song, and shepherds too. - - _Alciphron._ I like the shepherds very well, - And song and play, as you can tell. - But there is play, I sadly fear, - And song I would not have you hear. - - _Leucippe._ What can it be? What can it be? - - _Alciphron._ To you may none of them repeat - The play that you have play’d with me, - The song that made your bosom beat. - - _Leucippe._ Don’t keep your arm about my waist. - - _Alciphron._ Might you not stumble? - - _Leucippe._ Well then, do. - But why are we in all this haste? - - _Alciphron._ To sing. - - _Leucippe._ Alas! and not play too? - - -_573._ _Years_ - - Years, many parti-colour’d years, - Some have crept on, and some have flown - Since first before me fell those tears - I never could see fall alone. - - Years, not so many, are to come, - Years not so varied, when from you - One more will fall: when, carried home, - I see it not, nor hear Adieu. - - -_574._ _Separation_ - - There is a mountain and a wood between us, - Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen us - Morning and noon and eventide repass. - Between us now the mountain and the wood - Seem standing darker than last year they stood, - And say we must not cross--alas! alas! - - -_575._ _Late Leaves_ - - The leaves are falling; so am I; - The few late flowers have moisture in the eye; - So have I too. - Scarcely on any bough is heard - Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird - The whole wood through. - - Winter may come: he brings but nigher - His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire - Where old friends meet. - Let him; now heaven is overcast, - And spring and summer both are past, - And all things sweet. - - -_576._ _Finis_ - - I strove with none, for none was worth my strife. - Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art: - I warm’d both hands before the fire of life; - It sinks, and I am ready to depart. - - - - -CHARLES LAMB - -1775-1834 - - -_577._ _The Old Familiar Faces_ - - I have had playmates, I have had companions, - In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days-- - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. - - I have been laughing, I have been carousing, - Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies-- - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. - - I loved a Love once, fairest among women: - Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-- - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. - - I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: - Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; - Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. - - Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, - Earth seem’d a desert I was bound to traverse, - Seeking to find the old familiar faces. - - Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, - Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling? - So might we talk of the old familiar faces-- - - How some they have died, and some they have left me, - And some are taken from me; all are departed-- - All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. - - -_578._ _Hester_ - - When maidens such as Hester die - Their place ye may not well supply, - Though ye among a thousand try - With vain endeavour. - - A month or more hath she been dead, - Yet cannot I by force be led - To think upon the wormy bed - And her together. - - A springy motion in her gait, - A rising step, did indicate - Of pride and joy no common rate, - That flush’d her spirit: - - I know not by what name beside - I shall it call: if ’twas not pride, - It was a joy to that allied, - She did inherit. - - Her parents held the Quaker rule, - Which doth the human feeling cool; - But she was train’d in Nature’s school; - Nature had blest her. - - A waking eye, a prying mind; - A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; - A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind; - Ye could not Hester. - - My sprightly neighbour! gone before - To that unknown and silent shore, - Shall we not meet, as heretofore, - Some summer morning-- - - When from thy cheerful eyes a ray - Hath struck a bliss upon the day, - A bliss that would not go away, - A sweet forewarning? - - -_579._ _On an Infant dying as soon as born_ - - I saw where in the shroud did lurk - A curious frame of Nature’s work; - A floweret crush’d in the bud, - A nameless piece of Babyhood, - Was in her cradle-coffin lying; - Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: - So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb - For darker closets of the tomb! - She did but ope an eye, and put - A clear beam forth, then straight up shut - For the long dark: ne’er more to see - Through glasses of mortality. - Riddle of destiny, who can show - What thy short visit meant, or know - What thy errand here below? - Shall we say that Nature blind - Check’d her hand, and changed her mind, - Just when she had exactly wrought - A finish’d pattern without fault? - Could she flag, or could she tire, - Or lack’d she the Promethean fire - (With her nine moons’ long workings sicken’d) - That should thy little limbs have quicken’d? - Limbs so firm, they seem’d to assure - Life of health, and days mature: - Woman’s self in miniature! - Limbs so fair, they might supply - (Themselves now but cold imagery) - The sculptor to make Beauty by. - Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry - That babe or mother, one must die; - So in mercy left the stock - And cut the branch; to save the shock - Of young years widow’d, and the pain - When single state comes back again - To the lone man who, reft of wife, - Thenceforward drags a maimèd life? - The economy of Heaven is dark, - And wisest clerks have miss’d the mark, - Why human buds, like this, should fall, - More brief than fly ephemeral - That has his day; while shrivell’d crones - Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; - And crabbèd use the conscience sears - In sinners of an hundred years. - Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss, - Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss: - Rites, which custom does impose, - Silver bells, and baby clothes; - Coral redder than those lips - Which pale death did late eclipse; - Music framed for infants’ glee, - Whistle never tuned for thee; - Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them, - Loving hearts were they which gave them. - Let not one be missing; nurse, - See them laid upon the hearse - Of infant slain by doom perverse. - Why should kings and nobles have - Pictured trophies to their grave, - And we, churls, to thee deny - Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- - A more harmless vanity? - - - - -THOMAS CAMPBELL - -1774-1844 - - -_580._ _Ye Mariners of England_ - - Ye Mariners of England - That guard our native seas! - Whose flag has braved a thousand years - The battle and the breeze! - Your glorious standard launch again - To match another foe; - And sweep through the deep, - While the stormy winds do blow! - While the battle rages loud and long - And the stormy winds do blow. - - The spirits of your fathers - Shall start from every wave-- - For the deck it was their field of fame, - And Ocean was their grave: - Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell - Your manly hearts shall glow, - As ye sweep through the deep, - While the stormy winds do blow! - While the battle rages loud and long - And the stormy winds do blow. - - Britannia needs no bulwarks, - No towers along the steep; - Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, - Her home is on the deep. - With thunders from her native oak - She quells the floods below, - As they roar on the shore, - When the stormy winds do blow! - When the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - The meteor flag of England - Shall yet terrific burn; - Till danger’s troubled night depart - And the star of peace return. - Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! - Our song and feast shall flow - To the fame of your name, - When the storm has ceased to blow! - When the fiery fight is heard no more, - And the storm has ceased to blow. - - -_581._ _The Battle of the Baltic_ - - Of Nelson and the North - Sing the glorious day’s renown, - When to battle fierce came forth - All the might of Denmark's crown, - And her arms along the deep proudly shone; - By each gun the lighted brand - In a bold determined hand, - And the Prince of all the land - Led them on. - - Like leviathans afloat - Lay their bulwarks on the brine, - While the sign of battle flew - On the lofty British line: - It was ten of April morn by the chime: - As they drifted on their path - There was silence deep as death, - And the boldest held his breath - For a time. - - But the might of England flush'd - To anticipate the scene; - And her van the fleeter rush'd - O’er the deadly space between: - ‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried, when each gun - From its adamantine lips - Spread a death-shade round the ships, - Like the hurricane eclipse - Of the sun. - - Again! again! again! - And the havoc did not slack, - Till a feeble cheer the Dane - To our cheering sent us back;-- - Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- - Then ceased--and all is wail, - As they strike the shattered sail, - Or in conflagration pale - Light the gloom. - - Out spoke the victor then - As he hail'd them o'er the wave: - ‘Ye are brothers! ye are men! - And we conquer but to save:-- - - So peace instead of death let us bring - But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, - With the crews, at England’s feet, - And make submission meet - To our King.’... - - Now joy, old England, raise! - For the tidings of thy might, - By the festal cities’ blaze, - Whilst the wine-cup shines in light! - And yet amidst that joy and uproar, - Let us think of them that sleep - Full many a fathom deep, - By thy wild and stormy steep, - Elsinore! - - - - -THOMAS MOORE - -1779-1852 - - -_582._ _The Young May Moon_ - - The young May moon is beaming, love, - The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love; - How sweet to rove - Through Morna’s grove, - When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! - Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, - ’Tis never too late for delight, my dear; - And the best of all ways - To lengthen our days - Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! - - Now all the world is sleeping, love, - But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, - And I, whose star - More glorious far - Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. - Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, - The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear, - Or in watching the flight - Of bodies of light - He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! - - -_583._ _The Irish Peasant to His Mistress_ - - Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way, - Till hope seem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay; - The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn’d, - Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d: - Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, - And bless’d even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. - - Thy rival was honour’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d; - Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d; - She woo’d me to temples, whilst thou lay’st hid in caves; - Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; - Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be - Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. - - They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-- - Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale! - They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, - That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains: - O, foul is the slander!--no chain could that soul subdue-- - Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too! - - -_584._ _The Light of Other Days_ - - Oft, in the stilly night, - Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, - Fond Memory brings the light - Of other days around me: - The smiles, the tears - Of boyhood’s years, - The words of love then spoken; - The eyes that shone, - Now dimm’d and gone, - The cheerful hearts now broken! - Thus, in the stilly night, - Ere slumber’s chain has bound me, - Sad Memory brings the light - Of other days around me. - - When I remember all - The friends, so link’d together, - I’ve seen around me fall - Like leaves in wintry weather, - I feel like one - Who treads alone - Some banquet-hall deserted, - Whose lights are fled, - Whose garlands dead, - And all but he departed! - Thus, in the stilly night, - Ere slumber’s chain has bound me. - Sad Memory brings the light - Of other days around me. - - -_585._ _At the Mid Hour of Night_ - - At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly - To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; - And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air - To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, - And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky. - - Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, - When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear; - And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, - I think, O my love! ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls - Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. - - - - -EDWARD THURLOW, LORD THURLOW - -1781-1829 - - -_586._ _May_ - - May! queen of blossoms, - And fulfilling flowers, - With what pretty music - Shall we charm the hours? - Wilt thou have pipe and reed, - Blown in the open mead? - Or to the lute give heed - In the green bowers? - - Thou hast no need of us, - Or pipe or wire; - Thou hast the golden bee - Ripen’d with fire; - And many thousand more - Songsters, that thee adore, - Filling earth’s grassy floor - With new desire. - - Thou hast thy mighty herds, - Tame and free-livers; - Doubt not, thy music too - In the deep rivers; - And the whole plumy flight - Warbling the day and night-- - Up at the gates of light, - See, the lark quivers! - - -EBENEZER ELLIOTT - -1781-1849 - - -_587._ _Battle Song_ - - Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; - What then? ’Tis day! - We sleep no more; the cock crows--hark! - To arms! away! - They come! they come! the knell is rung - Of us or them; - Wide o’er their march the pomp is flung - Of gold and gem. - What collar’d hound of lawless sway, - To famine dear-- - What pensioned slave of Attila, - Leads in the rear? - Come they from Scythian wilds afar, - Our blood to spill? - Wear they the livery of the Czar? - They do his will. - Nor tassell’d silk, nor epaulet, - Nor plume, nor torse-- - No splendour gilds, all sternly met, - Our foot and horse. - But, dark and still, we inly glow, - Condensed in ire! - Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know - Our gloom is fire. - In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, - Insults the land; - Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours, - And God’s right hand! - Madmen! they trample into snakes - The wormy clod! - Like fire, beneath their feet awakes - The sword of God! - Behind, before, above, below, - They rouse the brave; - Where’er they go, they make a foe, - Or find a grave. - - -_588._ _Plaint_ - - Dark, deep, and cold the current flows - Unto the sea where no wind blows, - Seeking the land which no one knows. - - O’er its sad gloom still comes and goes - The mingled wail of friends and foes, - Borne to the land which no one knows. - - Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goes - With millions, from a world of woes, - Unto the land which no one knows? - - Though myriads go with him who goes, - Alone he goes where no wind blows, - Unto the land which no one knows. - - For all must go where no wind blows, - And none can go for him who goes; - None, none return whence no one knows. - - Yet why should he who shrieking goes - With millions, from a world of woes, - Reunion seek with it or those? - - Alone with God, where no wind blows, - And Death, his shadow--doom’d, he goes. - That God is there the shadow shows. - - O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows! - And thou, O Land which no one knows! - That God is All, His shadow shows. - - - - -ALLAN CUNNINGHAM - -1784-1843 - - -_589._ _The Sun rises bright in France_ - - The sun rises bright in France, - And fair sets he; - But he has tint the blythe blink he had - In my ain countree. - - O, it’s nae my ain ruin - That saddens aye my e’e, - But the dear Marie I left behin’ - Wi’ sweet bairnies three. - - _589._ tint] lost. - - My lanely hearth burn’d bonnie, - And smiled my ain Marie; - I’ve left a’ my heart behin’ - In my ain countree. - - The bud comes back to summer, - And the blossom to the bee; - But I’ll win back, O never, - To my ain countree. - - O, I am leal to high Heaven, - Where soon I hope to be, - An’ there I’ll meet ye a’ soon - Frae my ain countree! - - -_590._ _Hame, Hame, Hame_ - - Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- - O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! - - When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf is on the tree, - The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree; - Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- - O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! - - The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s beginning for to fa’, - The bonnie White Rose it is withering an’ a’; - But I’ll water ’t wi’ the blude of usurping tyrannie, - An’ green it will graw in my ain countree. - - O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my country can save, - But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave; - That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie - May rise again an’ fight for their ain countree. - - The great now are gane, a’ wha ventured to save, - The new grass is springing on the tap o’ their grave; - But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e, - ‘I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.’ - - Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-- - O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree! - - -_591._ _The Spring of the Year_ - - Gone were but the winter cold, - And gone were but the snow, - I could sleep in the wild woods - Where primroses blow. - - Cold’s the snow at my head, - And cold at my feet; - And the finger of death’s at my e’en, - Closing them to sleep. - - Let none tell my father - Or my mother so dear,-- - I’ll meet them both in heaven - At the spring of the year. - - - - -LEIGH HUNT - -1784-1859 - - -_592._ _Jenny kiss’d Me_ - - Jenny kiss’d me when we met, - Jumping from the chair she sat in; - Time, you thief, who love to get - Sweets into your list, put that in! - Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, - Say that health and wealth have miss’d me, - Say I’m growing old, but add, - Jenny kiss’d me. - - - - -THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK - -1785-1866 - - -_593._ _Love and Age_ - - I play’d with you ’mid cowslips blowing, - When I was six and you were four; - When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, - Were pleasures soon to please no more. - Through groves and meads, o’er grass and heather, - With little playmates, to and fro, - We wander’d hand in hand together; - But that was sixty years ago. - - You grew a lovely roseate maiden, - And still our early love was strong; - Still with no care our days were laden, - They glided joyously along; - And I did love you very dearly, - How dearly words want power to show, - I thought your heart was touch’d as nearly; - But that was fifty years ago. - - Then other lovers came around you, - Your beauty grew from year to year, - And many a splendid circle found you - The centre of its glittering sphere. - I saw you then, first vows forsaking, - On rank and wealth your hand bestow; - O, then I thought my heart was breaking!-- - But that was forty years ago. - - And I lived on, to wed another: - No cause she gave me to repine; - And when I heard you were a mother, - I did not wish the children mine. - My own young flock, in fair progression, - Made up a pleasant Christmas row: - My joy in them was past expression; - But that was thirty years ago. - - You grew a matron plump and comely, - You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze; - My earthly lot was far more homely; - But I too had my festal days. - No merrier eyes have ever glisten’d - Around the hearth-stone’s wintry glow, - Than when my youngest child was christen’d; - But that was twenty years ago. - - Time pass’d. My eldest girl was married, - And I am now a grandsire gray; - One pet of four years old I’ve carried - Among the wild-flower’d meads to play. - In our old fields of childish pleasure, - Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, - She fills her basket’s ample measure; - And that is not ten years ago. - - But though first love’s impassion’d blindness - Has pass’d away in colder light, - I still have thought of you with kindness, - And shall do, till our last good-night. - The ever-rolling silent hours - Will bring a time we shall not know, - When our young days of gathering flowers - Will be an hundred years ago. - - -_594._ _The Grave of Love_ - - I dug, beneath the cypress shade, - What well might seem an elfin’s grave; - And every pledge in earth I laid, - That erst thy false affection gave. - - I press’d them down the sod beneath; - I placed one mossy stone above; - And twined the rose’s fading wreath - Around the sepulchre of love. - - Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead - Ere yet the evening sun was set: - But years shall see the cypress spread, - Immutable as my regret. - - -_595._ _Three Men of Gotham_ - - Seamen three! What men be ye? - Gotham’s three wise men we be. - Whither in your bowl so free? - To rake the moon from out the sea. - The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. - And our ballast is old wine.-- - And your ballast is old wine. - - Who art thou, so fast adrift? - I am he they call Old Care. - Here on board we will thee lift. - No: I may not enter there. - Wherefore so? ’Tis Jove’s decree, - In a bowl Care may not be.-- - In a bowl Care may not be. - - Fear ye not the waves that roll? - No: in charmèd bowl we swim. - What the charm that floats the bowl? - Water may not pass the brim. - The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. - And our ballast is old wine.-- - And your ballast is old wine. - - - - -CAROLINE SOUTHEY - -1787-1854 - - -_596._ _To Death_ - - Come not in terrors clad, to claim - An unresisting prey: - Come like an evening shadow, Death! - So stealthily, so silently! - And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; - Then willingly, O willingly, - With thee I’ll go away! - - What need to clutch with iron grasp - What gentlest touch may take? - What need with aspect dark to scare, - So awfully, so terribly, - The weary soul would hardly care, - Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly, - From thy dread power to break? - - ’Tis not as when thou markest out - The young, the blest, the gay, - The loved, the loving--they who dream - So happily, so hopefully; - Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, - And shrinkingly, reluctantly, - The summon’d may obey. - - - But I have drunk enough of life-- - The cup assign’d to me - Dash’d with a little sweet at best, - So scantily, so scantily-- - To know full well that all the rest - More bitterly, more bitterly, - Drugg’d to the last will be. - - And I may live to pain some heart - That kindly cares for me: - To pain, but not to bless. O Death! - Come quietly--come lovingly-- - And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; - Then willingly, O willingly, - I’ll go away with thee! - - - - -GEORGE GORDON BYRON, LORD BYRON - -1788-1824 - -_597._ _When we Two parted_ - - When we two parted - In silence and tears, - Half broken-hearted - To sever for years, - Pale grew thy cheek and cold, - Colder thy kiss; - Truly that hour foretold - Sorrow to this. - - The dew of the morning - Sunk chill on my brow-- - It felt like the warning - Of what I feel now. - Thy vows are all broken, - And light is thy fame; - I hear thy name spoken, - And share in its shame. - - They name thee before me, - A knell to mine ear; - A shudder comes o’er me-- - Why wert thou so dear? - They know not I knew thee, - Who knew thee too well: - Long, long shall I rue thee, - Too deeply to tell. - - In secret we met-- - In silence I grieve, - That thy heart could forget, - Thy spirit deceive. - If I should meet thee - After long years, - How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears. - - -_598._ _For Music_ - - There be none of Beauty’s daughters - With a magic like thee; - And like music on the waters - Is thy sweet voice to me: - When, as if its sound were causing - The charmèd ocean’s pausing, - The waves lie still and gleaming, - And the lull’d winds seem dreaming: - - And the midnight moon is weaving - Her bright chain o’er the deep; - Whose breast is gently heaving, - As an infant’s asleep: - So the spirit bows before thee, - To listen and adore thee; - With a full but soft emotion, - Like the swell of Summer’s ocean. - - -_599._ _We’ll go no more a-roving_ - - So, we’ll go no more a-roving - So late into the night, - Though the heart be still as loving, - And the moon be still as bright. - - For the sword outwears its sheath, - And the soul wears out the breast, - And the heart must pause to breathe, - And love itself have rest. - - Though the night was made for loving, - And the day returns too soon, - Yet we’ll go no more a-roving - By the light of the moon. - - -_600._ _She walks in Beauty_ - - She walks in beauty, like the night - Of cloudless climes and starry skies; - And all that’s best of dark and bright - Meet in her aspect and her eyes: - Thus mellow’d to that tender light - Which heaven to gaudy day denies. - - One shade the more, one ray the less, - Had half impair’d the nameless grace - Which waves in every raven tress, - Or softly lightens o’er her face; - Where thoughts serenely sweet express - How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. - - And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, - So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, - The smiles that win, the tints that glow, - But tell of days in goodness spent, - A mind at peace with all below, - A heart whose love is innocent! - - -_601._ _The Isles of Greece_ - - The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece - Where burning Sappho loved and sung, - Where grew the arts of war and peace, - Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung! - Eternal summer gilds them yet, - But all, except their sun, is set. - - The Scian and the Teian muse, - The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, - Have found the fame your shores refuse: - Their place of birth alone is mute - To sounds which echo further west - Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’ - - The mountains look on Marathon-- - And Marathon looks on the sea; - And musing there an hour alone, - I dream’d that Greece might still be free; - For standing on the Persians’ grave, - I could not deem myself a slave. - - A king sate on the rocky brow - Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; - And ships, by thousands, lay below, - And men in nations;--all were his! - He counted them at break of day-- - And when the sun set, where were they? - - And where are they? and where art thou, - My country? On thy voiceless shore - The heroic lay is tuneless now-- - The heroic bosom beats no more! - And must thy lyre, so long divine, - Degenerate into hands like mine? - - ’Tis something in the dearth of fame, - Though link’d among a fetter’d race, - To feel at least a patriot’s shame, - Even as I sing, suffuse my face; - For what is left the poet here? - For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear. - - Must _we_ but weep o’er days more blest? - Must _we_ but blush?--Our fathers bled. - Earth! render back from out thy breast - A remnant of our Spartan dead! - Of the three hundred grant but three, - To make a new Thermopylæ! - - What, silent still? and silent all? - Ah! no;--the voices of the dead - Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, - And answer, ‘Let one living head, - But one, arise,--we come, we come!’ - ’Tis but the living who are dumb. - - In vain--in vain: strike other chords; - Fill high the cup with Samian wine! - Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, - And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! - Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- - How answers each bold Bacchanal! - - You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; - Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? - Of two such lessons, why forget - The nobler and the manlier one? - You have the letters Cadmus gave-- - Think ye he meant them for a slave? - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - We will not think of themes like these! - It made Anacreon’s song divine: - He served--but served Polycrates-- - A tyrant; but our masters then - Were still, at least, our countrymen. - - The tyrant of the Chersonese - Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; - _That_ tyrant was Miltiades! - O that the present hour would lend - Another despot of the kind! - Such chains as his were sure to bind. - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore, - Exists the remnant of a line - Such as the Doric mothers bore; - And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, - The Heracleidan blood might own. - - Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- - They have a king who buys and sells; - In native swords and native ranks - The only hope of courage dwells: - But Turkish force and Latin fraud - Would break your shield, however broad. - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- - I see their glorious black eyes shine; - But gazing on each glowing maid, - My own the burning tear-drop laves, - To think such breasts must suckle slaves. - - Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, - Where nothing, save the waves and I, - May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; - There, swan-like, let me sing and die: - A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine-- - Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! - - - - -SIR AUBREY DE VERE - -1788-1846 - - -_602._ _The Children Band_ - - All holy influences dwell within - The breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from God - Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod - Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin. - How mighty was that fervour which could win - Its way to infant souls!--and was the sod - Of Palestine by infant Croises trod? - Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin, - In all their touching beauty to redeem? - And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre? - Alas! the lovely pageant as a dream - Faded! They sank not through ignoble fear; - They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream, - In sands, in fens, they died--no mother near! - - - - -CHARLES WOLFE - -1791-1823 - - -_603._ _The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna_ - - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, - As his corse to the rampart we hurried; - Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot - O’er the grave where our hero we buried. - - We buried him darkly at dead of night, - The sods with our bayonets turning, - By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light - And the lanthorn dimly burning. - - No useless coffin enclosed his breast, - Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; - But he lay like a warrior taking his rest - With his martial cloak around him. - - Few and short were the prayers we said, - And we spoke not a word of sorrow; - But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, - And we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought, as we hollow’d his narrow bed - And smoothed down his lonely pillow, - That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, - And we far away on the billow! - - Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, - And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him-- - But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on - In the grave where a Briton has laid him. - - But half of our heavy task was done - When the clock struck the hour for retiring; - And we heard the distant and random gun - That the foe was sullenly firing. - - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, - From the field of his fame fresh and gory; - We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, - But we left him alone with his glory. - - -_604._ _To Mary_ - - If I had thought thou couldst have died, - I might not weep for thee; - But I forgot, when by thy side, - That thou couldst mortal be: - It never through my mind had past - The time would e’er be o’er, - And I on thee should look my last, - And thou shouldst smile no more! - - And still upon that face I look, - And think ’twill smile again; - And still the thought I will not brook, - That I must look in vain. - But when I speak--thou dost not say - What thou ne’er left’st unsaid; - And now I feel, as well I may, - Sweet Mary, thou art dead! - - If thou wouldst stay, e’en as thou art, - All cold and all serene-- - I still might press thy silent heart, - And where thy smiles have been. - While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have, - Thou seemest still mine own; - But there--I lay thee in thy grave, - And I am now alone! - - I do not think, where’er thou art, - Thou hast forgotten me; - And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart - In thinking too of thee: - Yet there was round thee such a dawn - Of light ne’er seen before, - As fancy never could have drawn, - And never can restore! - - - - -PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY - -1792-1822 - - -_605._ _Hymn of Pan_ - - From the forests and highlands - We come, we come; - From the river-girt islands, - Where loud waves are dumb, - Listening to my sweet pipings. - The wind in the reeds and the rushes, - The bees on the bells of thyme, - The birds on the myrtle bushes, - The cicale above in the lime, - And the lizards below in the grass, - Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, - Listening to my sweet pipings. - - Liquid Peneus was flowing, - And all dark Tempe lay - In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing - The light of the dying day, - Speeded by my sweet pipings. - The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, - And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, - To the edge of the moist river-lawns, - And the brink of the dewy caves, - And all that did then attend and follow, - Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, - With envy of my sweet pipings. - - I sang of the dancing stars, - I sang of the dædal earth, - And of heaven, and the giant wars, - And love, and death, and birth. - And then I changed my pipings-- - Singing how down the vale of Mænalus - I pursued a maiden, and clasp’d a reed: - Gods and men, we are all deluded thus; - It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. - All wept--as I think both ye now would, - If envy or age had not frozen your blood-- - At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. - - -_606._ _The Invitation_ - - Best and brightest, come away! - Fairer far than this fair Day, - Which, like thee to those in sorrow, - Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow - To the rough Year just awake - In its cradle on the brake. - The brightest hour of unborn Spring, - Through the winter wandering, - Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn - To hoar February born. - Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, - It kiss’d the forehead of the Earth; - And smiled upon the silent sea; - And bade the frozen streams be free; - And waked to music all their fountains; - And breathed upon the frozen mountains; - And like a prophetess of May - Strew’d flowers upon the barren way, - Making the wintry world appear - Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. - - Away, away, from men and towns, - To the wild wood and the downs-- - To the silent wilderness - Where the soul need not repress - Its music lest it should not find - An echo in another’s mind, - While the touch of Nature’s art - Harmonizes heart to heart. - I leave this notice on my door - For each accustomed visitor:-- - ‘I am gone into the fields - To take what this sweet hour yields. - Reflection, you may come to-morrow; - Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. - You with the unpaid bill, Despair,-- - You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- - I will pay you in the grave,-- - Death will listen to your stave. - Expectation too, be off! - To-day is for itself enough. - Hope, in pity, mock not Woe - With smiles, nor follow where I go; - Long having lived on your sweet food, - At length I find one moment’s good - After long pain: with all your love, - This you never told me of.’ - - Radiant Sister of the Day, - Awake! arise! and come away! - To the wild woods and the plains; - And the pools where winter rains - Image all their roof of leaves; - Where the pine its garland weaves - Of sapless green and ivy dun - Round stems that never kiss the sun; - Where the lawns and pastures be, - And the sandhills of the sea; - When the melting hoar-frost wets - The daisy-star that never sets, - And wind-flowers, and violets - Which yet join not scent to hue, - Crown the pale year weak and new; - When the night is left behind - In the deep east, dun and blind, - And the blue noon is over us, - And the multitudinous - Billows murmur at our feet - Where the earth and ocean meet, - And all things seem only one - In the universal sun. - - -_607._ _Hellas_ - - The world’s great age begins anew, - The golden years return, - The earth doth like a snake renew - Her winter weeds outworn: - Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam - Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. - - A brighter Hellas rears its mountains - From waves serener far; - A new Peneus rolls his fountains - Against the morning star; - Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep - Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. - - A loftier Argo cleaves the main, - Fraught with a later prize; - Another Orpheus sings again, - And loves, and weeps, and dies; - A new Ulysses leaves once more - Calypso for his native shore. - - O write no more the tale of Troy, - If earth Death’s scroll must be-- - Nor mix with Laian rage the joy - Which dawns upon the free, - Although a subtler Sphinx renew - Riddles of death Thebes never knew. - - Another Athens shall arise, - And to remoter time - Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, - The splendour of its prime; - And leave, if naught so bright may live, - All earth can take or Heaven can give. - - Saturn and Love their long repose - Shall burst, more bright and good - Than all who fell, than One who rose, - Than many unsubdued: - Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers, - But votive tears and symbol flowers. - - O cease! must hate and death return? - Cease! must men kill and die? - Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn - Of bitter prophecy! - The world is weary of the past-- - O might it die or rest at last! - - -_608._ _To a Skylark_ - - Hail to thee, blithe spirit! - Bird thou never wert-- - That from heaven or near it - Pourest thy full heart - In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. - - Higher still and higher - From the earth thou springest, - Like a cloud of fire; - The blue deep thou wingest, - And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. - - In the golden light’ning - Of the sunken sun, - O’er which clouds are bright’ning, - Thou dost float and run, - Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. - - The pale purple even - Melts around thy flight; - Like a star of heaven, - In the broad daylight - Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-- - - Keen as are the arrows - Of that silver sphere - Whose intense lamp narrows - In the white dawn clear, - Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. - - All the earth and air - With thy voice is loud, - As, when night is bare, - From one lonely cloud - The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d. - - What thou art we know not; - What is most like thee? - From rainbow clouds there flow not - Drops so bright to see, - As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- - - - Like a poet hidden - In the light of thought, - Singing hymns unbidden, - Till the world is wrought - To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: - - Like a high-born maiden - In a palace tower, - Soothing her love-laden - Soul in secret hour - With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: - - Like a glow-worm golden - In a dell of dew, - Scattering unbeholden - Its aërial hue - Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: - - Like a rose embower’d - In its own green leaves, - By warm winds deflower’d, - Till the scent it gives - Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves - - Sound of vernal showers - On the twinkling grass, - Rain-awaken’d flowers-- - All that ever was - Joyous and clear and fresh--thy music doth surpass. - - Teach us, sprite or bird, - What sweet thoughts are thine: - I have never heard - Praise of love or wine - That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. - - - Chorus hymeneal, - Or triumphal chant, - Match’d with thine would be all - But an empty vaunt-- - A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. - - What objects are the fountains - Of thy happy strain? - What fields, or waves, or mountains? - What shapes of sky or plain? - What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? - - With thy clear keen joyance - Languor cannot be: - Shadow of annoyance - Never came near thee: - Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety. - - Waking or asleep, - Thou of death must deem - Things more true and deep - Than we mortals dream, - Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? - - We look before and after, - And pine for what is not: - Our sincerest laughter - With some pain is fraught; - Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. - - Yet, if we could scorn - Hate and pride and fear, - If we were things born - Not to shed a tear, - I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. - - - Better than all measures - Of delightful sound, - Better than all treasures - That in books are found, - Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! - - Teach me half the gladness - That thy brain must know; - Such harmonious madness - From my lips would flow, - The world should listen then, as I am listening now. - - -_609._ _The Moon_ - -I - - And, like a dying lady lean and pale, - Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a gauzy veil, - Out of her chamber, led by the insane - And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, - The moon arose up in the murky east - A white and shapeless mass. - -II - - Art thou pale for weariness - Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, - Wandering companionless - Among the stars that have a different birth, - And ever changing, like a joyless eye - That finds no object worth its constancy? - - -_610._ _Ode to the West Wind_ - - -I - - O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being - Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead - Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, - - Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, - Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou - Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed - - The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, - Each like a corpse within its grave, until - Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow - - Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill - (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) - With living hues and odours plain and hill; - - Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; - Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! - - -II - - Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion, - Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, - Shook from the ‘tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, - - Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread - On the blue surface of thine airy surge, - Like the bright hair uplifted from the head - - Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge - Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, - The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge - Of the dying year, to which this closing night - Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, - Vaulted with all thy congregated might - - Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere - Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear! - - -III - - Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams - The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, - Lull’d by the coil of his crystàlline streams, - - Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay, - And saw in sleep old palaces and towers - Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, - - All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers - So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou - For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers - - Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below - The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear - The sapless foliage of the ocean, know - - Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, - And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! - - -IV - - If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; - If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; - A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share - The impulse of thy strength, only less free - Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even - I were as in my boyhood, and could be - - The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, - As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed - Scarce seem’d a vision--I would ne’er have striven - - As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. - O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! - I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! - - A heavy weight of hours has chained and bow’d - One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud. - - -V - - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: - What if my leaves are falling like its own? - The tumult of thy mighty harmonies - - Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, - Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, - My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! - - Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, - Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth; - And, by the incantation of this verse, - - Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth - Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! - Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth - - The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, - If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? - - -_611._ _The Indian Serenade_ - - I arise from dreams of thee - In the first sweet sleep of night, - When the winds are breathing low, - And the stars are shining bright. - I arise from dreams of thee, - And a spirit in my feet - Hath led me--who knows how? - To thy chamber window, Sweet! - - The wandering airs they faint - On the dark, the silent stream-- - And the Champak’s odours [pine] - Like sweet thoughts in a dream; - The nightingale’s complaint, - It dies upon her heart, - As I must on thine, - O belovèd as thou art! - - O lift me from the grass! - I die! I faint! I fail! - Let thy love in kisses rain - On my lips and eyelids pale. - My cheek is cold and white, alas! - My heart beats loud and fast: - O press it to thine own again, - Where it will break at last! - - -_612._ _Night_ - - Swiftly walk over the western wave, - Spirit of Night! - Out of the misty eastern cave,-- - Where, all the long and lone daylight, - Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear - Which make thee terrible and dear,-- - Swift be thy flight! - - Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, - Star-inwrought! - Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; - Kiss her until she be wearied out. - Then wander o’er city and sea and land, - Touching all with thine opiate wand-- - Come, long-sought! - - When I arose and saw the dawn, - I sigh’d for thee; - When light rode high, and the dew was gone, - And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, - And the weary Day turn’d to her rest, - Lingering like an unloved guest, - I sigh’d for thee. - - Thy brother Death came, and cried, - ‘Wouldst thou me?’ - Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, - Murmur’d like a noontide bee, - ‘Shall I nestle near thy side? - Wouldst thou me?’--And I replied, - ‘No, not thee!’ - - Death will come when thou art dead, - Soon, too soon-- - Sleep will come when thou art fled. - Of neither would I ask the boon - I ask of thee, belovèd Night-- - Swift be thine approaching flight, - Come soon, soon! - - -_613._ _From the Arabic_ - -AN IMITATION - - My faint spirit was sitting in the light - Of thy looks, my love; - It panted for thee like the hind at noon - For the brooks, my love. - Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest’s flight, - Bore thee far from me; - My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, - Did companion thee. - - Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, - Or the death they bear, - The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove - With the wings of care; - In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, - Shall mine cling to thee, - Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, - It may bring to thee. - - -_614._ _Lines_ - - When the lamp is shatter’d, - The light in the dust lies dead; - When the cloud is scatter’d, - The rainbow’s glory is shed: - When the lute is broken, - Sweet tones are remember’d not - When the lips have spoken, - Loved accents are soon forgot. - - As music and splendour - Survive not the lamp and the lute, - The heart’s echoes render - No song when the spirit is mute-- - No song but sad dirges, - Like the wind through a ruin’d cell, - Or the mournful surges - That ring the dead seaman’s knell. - - When hearts have once mingled, - Love first leaves the well-built nest; - The weak one is singled - To endure what it once possest. - O Love, who bewailest - The frailty of all things here, - Why choose you the frailest - For your cradle, your home, and your bier? - - Its passions will rock thee, - As the storms rock the ravens on high: - Bright reason will mock thee, - Like the sun from a wintry sky. - From thy nest every rafter - Will rot, and thine eagle home - Leave thee naked to laughter, - When leaves fall and cold winds come. - - -_615._ _To---- _ - - One word is too often profaned - For me to profane it; - One feeling too falsely disdain’d - For thee to disdain it; - One hope is too like despair - For prudence to smother; - And pity from thee more dear - Than that from another. - - - I can give not what men call love: - But wilt thou accept not - The worship the heart lifts above - And the heavens reject not, - The desire of the moth for the star, - Of the night for the morrow, - The devotion to something afar - From the sphere of our sorrow? - - -_616._ _The Question_ - - I dream’d that, as I wander’d by the way, - Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring; - And gentle odours led my steps astray, - Mix’d with a sound of waters murmuring - Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay - Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling - Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, - But kiss’d it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream. - - There grew pied wind-flowers and violets; - Daisies, those pearl’d Arcturi of the earth, - The constellated flower that never sets; - Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth - The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets-- - Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth-- - Its mother’s face with heaven-collected tears - When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears. - - And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, - Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour’d May, - And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine - Was the bright dew yet drain’d not by the day; - And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, - With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray; - And flowers, azure, black, and streak’d with gold, - Fairer than any waken’d eyes behold. - - And nearer to the river’s trembling edge - There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank’d with white, - And starry river-buds among the sedge, - And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, - Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge - With moonlight beams of their own watery light; - And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green - As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. - - Methought that of these visionary flowers - I made a nosegay, bound in such a way - That the same hues which in their natural bowers - Were mingled or opposed, the like array - Kept these imprison’d children of the Hours - Within my hand;--and then, elate and gay, - I hasten’d to the spot whence I had come, - That I might there present it--O! to whom? - - -_617._ _Remorse_ - - Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, - Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: - Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, - And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. - - Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries ‘Away!’ - Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood: - Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: - Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. - - Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; - Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; - Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, - And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth. - The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, - The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: - But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, - Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace, may meet. - - The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, - For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep; - Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows; - Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep. - Thou in the grave shalt rest:--yet, till the phantoms flee, - Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, - Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free - From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile. - - -_618._ _Music, when Soft Voices die_ - - Music, when soft voices die, - Vibrates in the memory; - Odours, when sweet violets sicken, - Live within the sense they quicken. - - Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, - Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed; - And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, - Love itself shall slumber on. - - - - -HEW AINSLIE - -1792-1878 - - -_619._ _Willie and Helen_ - - ‘Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ love, - Unless it be to pain us? - Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ love - Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?’ - - ‘It’s no because my love is light, - Nor for your angry deddy; - It’s a’ to buy ye pearlins bright, - An’ to busk ye like a leddy.’ - - ‘O Willy, I can caird an’ spin, - Se ne’er can want for cleedin’; - An’ gin I hae my Willy’s heart, - I hae a’ the pearls I’m heedin’. - - ‘Will it be time to praise this cheek - Whan years an’ tears has blench’d it? - Will it be time to talk o’ love - Whan cauld an’ care has quench’d it?’ - - He’s laid ae han’ about her waist-- - The ither’s held to heaven; - An’ his luik was like the luik o’ man - Wha’s heart in twa is riven. - - _619._ cleedin’] clothing. - - - - -JOHN KEBLE - -1792-1866 - - -_620._ _Burial of the Dead_ - - I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem’d - Death’s interposing veil, and thou so pure, - Thy place in Paradise - Beyond where I could soar: - - Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts - Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, - Where patiently thou tak’st - Thy sweet and sure repose. - - The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air - Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; - While Memory, by thy grave, - Lives o’er thy funeral day; - - The deep knell dying down, the mourners’ pause, - Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate.-- - Sure with the words of Heaven - Thy spirit met us there, - - And sought with us along th’ accustom’d way - The hallow’d porch, and entering in, beheld - The pageant of sad joy - So dear to Faith and Hope. - - O! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise - To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch’d - The sacred springs of grief - More tenderly and true, - Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, - Low as the grave, high as th’ Eternal Throne, - Guiding through light and gloom - Our mourning fancies wild, - - Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve - Around the western twilight, all subside - Into a placid faith, - That even with beaming eye - - Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall; - So many relics of a frail love lost, - So many tokens dear - Of endless love begun. - - Listen! it is no dream: th’ Apostles’ trump - Gives earnest of th’ Archangel’s;--calmly now, - Our hearts yet beating high - To that victorious lay - - (Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirge - Of a true comrade), in the grave we trust - Our treasure for awhile: - And if a tear steal down, - - If human anguish o’er the shaded brow - Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth - Touches the coffin-lid; - If at our brother’s name, - - Once and again the thought, ‘for ever gone,’ - Come o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, - Thou turnest not away, - Thou know’st us calm at heart. - - One look, and we have seen our last of thee, - Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o’er. - O cleanse us, ere we view - That countenance pure again, - - Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead! - As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, - Be ready when we meet, - With Thy dear pardoning words. - - - - -JOHN CLARE - -1793-1864 - - -_621._ _Written in Northampton County Asylum_ - - I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? - My friends forsake me like a memory lost. - I am the self-consumer of my woes; - They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, - Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. - And yet I am--I live--though I am toss’d - - Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, - Into the living sea of waking dream, - Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, - But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem - And all that’s dear. Even those I loved the best - Are strange--nay, they are stranger than the rest. - - I long for scenes where man has never trod-- - For scenes where woman never smiled or wept-- - There to abide with my Creator, God, - And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, - Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,-- - The grass below; above, the vaulted sky. - - - - -FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS - -1793-1835 - - -_622._ _Dirge_ - - Calm on the bosom of thy God, - Fair spirit, rest thee now! - E’en while with ours thy footsteps trod, - His seal was on thy brow. - - Dust, to its narrow house beneath! - Soul, to its place on high! - They that have seen thy look in death - No more may fear to die. - - - - -JOHN KEATS - -1795-1821 - - -_623._ _Song of the Indian Maid_ - -FROM ‘ENDYMION’ - - O Sorrow! - Why dost borrow - The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?-- - To give maiden blushes - To the white rose bushes? - Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips? - - O Sorrow! - Why dost borrow - The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?-- - To give the glow-worm light? - Or, on a moonless night, - To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry? - - _623._ sea-spry] sea-spray. - - - O Sorrow! - Why dost borrow - The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?-- - To give at evening pale - Unto the nightingale, - That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? - - O Sorrow! - Why dost borrow - Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May?-- - A lover would not tread - A cowslip on the head, - Though he should dance from eve till peep of day-- - Nor any drooping flower - Held sacred for thy bower, - Wherever he may sport himself and play. - - To Sorrow - I bade good morrow, - And thought to leave her far away behind; - But cheerly, cheerly, - She loves me dearly; - She is so constant to me, and so kind: - I would deceive her, - And so leave her, - But ah! she is so constant and so kind. - - Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, - I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide - There was no one to ask me why I wept,-- - And so I kept - Brimming the water-lily cups with tears - Cold as my fears. - Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, - I sat a-weeping: what enamour’d bride, - Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, - But hides and shrouds - Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side? - - And as I sat, over the light blue hills - There came a noise of revellers: the rills - Into the wide stream came of purple hue-- - ’Twas Bacchus and his crew! - The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills - From kissing cymbals made a merry din-- - ’Twas Bacchus and his kin! - Like to a moving vintage down they came, - Crown’d with green leaves, and faces all on flame; - All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, - To scare thee, Melancholy! - O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! - And I forgot thee, as the berried holly - By shepherds is forgotten, when in June - Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:-- - I rush’d into the folly! - - Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood, - Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, - With sidelong laughing; - And little rills of crimson wine imbrued - His plump white arms and shoulders, enough white - For Venus’ pearly bite; - And near him rode Silenus on his ass, - Pelted with flowers as he on did pass - Tipsily quaffing. - - ‘Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye, - So many, and so many, and such glee? - Why have ye left your bowers desolate, - Your lutes, and gentler fate?’-- - ‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing, - A-conquering! - Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, - We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:-- - Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd be - To our wild minstrelsy!’ - - ‘Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye, - So many, and so many, and such glee? - Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left - Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?’-- - ‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree; - For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, - And cold mushrooms; - For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth; - Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth! - Come hither, lady fair, and joinèd be - To our mad minstrelsy!’ - - Over wide streams and mountains great we went, - And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, - Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, - With Asian elephants: - Onward these myriads--with song and dance, - With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians’ prance, - Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, - Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, - Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil - Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers’ toil: - With toying oars and silken sails they glide, - Nor care for wind and tide. - - Mounted on panthers’ furs and lions’ manes, - From rear to van they scour about the plains; - A three days’ journey in a moment done; - And always, at the rising of the sun, - About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, - On spleenful unicorn. - - I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown - Before the vine-wreath crown! - I saw parch’d Abyssinia rouse and sing - To the silver cymbals’ ring! - I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce - Old Tartary the fierce! - The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, - And from their treasures scatter pearlèd hail; - Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, - And all his priesthood moans, - Before young Bacchus’ eye-wink turning pale. - Into these regions came I, following him, - Sick-hearted, weary--so I took a whim - To stray away into these forests drear, - Alone, without a peer: - And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. - - Young Stranger! - I’ve been a ranger - In search of pleasure throughout every clime; - Alas! ’tis not for me! - Bewitch’d I sure must be, - To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. - - Come then, Sorrow, - Sweetest Sorrow! - Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast: - I thought to leave thee, - And deceive thee, - But now of all the world I love thee best. - - There is not one, - No, no, not one - But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; - Thou art her mother, - And her brother, - Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade. - - -_624._ _Ode to a Nightingale_ - - My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains - My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, - Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains - One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: - ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, - But being too happy in thy happiness, - That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees, - In some melodious plot - Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, - Singest of summer in full-throated ease. - - O for a draught of vintage! that hath been - Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, - Tasting of Flora and the country-green, - Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! - O for a beaker full of the warm South! - Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, - With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, - And purple-stainèd mouth; - That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, - And with thee fade away into the forest dim: - - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget - What thou among the leaves hast never known, - The weariness, the fever, and the fret - Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; - Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, - Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; - Where but to think is to be full of sorrow - And leaden-eyed despairs; - Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, - Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. - - Away! away! for I will fly to thee, - Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, - But on the viewless wings of Poesy, - Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: - Already with thee! tender is the night, - And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, - Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays - But here there is no light, - Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown - Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. - - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, - Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, - But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet - Wherewith the seasonable month endows - The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; - White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; - Fast-fading violets cover’d up in leaves; - And mid-May’s eldest child, - The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, - The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. - - Darkling I listen; and for many a time - I have been half in love with easeful Death, - Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, - To take into the air my quiet breath; - Now more than ever seems it rich to die, - To cease upon the midnight with no pain, - While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad - In such an ecstasy! - Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- - To thy high requiem become a sod. - - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! - No hungry generations tread thee down; - The voice I hear this passing night was heard - In ancient days by emperor and clown: - Perhaps the self-same song that found a path - Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, - She stood in tears amid the alien corn; - The same that ofttimes hath - Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam - Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. - - Forlorn! the very word is like a bell - To toll me back from thee to my sole self! - Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well - As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. - Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades - Past the near meadows, over the still stream, - Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep - In the next valley-glades: - Was it a vision, or a waking dream? - Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep? - - -_625._ _Ode on a Grecian Urn_ - - Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, - Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, - Sylvan historian, who canst thus express - A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: - What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape - Of deities or mortals, or of both, - In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? - What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? - What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? - What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? - - Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard - Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; - Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, - Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: - Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave - Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; - Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, - Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve; - She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, - For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! - - Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed - Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; - And, happy melodist, unwearièd, - For ever piping songs for ever new; - More happy love! more happy, happy love! - For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d, - For ever panting and for ever young; - All breathing human passion far above, - That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, - A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. - - Who are these coming to the sacrifice? - To what green altar, O mysterious priest, - Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, - And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? - What little town by river or sea-shore, - Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, - Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? - And, little town, thy streets for evermore - Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell - Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. - - O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede - Of marble men and maidens overwrought, - With forest branches and the trodden weed; - Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought - As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral! - When old age shall this generation waste, - Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe - Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, - ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all - Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ - - -_626._ _Ode to Psyche_ - - O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung - By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, - And pardon that thy secrets should be sung - Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: - Surely I dream’d to-day, or did I see - The wingèd Psyche with awaken’d eyes? - I wander’d in a forest thoughtlessly, - And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, - Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side - In deepest grass, beneath the whisp’ring roof - Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran - A brooklet, scarce espied: - ’Mid hush’d, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, - Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian - They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; - Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; - Their lips touch’d not, but had not bade adieu, - As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, - And ready still past kisses to outnumber - At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: - The wingèd boy I knew; - But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? - His Psyche true! - - O latest-born and loveliest vision far - Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! - Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-region’d star, - Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky; - Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, - Nor altar heap’d with flowers; - Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan - Upon the midnight hours; - No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet - From chain-swung censer teeming; - No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat - Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming. - - O brightest! though too late for antique vows, - Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, - When holy were the haunted forest boughs, - Holy the air, the water, and the fire; - Yet even in these days so far retired - From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, - Fluttering among the faint Olympians, - I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. - So let me be thy choir, and make a moan - Upon the midnight hours; - Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet - From swingèd censer teeming: - Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat - Of pale-mouth’d prophet dreaming. - - Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane - In some untrodden region of my mind, - Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, - Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: - Far, far around shall those dark-cluster’d trees - Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; - And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, - The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull’d to sleep; - And in the midst of this wide quietness - A rosy sanctuary will I dress - With the wreath’d trellis of a working brain, - With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, - With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign, - Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same; - And there shall be for thee all soft delight - That shadowy thought can win, - A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, - To let the warm Love in! - - -_627._ _To Autumn_ - - Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! - Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; - Conspiring with him how to load and bless - With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; - To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; - To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells - With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, - And still more, later flowers for the bees, - Until they think warm days will never cease, - For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. - - Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? - Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find - Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, - Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, - Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, - Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook - Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; - And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep - Steady thy laden head across a brook; - Or by a cider-press, with patient look, - Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. - - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? - Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- - While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, - And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; - Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn - Among the river sallows, borne aloft - Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; - And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; - Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft - The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; - And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. - - -_628._ _Ode on Melancholy_ - - No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist - Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; - Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist - By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; - Make not your rosary of yew-berries, - Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be - Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl - A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries; - For shade to shade will come too drowsily, - And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. - - But when the melancholy fit shall fall - Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, - That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, - And hides the green hill in an April shroud; - Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, - Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, - Or on the wealth of globèd peonies; - Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, - Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, - And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. - - She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die; - And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips - Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, - Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: - Ay, in the very temple of Delight - Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, - Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue - Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; - His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, - And be among her cloudy trophies hung. - - -_629._ _Fragment of an Ode to Maia_ - -(_Written on May-Day, 1818_) - - Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia! - May I sing to thee - As thou wast hymnèd on the shores of Baiæ? - Or may I woo thee - In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles - Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, - By bards who died content on pleasant sward, - Leaving great verse unto a little clan? - O give me their old vigour! and unheard - Save of the quiet primrose, and the span - Of heaven, and few ears, - Rounded by thee, my song should die away - Content as theirs, - Rich in the simple worship of a day. - - -_630._ _Bards of Passion and of Mirth_ - -_Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher’s Tragi-Comedy -‘The Fair Maid of the Inn’_ - - Bards of Passion and of Mirth, - Ye have left your souls on earth! - Have ye souls in heaven too, - Doubled-lived in regions new? - Yes, and those of heaven commune - With the spheres of sun and moon; - With the noise of fountains wondrous, - And the parle of voices thund’rous; - With the whisper of heaven’s trees - And one another, in soft ease - Seated on Elysian lawns - Browsed by none but Dian’s fawns; - Underneath large blue-bells tented, - Where the daisies are rose-scented, - And the rose herself has got - Perfume which on earth is not; - Where the nightingale doth sing - Not a senseless, trancèd thing, - But divine melodious truth; - Philosophic numbers smooth; - Tales and golden histories - Of heaven and its mysteries. - - Thus ye live on high, and then - On the earth ye live again; - And the souls ye left behind you - Teach us, here, the way to find you, - Where your other souls are joying, - Never slumber’d, never cloying. - Here, your earth-born souls still speak - To mortals, of their little week; - Of their sorrows and delights; - Of their passions and their spites; - Of their glory and their shame; - What doth strengthen and what maim. - Thus ye teach us, every day, - Wisdom, though fled far away. - - Bards of Passion and of Mirth, - Ye have left your souls on earth! - Ye have souls in heaven too, - Double-lived in regions new! - - -_631._ _Fancy_ - - Ever let the Fancy roam, - Pleasure never is at home: - At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, - Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; - Then let wingèd Fancy wander - Through the thought still spread beyond her: - Open wide the mind’s cage-door, - She’ll dart forth, and cloudward soar. - O sweet Fancy! let her loose; - Summer’s joys are spoilt by use, - And the enjoying of the Spring - Fades as does its blossoming: - Autumn’s red-lipp’d fruitage too, - Blushing through the mist and dew, - Cloys with tasting: What do then? - Sit thee by the ingle, when - The sear faggot blazes bright, - Spirit of a winter’s night; - When the soundless earth is muffled, - And the cakèd snow is shuffled - From the ploughboy’s heavy shoon; - When the Night doth meet the Noon - In a dark conspiracy - To banish Even from her sky. - Sit thee there, and send abroad, - With a mind self-overawed, - Fancy, high-commission’d:--send her! - She has vassals to attend her: - She will bring, in spite of frost, - Beauties that the earth hath lost; - She will bring thee, all together, - All delights of summer weather; - All the buds and bells of May, - From dewy sward or thorny spray; - All the heapèd Autumn’s wealth, - With a still, mysterious stealth: - She will mix these pleasures up - Like three fit wines in a cup, - And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear - Distant harvest-carols clear; - Rustle of the reapèd corn; - Sweet birds antheming the morn: - And, in the same moment--hark! - ’Tis the early April lark, - Or the rooks, with busy caw, - Foraging for sticks and straw. - Thou shalt, at one glance, behold - The daisy and the marigold; - White-plumed lilies, and the first - Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; - Shaded hyacinth, alway - Sapphire queen of the mid-May; - And every leaf, and every flower - Pearlèd with the self-same shower. - Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peep - Meagre from its cellèd sleep; - And the snake all winter-thin - Cast on sunny bank its skin; - Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see - Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, - When the hen-bird’s wing doth rest - Quiet on her mossy nest; - Then the hurry and alarm - When the beehive casts its swarm; - Acorns ripe down-pattering - While the autumn breezes sing. - - O sweet Fancy! let her loose; - Every thing is spoilt by use: - Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, - Too much gazed at? Where’s the maid - Whose lip mature is ever new? - Where’s the eye, however blue, - Doth not weary? Where’s the face - One would meet in every place? - Where’s the voice, however soft, - One would hear so very oft? - At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth - Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. - Let, then, wingèd Fancy find - Thee a mistress to thy mind: - Dulcet-eyed as Ceres’ daughter, - Ere the God of Torment taught her - How to frown and how to chide; - With a waist and with a side - White as Hebe’s, when her zone - Slipt its golden clasp, and down - Fell her kirtle to her feet, - While she held the goblet sweet, - And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh - Of the Fancy’s silken leash; - Quickly break her prison-string, - And such joys as these she’ll bring.-- - Let the wingèd Fancy roam, - Pleasure never is at home. - - -_632._ _Stanzas_ - - In a drear-nighted December, - Too happy, happy tree, - Thy branches ne’er remember - Their green felicity: - The north cannot undo them, - With a sleety whistle through them; - Nor frozen thawings glue them - From budding at the prime. - - In a drear-nighted December, - Too happy, happy brook, - Thy bubblings ne’er remember - Apollo’s summer look; - But with a sweet forgetting, - They stay their crystal fretting, - Never, never petting - About the frozen time. - - Ah! would ’twere so with many - A gentle girl and boy! - But were there ever any - Writhed not at passèd joy? - To know the change and feel it, - When there is none to heal it, - Nor numbèd sense to steal it, - Was never said in rhyme. - - -_633._ _La Belle Dame sans Merci_ - - ‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, - Alone and palely loitering? - The sedge is wither’d from the lake, - And no birds sing. - - ‘O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, - So haggard and so woe-begone? - The squirrel’s granary is full, - And the harvest’s done. - - ‘I see a lily on thy brow - With anguish moist and fever dew; - And on thy cheek a fading rose - Fast withereth too.’ - - ‘I met a lady in the meads, - Full beautiful--a faery’s child, - Her hair was long, her foot was light, - And her eyes were wild. - - ‘I made a garland for her head, - And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; - She look’d at me as she did love, - And made sweet moan. - - ‘I set her on my pacing steed - And nothing else saw all day long, - For sideways would she lean, and sing - A faery’s song. - - ‘She found me roots of relish sweet, - And honey wild and manna dew, - And sure in language strange she said, - “I love thee true!” - - ‘She took me to her elfin grot, - And there she wept and sigh’d full sore; - And there I shut her wild, wild eyes - With kisses four. - - ‘And there she lullèd me asleep, - And there I dream’d--Ah! woe betide! - The latest dream I ever dream’d - On the cold hill’s side. - - ‘I saw pale kings and princes too, - Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; - Who cried--“La belle Dame sans Merci - Hath thee in thrall!” - - ‘I saw their starved lips in the gloam - With horrid warning gapèd wide, - And I awoke and found me here - On the cold hill’s side. - - ‘And this is why I sojourn here - Alone and palely loitering, - Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, - And no birds sing.’ - - -_634._ _On first looking into Chapman’s Homer_ - - Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, - And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; - Round many western islands have I been - Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. - Oft of one wide expanse had I been told - That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne: - Yet did I never breathe its pure serene - Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: - Then felt I like some watcher of the skies - When a new planet swims into his ken; - Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes - He stared at the Pacific--and all his men - Look’d at each other with a wild surmise-- - Silent, upon a peak in Darien. - - -_635._ _When I have Fears that I may cease to be_ - - When I have fears that I may cease to be - Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, - Before high-pilèd books, in charact’ry, - Hold like full garners the full-ripen’d grain; - When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, - Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, - And feel that I may never live to trace - Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; - And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! - That I shall never look upon thee more, - Never have relish in the faery power - Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore - Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, - Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. - - -_636._ _To Sleep_ - - O soft embalmer of the still midnight! - Shutting with careful fingers and benign - Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower’d from the light, - Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; - O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, - In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, - Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws - Around my bed its lulling charities; - Then save me, or the passèd day will shine - Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; - Save me from curious conscience, that still lords - Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; - Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards, - And seal the hushèd casket of my soul. - - -_637._ _Last Sonnet_ - - Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- - Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, - And watching, with eternal lids apart, - Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite, - The moving waters at their priest-like task - Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, - Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask - Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-- - No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, - Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast, - To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, - Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, - Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, - And so live ever--or else swoon to death. - - - - -JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN - -1795-1839 - - -_638._ _The Outlaw of Loch Lene_ - -FROM THE IRISH - - O many a day have I made good ale in the glen, - That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men: - My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above; - And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love. - - Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, - That I was not near from terror my angel to shield! - She stretch’d forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind, - And swam o’er Loch Lene, her outlaw’d lover to find. - - O would that a freezing sleet-wing’d tempest did sweep, - And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep; - I’d ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save-- - With her hand round my waist, I’d fear not the wind or the wave. - - ’Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, - The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides: - I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among, - The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song. - - - - -WILLIAM SIDNEY WALKER - -1795-1846 - - -_639._ - - Too solemn for day, too sweet for night, - Come not in darkness, come not in light; - But come in some twilight interim, - When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim. - - - - -GEORGE DARLEY - -1795-1846 - - -_640._ _Song_ - - Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, - Lull’d by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; - Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers - Breathed to my sad lute ’mid the lonely air. - - Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming - To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above: - O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, - I too could glide to the bower of my love! - - Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, - Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, - Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, - To her lost mate’s call in the forests far away. - - Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, - Still Heaven’s messenger of comfort to me-- - Come--this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, - Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee! - - -_641._ _To Helene_ - -_On a Gift-ring carelessly lost_ - - I sent a ring--a little band - Of emerald and ruby stone, - And bade it, sparkling on thy hand, - Tell thee sweet tales of one - Whose constant memory - Was full of loveliness, and thee. - - A shell was graven on its gold,-- - ’Twas Cupid fix’d without his wings-- - To Helene once it would have told - More than was ever told by rings: - But now all’s past and gone, - Her love is buried with that stone. - - Thou shalt not see the tears that start - From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; - Thou shalt not know the beating heart, - Ever a victim and a child: - Yet Helene, love, believe - The heart that never could deceive. - - I’ll hear thy voice of melody - In the sweet whispers of the air; - I’ll see the brightness of thine eye - In the blue evening’s dewy star; - In crystal streams thy purity; - And look on Heaven to look on thee. - - -_642._ _The Fallen Star_ - - A star is gone! a star is gone! - There is a blank in Heaven; - One of the cherub choir has done - His airy course this even. - - He sat upon the orb of fire - That hung for ages there, - And lent his music to the choir - That haunts the nightly air. - - But when his thousand years are pass’d, - With a cherubic sigh - He vanish’d with his car at last, - For even cherubs die! - - Hear how his angel-brothers mourn-- - The minstrels of the spheres-- - Each chiming sadly in his turn - And dropping splendid tears. - - The planetary sisters all - Join in the fatal song, - And weep this hapless brother’s fall, - Who sang with them so long. - - But deepest of the choral band - The Lunar Spirit sings, - And with a bass-according hand - Sweeps all her sullen strings. - - From the deep chambers of the dome - Where sleepless Uriel lies, - His rude harmonic thunders come - Mingled with mighty sighs. - - - The thousand car-borne cherubim, - The wandering eleven, - All join to chant the dirge of him - Who fell just now from Heaven. - - - - -HARTLEY COLERIDGE - -1796-1849 - - -_643._ _The Solitary-Hearted_ - - She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning, - A smile of hers was like an act of grace; - She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, - Like daily beauties of the vulgar race: - But if she smiled, a light was on her face, - A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam - Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream - Of human thought with unabiding glory; - Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream, - A visitation, bright and transitory. - - But she is changed,--hath felt the touch of sorrow, - No love hath she, no understanding friend; - O grief! when Heaven is forced of earth to borrow - What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; - But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend. - The tallest flower that skyward rears its head - Grows from the common ground, and there must shed - Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely, - That they should find so base a bridal bed, - Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely. - - She had a brother, and a tender father, - And she was loved, but not as others are - From whom we ask return of love,--but rather - As one might love a dream; a phantom fair - Of something exquisitely strange and rare, - Which all were glad to look on, men and maids, - Yet no one claim’d--as oft, in dewy glades, - The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness, - Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;-- - The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. - - ’Tis vain to say--her worst of grief is only - The common lot, which all the world have known; - To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely, - And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,-- - Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, - And she did love them. They are past away - As Fairies vanish at the break of day; - And like a spectre of an age departed, - Or unsphered Angel wofully astray, - She glides along--the solitary-hearted. - - -_644._ _Song_ - - She is not fair to outward view - As many maidens be, - Her loveliness I never knew - Until she smiled on me; - O, then I saw her eye was bright, - A well of love, a spring of light! - - But now her looks are coy and cold, - To mine they ne’er reply, - And yet I cease not to behold - The love-light in her eye: - Her very frowns are fairer far - Than smiles of other maidens are. - - -_645._ _Early Death_ - - She pass’d away like morning dew - Before the sun was high; - So brief her time, she scarcely knew - The meaning of a sigh. - - As round the rose its soft perfume, - Sweet love around her floated; - Admired she grew--while mortal doom - Crept on, unfear’d, unnoted. - - Love was her guardian Angel here, - But Love to Death resign’d her; - Tho’ Love was kind, why should we fear - But holy Death is kinder? - - -_646._ _Friendship_ - - When we were idlers with the loitering rills, - The need of human love we little noted: - Our love was nature; and the peace that floated - On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, - To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills: - One soul was ours, one mind, one heart devoted, - That, wisely doting, ask’d not why it doted, - And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills. - But now I find how dear thou wert to me; - That man is more than half of nature’s treasure, - Of that fair beauty which no eye can see, - Of that sweet music which no ear can measure; - And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure, - The hills sleep on in their eternity. - - - - -THOMAS HOOD - -1798-1845 - - -_647._ _Autumn_ - - I saw old Autumn in the misty morn - Stand shadowless like Silence, listening - To silence, for no lonely bird would sing - Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, - Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;-- - Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright - With tangled gossamer that fell by night, - Pearling his coronet of golden corn. - - Where are the songs of Summer?--With the sun, - Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, - Till shade and silence waken up as one, - And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. - Where are the merry birds?--Away, away, - On panting wings through the inclement skies, - Lest owls should prey - Undazzled at noonday, - And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. - - Where are the blooms of Summer?--In the west, - Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, - When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest - Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs - To a most gloomy breast. - Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- - The many, many leaves all twinkling?--Three - On the moss’d elm; three on the naked lime - Trembling,--and one upon the old oak-tree! - Where is the Dryad’s immortality?-- - Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, - Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through - In the smooth holly’s green eternity. - - - The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard, - The ants have brimm’d their garners with ripe grain, - And honey bees have stored - The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells; - The swallows all have wing’d across the main; - But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, - And sighs her tearful spells - Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. - Alone, alone, - Upon a mossy stone, - She sits and reckons up the dead and gone - With the last leaves for a love-rosary, - Whilst all the wither’d world looks drearily, - Like a dim picture of the drownèd past - In the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away, - Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last - Into that distance, gray upon the gray. - - O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded - Under the languid downfall of her hair: - She wears a coronal of flowers faded - Upon her forehead, and a face of care;-- - There is enough of wither’d everywhere - To make her bower,--and enough of gloom; - There is enough of sadness to invite, - If only for the rose that died, whose doom - Is Beauty’s,--she that with the living bloom - Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: - There is enough of sorrowing, and quite - Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,-- - Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; - Enough of fear and shadowy despair, - To frame her cloudy prison for the soul! - - -_648._ _Silence_ - - There is a silence where hath been no sound, - There is a silence where no sound may be, - In the cold grave--under the deep, deep sea, - Or in wide desert where no life is found, - Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; - No voice is hush’d--no life treads silently, - But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, - That never spoke, over the idle ground: - But in green ruins, in the desolate walls - Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, - Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls, - And owls, that flit continually between, - Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan-- - There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. - - -_649._ _Death_ - - It is not death, that sometime in a sigh - This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; - That sometime these bright stars, that now reply - In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; - That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, - And all life’s ruddy springs forget to flow; - That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite - Be lapp’d in alien clay and laid below; - It is not death to know this--but to know - That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves - In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go - So duly and so oft--and when grass waves - Over the pass’d-away, there may be then - No resurrection in the minds of men. - - -_650._ _Fair Ines_ - - O saw ye not fair Ines? - She’s gone into the West, - To dazzle when the sun is down, - And rob the world of rest: - She took our daylight with her, - The smiles that we love best, - With morning blushes on her cheek, - And pearls upon her breast. - - O turn again, fair Ines, - Before the fall of night, - For fear the Moon should shine alone, - And stars unrivall’d bright; - And blessèd will the lover be - That walks beneath their light, - And breathes the love against thy cheek - I dare not even write! - - Would I had been, fair Ines, - That gallant cavalier, - Who rode so gaily by thy side, - And whisper’d thee so near! - Were there no bonny dames at home, - Or no true lovers here, - That he should cross the seas to win - The dearest of the dear? - - I saw thee, lovely Ines, - Descend along the shore, - With bands of noble gentlemen, - And banners waved before; - And gentle youth and maidens gay, - And snowy plumes they wore: - It would have been a beauteous dream,-- - If it had been no more! - - Alas, alas! fair Ines, - She went away with song, - With Music waiting on her steps, - And shoutings of the throng; - But some were sad, and felt no mirth, - But only Music’s wrong, - In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, - To her you’ve loved so long. - - Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! - That vessel never bore - So fair a lady on its deck, - Nor danced so light before,-- - Alas for pleasure on the sea, - And sorrow on the shore! - The smile that bless’d one lover’s heart - Has broken many more! - - -_651._ _Time of Roses_ - - It was not in the Winter - Our loving lot was cast; - It was the time of roses-- - We pluck’d them as we pass’d! - - That churlish season never frown’d - On early lovers yet: - O no--the world was newly crown’d - With flowers when first we met! - - - ’Twas twilight, and I bade you go, - But still you held me fast; - It was the time of roses-- - We pluck’d them as we pass’d! - - -_652._ _Ruth_ - - She stood breast-high amid the corn, - Clasp’d by the golden light of morn, - Like the sweetheart of the sun, - Who many a glowing kiss had won. - - On her cheek an autumn flush, - Deeply ripen’d;--such a blush - In the midst of brown was born, - Like red poppies grown with corn. - - Round her eyes her tresses fell, - Which were blackest none could tell, - But long lashes veiled a light, - That had else been all too bright. - - And her hat, with shady brim, - Made her tressy forehead dim; - Thus she stood amid the stooks, - Praising God with sweetest looks:-- - - Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean, - Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, - Lay thy sheaf adown and come, - Share my harvest and my home. - - -_653._ _The Death-bed_ - - We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night, - Her breathing soft and low, - As in her breast the wave of life - Kept heaving to and fro. - - So silently we seem’d to speak, - So slowly moved about, - As we had lent her half our powers - To eke her living out. - - Our very hopes belied our fears, - Our fears our hopes belied-- - We thought her dying when she slept, - And sleeping when she died. - - For when the morn came dim and sad, - And chill with early showers, - Her quiet eyelids closed--she had - Another morn than ours. - - -_654._ _The Bridge of Sighs_ - - One more Unfortunate, - Weary of breath, - Rashly importunate, - Gone to her death! - - Take her up tenderly, - Lift her with care; - Fashion’d so slenderly - Young, and so fair! - - - Look at her garments - Clinging like cerements; - Whilst the wave constantly - Drips from her clothing; - Take her up instantly, - Loving, not loathing. - - Touch her not scornfully; - Think of her mournfully, - Gently and humanly; - Not of the stains of her, - All that remains of her - Now is pure womanly. - - Make no deep scrutiny - Into her mutiny - Rash and undutiful: - Past all dishonour, - Death has left on her - Only the beautiful. - - Still, for all slips of hers, - One of Eve’s family-- - Wipe those poor lips of hers - Oozing so clammily. - - Loop up her tresses - Escaped from the comb, - Her fair auburn tresses; - Whilst wonderment guesses - Where was her home? - - Who was her father? - Who was her mother? - Had she a sister? - Had she a brother? - Or was there a dearer one - Still, and a nearer one - Yet, than all other? - - Alas! for the rarity - Of Christian charity - Under the sun! - O, it was pitiful! - Near a whole city full, - Home she had none. - - Sisterly, brotherly, - Fatherly, motherly - Feelings had changed: - Love, by harsh evidence, - Thrown from its eminence; - Even God’s providence - Seeming estranged. - - Where the lamps quiver - So far in the river, - With many a light - From window and casement, - From garret to basement, - She stood, with amazement, - Houseless by night. - - The bleak wind of March - Made her tremble and shiver; - But not the dark arch, - Or the black flowing river: - - - Mad from life’s history, - Glad to death’s mystery, - Swift to be hurl’d-- - Anywhere, anywhere - Out of the world! - - In she plunged boldly-- - No matter how coldly - The rough river ran-- - Over the brink of it, - Picture it--think of it, - Dissolute Man! - Lave in it, drink of it, - Then, if you can! - - Take her up tenderly, - Lift her with care; - Fashion’d so slenderly, - Young, and so fair! - - Ere her limbs frigidly - Stiffen too rigidly, - Decently, kindly, - Smooth and compose them; - And her eyes, close them, - Staring so blindly! - - Dreadfully staring - Thro’ muddy impurity, - As when with the daring - Last look of despairing - Fix’d on futurity. - - Perishing gloomily, - Spurr’d by contumely, - Cold inhumanity, - Burning insanity, - Into her rest.-- - Cross her hands humbly - As if praying dumbly, - Over her breast! - - Owning her weakness, - Her evil behaviour, - And leaving, with meekness, - Her sins to her Saviour! - - - - -WILLIAM THOM - -1798-1848 - - -_655._ _The Blind Boy’s Pranks_ - - Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, - Love kentna whaur to stay: - Wi’ fient an arrow, bow, or string-- - Wi’ droopin’ heart an’ drizzled wing, - He faught his lonely way. - - ‘Is there nae mair in Garioch fair - Ae spotless hame for me? - Hae politics an’ corn an’ kye - Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie! - I’ll swithe me o’er the sea.’ - - He launch’d a leaf o’ jessamine, - On whilk he daur’d to swim, - An’ pillow’d his head on a wee rosebud, - Syne laithfu’, lanely, Love ’gan scud - Down Ury’s waefu’ stream. - - _655._ kentna] knew not. wi’ fient an arrow] i. q. with deuce an - arrow. swithe] hie quickly. laithfu’] regretful. - - The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near, - But dowie when he gaed by; - Till lull’d wi’ the sough o’ monie a sang, - He sleepit fu’ soun’ and sail’d alang - ’Neath Heaven’s gowden sky. - - ’Twas just whaur creeping Ury greets - Its mountain cousin Don, - There wander’d forth a weelfaur’d dame, - Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream, - As it flirted an’ play’d with a sunny beam - That flicker’d its bosom upon. - - Love happit his head, I trow, that time - The jessamine bark drew nigh, - The lassie espied the wee rosebud, - An’ aye her heart gae thud for thud, - An’ quiet it wadna lie. - - ‘O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower - That floats on the Ury sae fair!’-- - She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf, - But little wist she o’ the pawkie thief - That was lurkin’ an’ laughin’ there! - - Love glower’d when he saw her bonnie dark e’e, - An’ swore by Heaven’s grace - He ne’er had seen nor thought to see, - Since e’er he left the Paphian lea, - Sae lovely a dwallin’-place. - - dowie] dejectedly. weelfaur’d] well-favoured, comely. happit] - covered up. lootit] lowered. pawkie] sly. glower’d] stared. - - Syne first of a’ in her blythesome breast - He built a bower, I ween; - An’ what did the waefu’ devilick neist? - But kindled a gleam like the rosy east, - That sparkled frae baith her e’en. - - An’ then beneath ilk high e’e-bree - He placed a quiver there; - His bow? What but her shinin’ brow? - An’ O sic deadly strings he drew - Frae out her silken hair! - - Guid be our guard! Sic deeds waur deen - Roun’ a’ our countrie then; - An’ monie a hangin’ lug was seen - ’Mang farmers fat, an’ lawyers lean, - An’ herds o’ common men! - - _655._ e’e-bree] eyebrow. lug] ear. - - - - -SIR HENRY TAYLOR - -1800-1886 - - -_656._ _Elena’s Song_ - - Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife - To heart of neither wife nor maid-- - Lead we not here a jolly life - Betwixt the shine and shade? - - Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife - To tongue of neither wife nor maid-- - Thou wagg’st, but I am worn with strife, - And feel like flowers that fade. - - - - -THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, LORD MACAULAY - -1800-1859 - - -_657._ _A Jacobite’s Epitaph_ - - To my true king I offer’d free from stain - Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. - For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, - And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. - For him I languished in a foreign clime, - Gray-hair’d with sorrow in my manhood’s prime; - Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees, - And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; - Beheld each night my home in fever’d sleep, - Each morning started from the dream to weep; - Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave - The resting-place I ask’d, an early grave. - O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, - From that proud country which was once mine own, - By those white cliffs I never more must see, - By that dear language which I spake like thee, - Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear - O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here. - - - - -WILLIAM BARNES - -1801-1886 - - -_658._ _Mater Dolorosa_ - - I’d a dream to-night - As I fell asleep, - O! the touching sight - Makes me still to weep: - Of my little lad, - Gone to leave me sad, - Ay, the child I had, - But was not to keep. - - As in heaven high, - I my child did seek, - There in train came by - Children fair and meek, - Each in lily white, - With a lamp alight; - Each was clear to sight, - But they did not speak. - - Then, a little sad, - Came my child in turn, - But the lamp he had, - O it did not burn! - He, to clear my doubt, - Said, half turn’d about, - ‘Your tears put it out; - Mother, never mourn.’ - - -_659._ _The Wife a-lost_ - - Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce, - Up steärs or down below, - I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce, - Where flat-bough’d beech do grow; - Below the beeches’ bough, my love, - Where you did never come, - An’ I don’t look to meet ye now, - As I do look at hwome. - - Since you noo mwore be at my zide, - In walks in zummer het, - I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride, - Droo trees a-drippèn wet; - Below the rain-wet bough, my love, - Where you did never come, - An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now, - As I do grieve at hwome. - - Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard - Your vaïce do never sound, - I’ll eat the bit I can avword - A-vield upon the ground; - Below the darksome bough, my love, - Where you did never dine, - An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now, - As I at hwome do pine. - - Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäce - In praÿer at eventide, - I’ll praÿ wi’ woone sad vaïce vor greäce - To goo where you do bide; - Above the tree an’ bough, my love, - Where you be gone avore, - An’ be a-waitèn vor me now, - To come vor evermwore. - - - - -WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED - -1802-1839 - - -_660._ _Fairy Song_ - - He has conn’d the lesson now; - He has read the book of pain: - There are furrows on his brow; - I must make it smooth again. - - Lo! I knock the spurs away; - Lo! I loosen belt and brand; - Hark! I hear the courser neigh - For his stall in Fairy-land. - - Bring the cap, and bring the vest; - Buckle on his sandal shoon; - Fetch his memory from the chest - In the treasury of the moon. - - I have taught him to be wise - For a little maiden’s sake;-- - Lo! he opens his glad eyes. - Softly, slowly: Minstrel, wake! - - - - -SARA COLERIDGE - -1802-1850 - - -_661._ _O sleep my Babe_ - - Sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, - Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring strays - To drink thy balmy breath, - And sigh one long farewell. - - Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed, - And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore, - Deep murm’ring in reproach, - Thy sad untimely fate. - - Ere those dear eyes had open’d on the light, - In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold, - O waken’d but to sleep, - Whence it can wake no more! - - A thousand and a thousand silken leaves - The tufted beech unfolds in early spring, - All clad in tenderest green, - All of the self-same shape: - - A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, - Each year sends forth, yet every mother views - Her last not least beloved - Like its dear self alone. - - No musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped - The face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal, - No heart hath e’er conceived - What love that face will bring. - - O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale - To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, - As when it deeply sighs - O’er autumn’s latest bloom. - - -_662._ _The Child_ - - See yon blithe child that dances in our sight! - Can gloomy shadows fall from one so bright? - Fond mother, whence these fears? - While buoyantly he rushes o’er the lawn, - Dream not of clouds to stain his manhood’s dawn, - Nor dim that sight with tears. - - No cloud he spies in brightly glowing hours, - But feels as if the newly vested bowers - For him could never fade: - Too well we know that vernal pleasures fleet, - But having him, so gladsome, fair, and sweet, - Our loss is overpaid. - - Amid the balmiest flowers that earth can give - Some bitter drops distil, and all that live - A mingled portion share; - But, while he learns these truths which we lament, - Such fortitude as ours will sure be sent, - Such solace to his care. - - - - -GERALD GRIFFIN - -1803-1840 - - -_663._ _Eileen Aroon_ - - When like the early rose, - Eileen Aroon! - Beauty in childhood blows, - Eileen Aroon! - When, like a diadem, - Buds blush around the stem, - Which is the fairest gem?-- - Eileen Aroon! - - Is it the laughing eye, - Eileen Aroon! - Is it the timid sigh, - Eileen Aroon! - Is it the tender tone, - Soft as the string’d harp’s moan? - O, it is truth alone,-- - Eileen Aroon! - - When like the rising day, - Eileen Aroon! - Love sends his early ray, - Eileen Aroon! - What makes his dawning glow, - Changeless through joy or woe? - Only the constant know:-- - Eileen Aroon! - - I know a valley fair, - Eileen Aroon! - I knew a cottage there, - Eileen Aroon! - Far in that valley’s shade - I knew a gentle maid, - Flower of a hazel glade,-- - Eileen Aroon! - - Who in the song so sweet? - Eileen Aroon! - Who in the dance so fleet? - Eileen Aroon! - Dear were her charms to me, - Dearer her laughter free, - Dearest her constancy,-- - Eileen Aroon! - - Were she no longer true, - Eileen Aroon! - What should her lover do? - Eileen Aroon! - Fly with his broken chain - Far o’er the sounding main, - Never to love again,-- - Eileen Aroon! - - Youth must with time decay, - Eileen Aroon! - Beauty must fade away, - Eileen Aroon! - Castles are sack’d in war, - Chieftains are scatter’d far, - Truth is a fixèd star,-- - Eileen Aroon! - - - - -JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN - -1803-1840 - - -_664._ _Dark Rosaleen_ - - O my Dark Rosaleen, - Do not sigh, do not weep! - The priests are on the ocean green, - They march along the deep. - There’s wine from the royal Pope, - Upon the ocean green; - And Spanish ale shall give you hope, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, - Shall give you health, and help, and hope, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - Over hills, and thro’ dales, - Have I roam’d for your sake; - All yesterday I sail’d with sails - On river and on lake. - The Erne, at its highest flood, - I dash’d across unseen, - For there was lightning in my blood, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - O, there was lightning in my blood, - Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood. - My Dark Rosaleen! - - All day long, in unrest, - To and fro, do I move. - The very soul within my breast - Is wasted for you, love! - The heart in my bosom faints - To think of you, my Queen, - My life of life, my saint of saints, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - To hear your sweet and sad complaints, - My life, my love, my saint of saints, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - Woe and pain, pain and woe, - Are my lot, night and noon, - To see your bright face clouded so, - Like to the mournful moon. - But yet will I rear your throne - Again in golden sheen; - ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, - ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - Over dews, over sands, - Will I fly, for your weal: - Your holy delicate white hands - Shall girdle me with steel. - At home, in your emerald bowers, - From morning’s dawn till e’en, - You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My fond Rosaleen! - You’ll think of me through daylight hours, - My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - I could scale the blue air, - I could plough the high hills, - O, I could kneel all night in prayer, - To heal your many ills! - And one beamy smile from you - Would float like light between - My toils and me, my own, my true, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My fond Rosaleen! - Would give me life and soul anew, - A second life, a soul anew, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - O, the Erne shall run red, - With redundance of blood, - The earth shall rock beneath our tread, - And flames wrap hill and wood, - And gun-peal and slogan-cry - Wake many a glen serene, - Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, - My Dark Rosaleen! - My own Rosaleen! - The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, - Ere you can fade, ere you can die, - My Dark Rosaleen! - - -_665._ _The Nameless One_ - - Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, - That sweeps along to the mighty sea; - God will inspire me while I deliver - My soul of thee! - - Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening - Amid the last homes of youth and eld, - That once there was one whose veins ran lightning - No eye beheld. - - Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, - How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom, - No star of all heaven sends to light our - Path to the tomb. - - Roll on, my song, and to after ages - Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, - He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages, - The way to live. - - And tell how trampled, derided, hated, - And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, - He fled for shelter to God, who mated - His soul with song. - - --With song which alway, sublime or vapid, - Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam, - Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid-- - A mountain stream. - - Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years long - To herd with demons from hell beneath, - Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long - For even death. - - Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, - Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love, - With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted, - He still, still strove; - - Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others - (And some whose hands should have wrought for him, - If children live not for sires and mothers), - His mind grew dim; - - And he fell far through that pit abysmal, - The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, - And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismal - Stock of returns. - - But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, - And shapes and signs of the final wrath, - When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, - Stood on his path. - - And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, - And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, - He bides in calmness the silent morrow, - That no ray lights. - - And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary - At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, - He lives, enduring what future story - Will never know. - - Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, - Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell! - He too, had tears for all souls in trouble, - Here and in hell. - - - - -THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES - -1803-1849 - - -_666._ _Wolfram’s Dirge_ - - If thou wilt ease thine heart - Of love and all its smart, - Then sleep, dear, sleep; - And not a sorrow - Hang any tear on your eyelashes; - Lie still and deep, - Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes - The rim of the sun to-morrow, - In eastern sky. - - But wilt thou cure thine heart - Of love and all its smart, - Then die, dear, die; - ’Tis deeper, sweeter, - Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming - With folded eye; - And there alone, amid the beaming - Of Love’s stars, thou’lt meet her - In eastern sky. - - -_667._ _Dream-Pedlary_ - - If there were dreams to sell, - What would you buy? - Some cost a passing bell; - Some a light sigh, - That shakes from Life’s fresh crown - Only a rose-leaf down. - If there were dreams to sell, - Merry and sad to tell, - And the crier rang the bell, - What would you buy? - - A cottage lone and still, - With bowers nigh, - Shadowy, my woes to still, - Until I die. - Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown - Fain would I shake me down. - Were dreams to have at will, - This would best heal my ill, - This would I buy. - - -_668._ _Song_ - - How many times do I love thee, dear? - Tell me how many thoughts there be - In the atmosphere - Of a new-fall’n year, - Whose white and sable hours appear - The latest flake of Eternity: - So many times do I love thee, dear. - - How many times do I love again? - Tell me how many beads there are - In a silver chain - Of evening rain, - Unravell’d from the tumbling main, - And threading the eye of a yellow star: - So many times do I love again. - - - - -RALPH WALDO EMERSON - -1803-1882 - - -_669._ _Give All to Love_ - - Give all to love; - Obey thy heart; - Friends, kindred, days, - Estate, good fame, - Plans, credit, and the Muse-- - Nothing refuse. - - ’Tis a brave master; - Let it have scope: - Follow it utterly, - Hope beyond hope: - High and more high - It dives into noon, - With wing unspent, - Untold intent; - But it is a god, - Knows its own path, - And the outlets of the sky. - - It was never for the mean; - It requireth courage stout, - Souls above doubt, - Valour unbending: - Such ’twill reward;-- - They shall return - More than they were, - And ever ascending. - - Leave all for love; - Yet, hear me, yet, - One word more thy heart behoved, - One pulse more of firm endeavour-- - Keep thee to-day, - To-morrow, for ever, - Free as an Arab - Of thy beloved. - - Cling with life to the maid; - But when the surprise, - First vague shadow of surmise, - Flits across her bosom young, - Of a joy apart from thee, - Free be she, fancy-free; - Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem, - Nor the palest rose she flung - From her summer diadem. - - Though thou loved her as thyself, - As a self of purer clay; - Though her parting dims the day, - Stealing grace from all alive; - Heartily know, - When half-gods go - The gods arrive. - - -_670._ _Uriel_ - - It fell in the ancient periods - Which the brooding soul surveys, - Or ever the wild Time coin’d itself - Into calendar months and days. - - This was the lapse of Uriel, - Which in Paradise befell. - Once, among the Pleiads walking, - Sayd overheard the young gods talking; - And the treason, too long pent, - To his ears was evident. - The young deities discuss’d - Laws of form, and metre just, - Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams, - What subsisteth, and what seems. - One, with low tones that decide, - And doubt and reverend use defied, - With a look that solved the sphere, - And stirr’d the devils everywhere, - Gave his sentiment divine - Against the being of a line. - ‘Line in nature is not found; - Unit and universe are round; - In vain produced, all rays return; - Evil will bless, and ice will burn.’ - As Uriel spoke with piercing eye, - A shudder ran around the sky; - The stern old war-gods shook their heads; - The seraphs frown’d from myrtle-beds; - Seem’d to the holy festival - The rash word boded ill to all; - The balance-beam of Fate was bent; - The bounds of good and ill were rent; - Strong Hades could not keep his own, - But all slid to confusion. - - A sad self-knowledge withering fell - On the beauty of Uriel; - In heaven once eminent, the god - Withdrew that hour into his cloud; - Whether doom’d to long gyration - In the sea of generation, - Or by knowledge grown too bright - To hit the nerve of feebler sight. - Straightway a forgetting wind - Stole over the celestial kind, - And their lips the secret kept, - If in ashes the fire-seed slept. - But, now and then, truth-speaking things - Shamed the angels’ veiling wings; - And, shrilling from the solar course, - Or from fruit of chemic force, - Procession of a soul in matter, - Or the speeding change of water, - Or out of the good of evil born, - Came Uriel’s voice of cherub scorn, - And a blush tinged the upper sky, - And the gods shook, they knew not why. - - -_671._ _Bacchus_ - - Bring me wine, but wine which never grew - In the belly of the grape, - Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through - Under the Andes to the Cape, - Suffer’d no savour of the earth to ’scape. - - Let its grapes the morn salute - From a nocturnal root, - Which feels the acrid juice - Of Styx and Erebus; - And turns the woe of Night, - By its own craft, to a more rich delight. - - We buy ashes for bread; - We buy diluted wine; - Give me of the true, - Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl’d - Among the silver hills of heaven - Draw everlasting dew; - Wine of wine, - Blood of the world, - Form of forms, and mould of statures, - That I intoxicated, - And by the draught assimilated, - May float at pleasure through all natures; - The bird-language rightly spell, - And that which roses say so well: - - Wine that is shed - Like the torrents of the sun - Up the horizon walls, - Or like the Atlantic streams, which run - When the South Sea calls. - - Water and bread, - Food which needs no transmuting, - Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, - Wine which is already man, - Food which teach and reason can. - - Wine which Music is,-- - Music and wine are one,-- - That I, drinking this, - Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; - Kings unborn shall walk with me; - And the poor grass shall plot and plan - What it will do when it is man. - Quicken’d so, will I unlock - Every crypt of every rock. - - I thank the joyful juice - For all I know; - Winds of remembering - Of the ancient being blow, - And seeming-solid walls of use - Open and flow. - - Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; - Retrieve the loss of me and mine! - Vine for vine be antidote, - And the grape requite the lote! - Haste to cure the old despair; - Reason in Nature’s lotus drench’d-- - The memory of ages quench’d-- - Give them again to shine; - Let wine repair what this undid; - And where the infection slid, - A dazzling memory revive; - Refresh the faded tints, - Recut the agèd prints, - And write my old adventures with the pen - Which on the first day drew, - Upon the tablets blue, - The dancing Pleiads and eternal men. - - -_672._ _Brahma_ - - If the red slayer think he slays, - Or if the slain think he is slain, - They know not well the subtle ways - I keep, and pass, and turn again. - - - Far or forgot to me is near; - Shadow and sunlight are the same; - The vanish’d gods to me appear; - And one to me are shame and fame. - - They reckon ill who leave me out; - When me they fly, I am the wings; - I am the doubter and the doubt, - And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. - - The strong gods pine for my abode, - And pine in vain the sacred Seven; - But thou, meek lover of the good! - Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. - - - - -RICHARD HENRY HORNE - -1803-1884 - - -_673._ _The Plough_ - -A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE - - Above yon sombre swell of land - Thou see’st the dawn’s grave orange hue, - With one pale streak like yellow sand, - And over that a vein of blue. - - The air is cold above the woods; - All silent is the earth and sky, - Except with his own lonely moods - The blackbird holds a colloquy. - - Over the broad hill creeps a beam, - Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow; - And now ascends the nostril-stream - Of stalwart horses come to plough. - - - Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind - Your labour is for future hours: - Advance--spare not--nor look behind-- - Plough deep and straight with all your powers! - - - - -ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER - -1804-1875 - - -_674._ _King Arthur’s Waes-hael_ - - Waes-hael for knight and dame! - O merry be their dole! - Drink-hael! in Jesu’s name - We fill the tawny bowl; - But cover down the curving crest, - Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast. - - Waes-hael! yet lift no lid: - Drain ye the reeds for wine. - Drink-hael! the milk was hid - That soothed that Babe divine; - Hush’d, as this hollow channel flows, - He drew the balsam from the rose. - - Waes-hael! thus glow’d the breast - Where a God yearn’d to cling; - Drink-hael! so Jesu press’d - Life from its mystic spring; - Then hush and bend in reverent sign - And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine. - - Waes-hael! in shadowy scene - Lo! Christmas children we: - Drink-hael! behold we lean - At a far Mother’s knee; - To dream that thus her bosom smiled, - And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child. - - -_675._ _Are they not all Ministering Spirits?_ - - We see them not--we cannot hear - The music of their wing-- - Yet know we that they sojourn near, - The Angels of the spring! - - They glide along this lovely ground - When the first violet grows; - Their graceful hands have just unbound - The zone of yonder rose. - - I gather it for thy dear breast, - From stain and shadow free: - That which an Angel’s touch hath blest - Is meet, my love, for thee! - - - - -THOMAS WADE - -1805-1875 - - -_676._ _The Half-asleep_ - - O for the mighty wakening that aroused - The old-time Prophets to their missions high; - And to blind Homer’s inward sunlike eye - Show’d the heart’s universe where he caroused - Radiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused, - And sent them forth to preach divinity; - And made our Milton his great dark defy, - To the light of one immortal theme espoused! - But half asleep are those now most awake; - And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have none - Who for eternity put time at stake, - And hold a constant course as doth the sun: - We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake; - And feebly cease ere we have well begun. - - - - -FRANCIS MAHONY - -1805-1866 - - -_677._ _The Bells of Shandon_ - - With deep affection, - And recollection, - I often think of - Those Shandon bells, - Whose sounds so wild would, - In the days of childhood, - Fling around my cradle - Their magic spells. - On this I ponder - Where’er I wander, - And thus grow fonder, - Sweet Cork, of thee; - With thy bells of Shandon, - That sound so grand on - The pleasant waters - Of the River Lee. - - I’ve heard bells chiming - Full many a clime in, - Tolling sublime in - Cathedral shrine, - While at a glib rate - Brass tongues would vibrate-- - But all their music - Spoke naught like thine; - For memory, dwelling - On each proud swelling - Of the belfry knelling - Its bold notes free, - Made the bells of Shandon - Sound far more grand on - The pleasant waters - Of the River Lee. - - I’ve heard bells tolling - Old Adrian’s Mole in, - Their thunder rolling - From the Vatican, - And cymbals glorious - Swinging uproarious - In the gorgeous turrets - Of Notre Dame; - But thy sounds were sweeter - Than the dome of Peter - Flings o’er the Tiber, - Pealing solemnly-- - O, the bells of Shandon - Sound far more grand on - The pleasant waters - Of the River Lee. - - There’s a bell in Moscow, - While on tower and kiosk O! - In Saint Sophia - The Turkman gets, - And loud in air - Calls men to prayer - From the tapering summits - Of tall minarets. - Such empty phantom - I freely grant them; - But there’s an anthem - More dear to me,-- - ’Tis the bells of Shandon, - That sound so grand on - The pleasant waters - Of the River Lee. - - - - -ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING - -1806-1861 - - -_678._ _Rosalind’s Scroll_ - - I left thee last, a child at heart, - A woman scarce in years: - I come to thee, a solemn corpse - Which neither feels nor fears. - I have no breath to use in sighs; - They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes - To seal them safe from tears. - - Look on me with thine own calm look: - I meet it calm as thou. - No look of thine can change this smile, - Or break thy sinful vow: - I tell thee that my poor scorn’d heart - Is of thine earth--thine earth--a part: - It cannot vex thee now. - - I have pray’d for thee with bursting sob - When passion’s course was free; - I have pray’d for thee with silent lips - In the anguish none could see; - They whisper’d oft, ‘She sleepeth soft’-- - But I only pray’d for thee. - - Go to! I pray for thee no more: - The corpse’s tongue is still; - Its folded fingers point to heaven, - But point there stiff and chill: - No farther wrong, no farther woe - Hath licence from the sin below - Its tranquil heart to thrill. - - I charge thee, by the living’s prayer, - And the dead’s silentness, - To wring from out thy soul a cry - Which God shall hear and bless! - Lest Heaven’s own palm droop in my hand, - And pale among the saints I stand, - A saint companionless. - - -_679._ _The Deserted Garden_ - - I mind me in the days departed, - How often underneath the sun - With childish bounds I used to run - To a garden long deserted. - - The beds and walks were vanish’d quite; - And wheresoe’er had struck the spade, - The greenest grasses Nature laid, - To sanctify her right. - - I call’d the place my wilderness, - For no one enter’d there but I. - The sheep look’d in, the grass to espy, - And pass’d it ne’ertheless. - - The trees were interwoven wild, - And spread their boughs enough about - To keep both sheep and shepherd out, - But not a happy child. - - Adventurous joy it was for me; - I crept beneath the boughs, and found - A circle smooth of mossy ground - Beneath a poplar-tree. - - Old garden rose-trees hedged it in; - Bedropt with roses waxen-white, - Well satisfied with dew and light, - And careless to be seen. - - Long years ago, it might befall, - When all the garden flowers were trim, - The grave old gardener prided him - On these the most of all. - - Some Lady, stately overmuch, - Here moving with a silken noise, - Has blush’d beside them at the voice - That liken’d her to such. - - Or these, to make a diadem, - She often may have pluck’d and twined; - Half-smiling as it came to mind, - That few would look at _them_. - - O, little thought that Lady proud, - A child would watch her fair white rose, - When buried lay her whiter brows, - And silk was changed for shroud!-- - - Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns - For men unlearn’d and simple phrase) - A child would bring it all its praise, - By creeping through the thorns! - - To me upon my low moss seat, - Though never a dream the roses sent - Of science or love’s compliment, - I ween they smelt as sweet. - - It did not move my grief to see - The trace of human step departed: - Because the garden was deserted, - The blither place for me! - - Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken - Hath childhood ’twixt the sun and sward; - We draw the moral afterward-- - We feel the gladness then. - - And gladdest hours for me did glide - In silence at the rose-tree wall: - A thrush made gladness musical - Upon the other side. - - Nor he nor I did e’er incline - To peck or pluck the blossoms white:-- - How should I know but that they might - Lead lives as glad as mine? - - To make my hermit-home complete, - I brought clear water from the spring - Praised in its own low murmuring, - And cresses glossy wet. - - And so, I thought, my likeness grew - (Without the melancholy tale) - To ‘gentle hermit of the dale,’ - And Angelina too. - - For oft I read within my nook - Such minstrel stories; till the breeze - Made sounds poetic in the trees, - And then I shut the book. - - If I shut this wherein I write, - I hear no more the wind athwart - Those trees, nor feel that childish heart - Delighting in delight. - - My childhood from my life is parted, - My footstep from the moss which drew - Its fairy circle round: anew - The garden is deserted. - - Another thrush may there rehearse - The madrigals which sweetest are; - No more for me!--myself afar - Do sing a sadder verse. - - Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay - In that child’s-nest so greenly wrought, - I laugh’d unto myself and thought, - ‘The time will pass away.’ - - And still I laugh’d, and did not fear - But that, whene’er was pass’d away - The childish time, some happier play - My womanhood would cheer. - - I knew the time would pass away; - And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, - Dear God, how seldom, if at all, - Did I look up to pray! - - The time is past: and now that grows - The cypress high among the trees, - And I behold white sepulchres - As well as the white rose,-- - - When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, - And I have learnt to lift my face, - Reminded how earth’s greenest place - The colour draws from heaven,-- - - It something saith for earthly pain, - But more for heavenly promise free, - That I who was, would shrink to be - That happy child again. - - -_680._ _Consolation_ - - All are not taken; there are left behind - Living Belovèds, tender looks to bring - And make the daylight still a happy thing, - And tender voices, to make soft the wind: - But if it were not so--if I could find - No love in all this world for comforting, - Nor any path but hollowly did ring - Where ‘dust to dust’ the love from life disjoin’d, - And if, before those sepulchres unmoving - I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb - Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) - Crying ‘Where are ye, O my loved and loving?’-- - I know a voice would sound, ‘Daughter, I AM. - Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?’ - - -_681._ _Grief_ - - I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; - That only men incredulous of despair, - Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air - Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access - Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness - In souls as countries lieth silent-bare - Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare - Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express - Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death-- - Most like a monumental statue set - In everlasting watch and moveless woe - Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. - Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet: - If it could weep, it could arise and go. - - -_Sonnets from the Portuguese_ - - -_682._ _i_ - - I thought once how Theocritus had sung - Of the sweet years, the dear and wish’d-for years, - Who each one in a gracious hand appears - To bear a gift for mortals old or young: - And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, - I saw in gradual vision through my tears - The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years-- - Those of my own life, who by turns had flung - A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware, - So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move - Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; - And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, - ‘Guess now who holds thee?’--‘Death’ I said. But there - The silver answer rang--'Not Death, but Love.’ - - -_683._ _ii_ - - Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! - Unlike our uses and our destinies. - Our ministering two angels look surprise - On one another, as they strike athwart - Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art - A guest for queens to social pageantries, - With gages from a hundred brighter eyes - Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part - Of chief musician. What hast thou to do - With looking from the lattice-lights at me-- - A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through - The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? - The chrism is on thine head--on mine the dew-- - And Death must dig the level where these agree. - - -_684._ _iii_ - - Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand - Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore - Alone upon the threshold of my door - Of individual life I shall command - The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand - Serenely in the sunshine as before, - Without the sense of that which I forbore-- - Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land - Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine - With pulses that beat double. What I do - And what I dream include thee, as the wine - Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue - God for myself, He hears that name of thine, - And sees within my eyes the tears of two. - - -_685._ _iv_ - - If thou must love me, let it be for naught - Except for love’s sake only. Do not say, - ‘I love her for her smile--her look--her way - Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought - That falls in well with mine, and certes brought - A sense of pleasant ease on such a day-- - For these things in themselves, Belovèd, may - Be changed, or change for thee--and love, so wrought, - May be unwrought so. Neither love me for - Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry: - A creature might forget to weep, who bore - Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! - But love me for love’s sake, that evermore - Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity. - - -_686._ _v_ - - When our two souls stand up erect and strong, - Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, - Until the lengthening wings break into fire - At either curving point,--what bitter wrong - Can the earth do us, that we should not long - Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher, - The angels would press on us, and aspire - To drop some golden orb of perfect song - Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay - Rather on earth, Belovèd--where the unfit - Contrarious moods of men recoil away - And isolate pure spirits, and permit - A place to stand and love in for a day, - With darkness and the death-hour rounding it. - - -_687._ _A Musical Instrument_ - - What was he doing, the great god Pan, - Down in the reeds by the river? - Spreading ruin and scattering ban, - Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, - And breaking the golden lilies afloat - With the dragon-fly on the river. - - He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, - From the deep cool bed of the river; - The limpid water turbidly ran, - And the broken lilies a-dying lay, - And the dragon-fly had fled away, - Ere he brought it out of the river. - - High on the shore sat the great god Pan, - While turbidly flow’d the river; - And hack’d and hew’d as a great god can - With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, - Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed - To prove it fresh from the river. - - He cut it short, did the great god Pan - (How tall it stood in the river!), - Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, - Steadily from the outside ring, - And notch’d the poor dry empty thing - In holes, as he sat by the river. - - ‘This is the way’ laugh’d the great god Pan - (Laugh’d while he sat by the river), - ‘The only way, since gods began - To make sweet music, they could succeed.’ - Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, - He blew in power by the river. - - - Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! - Piercing sweet by the river! - Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! - The sun on the hill forgot to die, - And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly - Came back to dream on the river. - - Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, - To laugh as he sits by the river, - Making a poet out of a man: - The true gods sigh for the cost and pain-- - For the reed which grows nevermore again - As a reed with the reeds of the river. - - - - -FREDERICK TENNYSON - -1807-1898 - - -_688._ _The Holy Tide_ - - The days are sad, it is the Holy tide. - The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; - So let the lifeless Hours be glorified - With deathless thoughts and echo’d in sweet song: - And through the sunset of this purple cup - They will resume the roses of their prime, - And the old Dead will hear us and wake up, - Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime! - - The days are sad, it is the Holy tide: - Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown, - Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side, - Red as the drops upon His thorny crown; - No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth - Fright off the solemn Muse,--tell sweet old tales, - Sing songs as we sit brooding o’er the hearth, - Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails. - - - - -HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW - -1807-1882 - - -_689._ _My Lost Youth_ - - Often I think of the beautiful town - That is seated by the sea; - Often in thought go up and down - The pleasant streets of that dear old town, - And my youth comes back to me. - And a verse of a Lapland song - Is haunting my memory still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, - And catch, in sudden gleams, - The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, - And islands that were the Hesperides - Of all my boyish dreams. - And the burden of that old song, - It murmurs and whispers still: - ‘A Boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - I remember the black wharves and the slips, - And the sea-tides tossing free; - And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, - And the beauty and mystery of the ships, - And the magic of the sea. - And the voice of that wayward song - Is singing and saying still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - - I remember the bulwarks by the shore, - And the fort upon the hill; - The sunrise gun with its hollow roar, - The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, - And the bugle wild and shrill. - And the music of that old song - Throbs in my memory still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - I remember the sea-fight far away, - How it thunder’d o’er the tide! - And the dead sea-captains, as they lay - In their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bay - Where they in battle died. - And the sound of that mournful song - Goes through me with a thrill: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - I can see the breezy dome of groves, - The shadows of Deering’s woods; - And the friendships old and the early loves - Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves - In quiet neighbourhoods. - And the verse of that sweet old song, - It flutters and murmurs still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - I remember the gleams and glooms that dart - Across the schoolboy’s brain; - The song and the silence in the heart, - That in part are prophecies, and in part - Are longings wild and vain. - And the voice of that fitful song - Sings on, and is never still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - There are things of which I may not speak; - There are dreams that cannot die; - There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, - And bring a pallor into the cheek, - And a mist before the eye. - And the words of that fatal song - Come over me like a chill: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - Strange to me now are the forms I meet - When I visit the dear old town; - But the native air is pure and sweet, - And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, - As they balance up and down, - Are singing the beautiful song, - Are sighing and whispering still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair, - And with joy that is almost pain - My heart goes back to wander there, - And among the dreams of the days that were - I find my lost youth again. - And the strange and beautiful song, - The groves are repeating it still: - ‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’ - - - - -JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER - -1807-1892 - - -_690._ _Vesta_ - - O Christ of God! whose life and death - Our own have reconciled, - Most quietly, most tenderly - Take home thy star-named child! - - Thy grace is in her patient eyes, - Thy words are on her tongue; - The very silence round her seems - As if the angels sung. - - Her smile is as a listening child’s - Who hears its mother’s call; - The lilies of Thy perfect peace - About her pillow fall. - - She leans from out our clinging arms - To rest herself in Thine; - Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can we - Our well-beloved resign. - - O, less for her than for ourselves - We bow our heads and pray; - Her setting star, like Bethlehem’s, - To Thee shall point the way! - - - - -HELEN SELINA, LADY DUFFERIN - -1807-1867 - - -_691._ _Lament of the Irish Emigrant_ - - I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, - Where we sat side by side - On a bright May mornin’ long ago, - When first you were my bride; - The corn was springin’ fresh and green, - And the lark sang loud and high-- - And the red was on your lip, Mary, - And the love-light in your eye. - - The place is little changed, Mary, - The day is bright as then, - The lark’s loud song is in my ear, - And the corn is green again; - But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, - And your breath warm on my cheek, - And I still keep list’ning for the words - You never more will speak. - - ’Tis but a step down yonder lane, - And the little church stands near, - The church where we were wed, Mary, - I see the spire from here. - But the graveyard lies between, Mary, - And my step might break your rest-- - For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep, - With your baby on your breast. - - - I’m very lonely now, Mary, - For the poor make no new friends, - But, O, they love the better still, - The few our Father sends! - And you were all _I_ had, Mary, - My blessin’ and my pride: - There’s nothin’ left to care for now, - Since my poor Mary died. - - Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, - That still kept hoping on, - When the trust in God had left my soul, - And my arm’s young strength was gone: - There was comfort ever on your lip, - And the kind look on your brow-- - I bless you, Mary, for that same, - Though you cannot hear me now. - - I thank you for the patient smile - When your heart was fit to break, - When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there, - And you hid it, for my sake! - I bless you for the pleasant word, - When your heart was sad and sore-- - O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, - Where grief can’t reach you more! - - I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, - My Mary--kind and true! - But I’ll not forget you, darling! - In the land I’m goin’ to; - They say there’s bread and work for all, - And the sun shines always there-- - But I’ll not forget old Ireland, - Were it fifty times as fair! - - And often in those grand old woods - I’ll sit, and shut my eyes, - And my heart will travel back again - To the place where Mary lies; - And I’ll think I see the little stile - Where we sat side by side: - And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn, - When first you were my bride. - - - - -CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON - -1808-1876 - - -_692._ _I do not love Thee_ - - I do not love thee!--no! I do not love thee! - And yet when thou art absent I am sad; - And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, - Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad. - - I do not love thee!--yet, I know not why, - Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me: - And often in my solitude I sigh - That those I do love are not more like thee! - - I do not love thee!--yet, when thou art gone, - I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) - Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone - Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear. - - - I do not love thee!--yet thy speaking eyes, - With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, - Between me and the midnight heaven arise, - Oftener than any eyes I ever knew. - - I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! - Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; - And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, - Because they see me gazing where thou art. - - - - -CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER - -1808-1879 - - -_693._ _Letty’s Globe_ - - When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year, - And her young artless words began to flow, - One day we gave the child a colour’d sphere - Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know, - By tint and outline, all its sea and land. - She patted all the world; old empires peep’d - Between her baby fingers; her soft hand - Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap’d, - And laugh’d and prattled in her world-wide bliss; - But when we turn’d her sweet unlearnèd eye - On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry-- - ‘Oh! yes, I see it, Letty’s home is there!’ - And while she hid all England with a kiss, - Bright over Europe fell her golden hair. - - - - -EDGAR ALLAN POE - -1809-1849 - - -_694._ _To Helen_ - - Helen, thy beauty is to me - Like those Nicèan barks of yore - That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, - The weary way-worn wanderer bore - To his own native shore. - - On desperate seas long wont to roam, - Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, - Thy Naiad airs have brought me home - To the glory that was Greece, - And the grandeur that was Rome. - - Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche - How statue-like I see thee stand, - The agate lamp within thy hand, - Ah! Psyche, from the regions which - Are holy land! - - -_695._ _Annabel Lee_ - - It was many and many a year ago, - In a kingdom by the sea, - That a maiden there lived whom you may know - By the name of Annabel Lee. - And this maiden she lived with no other thought - Than to love and be loved by me. - - I was a child and she was a child - In this kingdom by the sea: - But we loved with a love that was more than love-- - I and my Annabel Lee, - With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven - Coveted her and me. - - And this was the reason that, long ago, - In this kingdom by the sea, - A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling - My beautiful Annabel Lee, - So that her high-born kinsmen came - And bore her away from me, - To shut her up in a sepulchre - In this kingdom by the sea. - - The angels, not half so happy in heaven, - Went envying her and me-- - Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, - In this kingdom by the sea) - That the wind came out of the cloud one night, - Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. - - But our love it was stronger by far than the love - Of those who were older than we-- - Of many far wiser than we-- - And neither the angels in heaven above, - Nor the demons down under the sea, - Can ever dissever my soul from the soul - Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: - - For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams - Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; - And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes - Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; - And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side - Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, - In the sepulchre there by the sea, - In her tomb by the sounding sea. - - -_696._ _For Annie_ - - Thank Heaven! the crisis-- - The danger is past, - And the lingering illness - Is over at last-- - And the fever called ‘Living’ - Is conquer’d at last. - - Sadly, I know - I am shorn of my strength, - And no muscle I move - As I lie at full length: - But no matter--I feel - I am better at length. - - And I rest so composedly - Now, in my bed, - That any beholder - Might fancy me dead-- - Might start at beholding me, - Thinking me dead. - - The moaning and groaning, - The sighing and sobbing, - Are quieted now, - With that horrible throbbing - At heart--ah, that horrible, - Horrible throbbing! - - The sickness--the nausea-- - The pitiless pain-- - Have ceased, with the fever - That madden’d my brain-- - With the fever called ‘Living’ - That burn’d in my brain. - - And O! of all tortures - That torture the worst - Has abated--the terrible - Torture of thirst - For the naphthaline river - Of Passion accurst-- - I have drunk of a water - That quenches all thirst. - - --Of a water that flows, - With a lullaby sound, - From a spring but a very few - Feet under ground-- - From a cavern not very far - Down under ground. - - And ah! let it never - Be foolishly said - That my room it is gloomy, - And narrow my bed; - For man never slept - In a different bed-- - And, to _sleep_, you must slumber - In just such a bed. - - My tantalized spirit - Here blandly reposes, - Forgetting, or never - Regretting its roses-- - Its old agitations - Of myrtles and roses: - - For now, while so quietly - Lying, it fancies - A holier odour - About it, of pansies-- - A rosemary odour, - Commingled with pansies-- - With rue and the beautiful - Puritan pansies. - - And so it lies happily, - Bathing in many - A dream of the truth - And the beauty of Annie-- - Drown’d in a bath - Of the tresses of Annie. - - She tenderly kiss’d me, - She fondly caress’d, - And then I fell gently - To sleep on her breast-- - Deeply to sleep - From the heaven of her breast. - - When the light was extinguish’d, - She cover’d me warm, - And she pray’d to the angels - To keep me from harm-- - To the queen of the angels - To shield me from harm. - - And I lie so composedly, - Now, in my bed - (Knowing her love), - That you fancy me dead-- - And I rest so contentedly, - Now, in my bed - (With her love at my breast), - That you fancy me dead-- - That you shudder to look at me, - Thinking me dead. - - But my heart it is brighter - Than all of the many - Stars in the sky, - For it sparkles with Annie-- - It glows with the light - Of the love of my Annie-- - With the thought of the light - Of the eyes of my Annie. - - - - -EDWARD FITZGERALD - -1809-1883 - - -_697._ _Old Song_ - - ’Tis a dull sight - To see the year dying, - When winter winds - Set the yellow wood sighing: - Sighing, O sighing! - - When such a time cometh - I do retire - Into an old room - Beside a bright fire: - O, pile a bright fire! - - And there I sit - Reading old things, - Of knights and lorn damsels, - While the wind sings-- - O, drearily sings! - - I never look out - Nor attend to the blast; - For all to be seen - Is the leaves falling fast: - Falling, falling! - - But close at the hearth, - Like a cricket, sit I, - Reading of summer - And chivalry-- - Gallant chivalry! - - Then with an old friend - I talk of our youth-- - How ’twas gladsome, but often - Foolish, forsooth: - But gladsome, gladsome! - - Or, to get merry, - We sing some old rhyme - That made the wood ring again - In summer time-- - Sweet summer time! - - Then go we smoking, - Silent and snug: - Naught passes between us, - Save a brown jug-- - Sometimes! - - And sometimes a tear - Will rise in each eye, - Seeing the two old friends - So merrily-- - So merrily! - - And ere to bed - Go we, go we, - Down on the ashes - We kneel on the knee, - Praying together! - - Thus, then, live I - Till, ’mid all the gloom, - By Heaven! the bold sun - Is with me in the room - Shining, shining! - - Then the clouds part, - Swallows soaring between; - The spring is alive, - And the meadows are green! - - I jump up like mad, - Break the old pipe in twain, - And away to the meadows, - The meadows again! - - -_698._ _From Omar Khayyám_ - - -I - - A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, - A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou - Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- - O. Wilderness were Paradise enow! - - Some for the Glories of This World; and some - Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come; - Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, - Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! - - Look to the blowing Rose about us--‘Lo, - Laughing,’ she says, ‘into the world I blow, - At once the silken tassel of my Purse - Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.’ - - And those who husbanded the Golden grain - And those who flung it to the winds like Rain - Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d - As, buried once, Men want dug up again. - - -II - - Think, in this batter’d Caravanserai - Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, - How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp - Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. - - They say the Lion and the Lizard keep - The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep: - And Bahrám, that great Hunter--the wild Ass - Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep. - - I sometimes think that never blows so red - The Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled; - That every Hyacinth the Garden wears - Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head. - - And this reviving Herb whose tender Green - Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean-- - Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows - From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! - - Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clears - TO-DAY of past Regrets and Future Fears: - _To-morrow!_--Why, To-morrow I may be - Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years. - - For some we loved, the loveliest and the best - That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, - Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, - And one by one crept silently to rest. - - And we, that now make merry in the Room - They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom, - Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth - Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom? - - Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, - Before we too into the Dust descend; - Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie, - Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End! - - -III - - Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, - And wash my Body whence the Life has died, - And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, - By some not unfrequented Garden-side.... - - Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-- - How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; - How oft hereafter rising look for us - Through this same Garden--and for _one_ in vain! - - And when like her, O Sákí, you shall pass - Among the Guests star-scatter’d on the Grass, - And in your joyous errand reach the spot - Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass! - - - - -ALFRED TENNYSON, LORD TENNYSON - -1809-1892 - - -_699._ _Mariana_ - - With blackest moss the flower-plots - Were thickly crusted, one and all: - The rusted nails fell from the knots - That held the pear to the gable-wall. - The broken sheds look’d sad and strange: - Unlifted was the clinking latch; - Weeded and worn the ancient thatch - Upon the lonely moated grange. - She only said, ‘My life is dreary, - He cometh not,’ she said; - She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary, - I would that I were dead!’ - - Her tears fell with the dews at even; - Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; - She could not look on the sweet heaven, - Either at morn or eventide. - After the flitting of the bats, - When thickest dark did trance the sky, - She drew her casement-curtain by, - And glanced athwart the glooming flats. - She only said, ‘The night is dreary, - He cometh not,’ she said; - She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary, - I would that I were dead!’ - - Upon the middle of the night, - Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: - The cock sung out an hour ere light: - From the dark fen the oxen’s low - Came to her: without hope of change, - In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn, - Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn - About the lonely moated grange. - She only said, ‘The day is dreary, - He cometh not,’ she said; - She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary, - I would that I were dead!’ - - About a stone-cast from the wall - A sluice with blacken’d waters slept, - And o’er it many, round and small, - The cluster’d marish-mosses crept. - Hard by a poplar shook alway, - All silver-green with gnarlèd bark: - For leagues no other tree did mark - The level waste, the rounding gray. - She only said, ‘My life is dreary, - He cometh not,’ she said; - She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary, - I would that I were dead!’ - - And ever when the moon was low, - And the shrill winds were up and away, - In the white curtain, to and fro, - She saw the gusty shadow sway. - But when the moon was very low, - And wild winds bound within their cell, - The shadow of the poplar fell - Upon her bed, across her brow. - She only said, ‘The night is dreary, - He cometh not,’ she said; - She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary, - I would that I were dead!’ - - All day within the dreamy house, - The doors upon their hinges creak’d; - The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse - Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d, - Or from the crevice peer’d about. - Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors, - Old footsteps trod the upper floors, - Old voices call’d her from without. - She only said, ‘My life is dreary, - He cometh not,’ she said; - She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,’ - I would that I were dead!’ - - The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof, - The slow clock ticking, and the sound - Which to the wooing wind aloof - The poplar made, did all confound - Her sense; but most she loathed the hour - When the thick-moted sunbeam lay - Athwart the chambers, and the day - Was sloping toward his western bower. - Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary, - He will not come,’ she said; - She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary, - O God, that I were dead!’ - - -_700.__The Lady of Shalott_ - - -PART I - - On either side the river lie - Long fields of barley and of rye, - That clothe the wold and meet the sky; - And thro’ the field the road runs by - To many-tower’d Camelot; - And up and down the people go, - Gazing where the lilies blow - Round an island there below, - The island of Shalott. - - Willows whiten, aspens quiver, - Little breezes dusk and shiver - Thro’ the wave that runs for ever - By the island in the river - Flowing down to Camelot. - Four gray walls, and four gray towers, - Overlook a space of flowers, - And the silent isle imbowers - The Lady of Shalott. - - By the margin, willow-veil’d, - Slide the heavy barges trail’d - By slow horses; and unhail’d - The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d - Skimming down to Camelot: - But who hath seen her wave her hand? - Or at the casement seen her stand? - Or is she known in all the land, - The Lady of Shalott? - - Only reapers, reaping early - In among the bearded barley, - Hear a song that echoes cheerly - From the river winding clearly, - Down to tower’d Camelot: - And by the moon the reaper weary, - Piling sheaves in uplands airy, - Listening, whispers ‘’Tis the fairy - Lady of Shalott.’ - - -PART II - - There she weaves by night and day - A magic web with colours gay. - She has heard a whisper say, - A curse is on her if she stay - To look down to Camelot. - She knows not what the curse may be, - And so she weaveth steadily, - And little other care hath she, - The Lady of Shalott. - - And moving thro’ a mirror clear - That hangs before her all the year, - Shadows of the world appear. - There she sees the highway near - Winding down to Camelot: - There the river eddy whirls, - And there the surly village-churls, - And the red cloaks of market girls, - Pass onward from Shalott. - - Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, - An abbot on an ambling pad, - Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, - Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad, - Goes by to tower’d Camelot; - And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue - The knights come riding two and two: - She hath no loyal knight and true, - The Lady of Shalott. - - But in her web she still delights - To weave the mirror’s magic sights, - For often thro’ the silent nights - A funeral, with plumes and lights, - And music, went to Camelot: - Or when the moon was overhead, - Came two young lovers lately wed; - ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said - The Lady of Shalott. - - -PART III - - A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, - He rode between the barley-sheaves, - The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves, - And flamed upon the brazen greaves - Of bold Sir Lancelot. - A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d - To a lady in his shield, - That sparkled on the yellow field, - Beside remote Shalott. - - The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, - Like to some branch of stars we see - Hung in the golden Galaxy. - The bridle bells rang merrily - As he rode down to Camelot; - And from his blazon’d baldric slung - A mighty silver bugle hung, - And as he rode his armour rung, - Beside remote Shalott. - - All in the blue unclouded weather - Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather, - The helmet and the helmet-feather - Burn’d like one burning flame together, - As he rode down to Camelot. - As often thro’ the purple night, - Below the starry clusters bright, - Some bearded meteor, trailing light, - Moves over still Shalott. - - His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d; - On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode; - From underneath his helmet flow’d - His coal-black curls as on he rode, - As he rode down to Camelot. - From the bank and from the river - He flash’d into the crystal mirror, - ‘Tirra lirra,’ by the river - Sang Sir Lancelot. - - She left the web, she left the loom, - She made three paces thro’ the room, - She saw the water-lily bloom, - She saw the helmet and the plume, - She look’d down to Camelot. - Out flew the web and floated wide; - The mirror crack’d from side to side; - ‘The curse is come upon me!’ cried - The Lady of Shalott. - - -PART IV - - In the stormy east-wind straining, - The pale yellow woods were waning, - The broad stream in his banks complaining, - Heavily the low sky raining - Over tower’d Camelot; - Down she came and found a boat - Beneath a willow left afloat, - And round about the prow she wrote - _The Lady of Shalott_. - - And down the river’s dim expanse-- - Like some bold seer in a trance, - Seeing all his own mischance-- - With a glassy countenance - Did she look to Camelot. - And at the closing of the day - She loosed the chain, and down she lay; - The broad stream bore her far away, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Lying, robed in snowy white - That loosely flew to left and right-- - The leaves upon her falling light-- - Thro’ the noises of the night - She floated down to Camelot; - And as the boat-head wound along - The willowy hills and fields among, - They heard her singing her last song, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Heard a carol, mournful, holy, - Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, - Till her blood was frozen slowly, - And her eyes were darkened wholly, - Turn’d to tower’d Camelot; - For ere she reach’d upon the tide - The first house by the water-side, - Singing in her song she died, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Under tower and balcony, - By garden-wall and gallery, - A gleaming shape she floated by, - Dead-pale between the houses high, - Silent into Camelot. - Out upon the wharfs they came, - Knight and burgher, lord and dame, - And round the prow they read her name, - _The Lady of Shalott_. - - Who is this? and what is here? - And in the lighted palace near - Died the sound of royal cheer; - And they cross’d themselves for fear, - All the knights at Camelot: - But Lancelot mused a little space; - He said, ‘She has a lovely face; - God in His mercy lend her grace, - The Lady of Shalott.’ - - -_701._ _The Miller’s Daughter_ - - It is the miller’s daughter, - And she is grown so dear, so dear, - That I would be the jewel - That trembles in her ear: - For hid in ringlets day and night, - I’d touch her neck so warm and white. - - And I would be the girdle - About her dainty dainty waist, - And her heart would beat against me, - In sorrow and in rest: - And I should know if it beat right, - I’d clasp it round so close and tight. - - And I would be the necklace, - And all day long to fall and rise - Upon her balmy bosom, - With her laughter or her sighs: - And I would lie so light, so light, - I scarce should be unclasp’d at night. - - -_702._ _Song of the Lotos-Eaters_ - - There is sweet music here that softer falls - Than petals from blown roses on the grass, - Or night-dews on still waters between walls - Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; - Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, - Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; - Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. - Here are cool mosses deep, - And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, - And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, - And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. - - Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, - And utterly consumed with sharp distress, - While all things else have rest from weariness? - All things have rest: why should we toil alone, - We only toil, who are the first of things, - And make perpetual moan, - Still from one sorrow to another thrown: - Nor ever fold our wings, - And cease from wanderings, - Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; - Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, - ‘There is no joy but calm!’-- - Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? - - - Lo! in the middle of the wood, - The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud - With winds upon the branch, and there - Grows green and broad, and takes no care, - Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon - Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow - Falls, and floats adown the air. - Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, - The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, - Drops in a silent autumn night. - All its allotted length of days, - The flower ripens in its place, - Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, - Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. - - Hateful is the dark-blue sky, - Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. - Death is the end of life; ah, why - Should life all labour be? - Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, - And in a little while our lips are dumb. - Let us alone. What is it that will last? - All things are taken from us, and become - Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. - Let us alone. What pleasure can we have - To war with evil? Is there any peace - In ever climbing up the climbing wave? - All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave - In silence; ripen, fall and cease: - Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. - - How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, - With half-shut eyes ever to seem - Falling asleep in a half-dream! - To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, - Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; - To hear each other’s whisper’d speech; - Eating the Lotos day by day, - To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, - And tender curving lines of creamy spray; - To lend our hearts and spirits wholly - To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; - To muse and brood and live again in memory, - With those old faces of our infancy - Heap’d over with a mound of grass, - Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! - - Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, - And dear the last embraces of our wives - And their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change; - For surely now our household hearths are cold: - Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: - And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. - Or else the island princes over-bold - Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings - Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy, - And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. - Is there confusion in the little isle? - Let what is broken so remain. - The Gods are hard to reconcile: - ’Tis hard to settle order once again. - There _is_ confusion worse than death, - Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, - Long labour unto agèd breath, - Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars - And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. - But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, - How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) - With half-dropt eyelids still, - Beneath a heaven dark and holy, - To watch the long bright river drawing slowly - His waters from the purple hill-- - To hear the dewy echoes calling - From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twinèd vine-- - To watch the emerald-colour’d water falling - Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine! - Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, - Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine. - - The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: - The Lotos blows by every winding creek: - All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: - Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone - Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. - We have had enough of action, and of motion we, - Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, - Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. - Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, - In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined - On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. - For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d - Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d - Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: - Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, - Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, - Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. - But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song - Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, - Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; - Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, - Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, - Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; - Till they perish and they suffer--some, ’tis whisper’d--down in hell - Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, - Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. - Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore - Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; - O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. - - -_703._ _St. Agnes’ Eve_ - - Deep on the convent-roof the snows - Are sparkling to the moon: - My breath to heaven like vapour goes: - May my soul follow soon! - The shadows of the convent-towers - Slant down the snowy sward, - Still creeping with the creeping hours - That lead me to my Lord: - Make Thou my spirit pure and clear - As are the frosty skies, - Or this first snowdrop of the year - That in my bosom lies. - - As these white robes are soil’d and dark, - To yonder shining ground; - As this pale taper’s earthly spark, - To yonder argent round; - So shows my soul before the Lamb, - My spirit before Thee; - So in mine earthly house I am, - To that I hope to be. - Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, - Thro’ all yon starlight keen, - Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, - In raiment white and clean. - - He lifts me to the golden doors; - The flashes come and go; - All heaven bursts her starry floors, - And strows her lights below, - And deepens on and up! the gates - Roll back, and far within - For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, - To make me pure of sin. - The sabbaths of Eternity, - One sabbath deep and wide-- - A light upon the shining sea-- - The Bridegroom with his bride! - - -_704._ _Blow, Bugle, blow_ - - The splendour falls on castle walls - And snowy summits old in story: - The long light shakes across the lakes, - And the wild cataract leaps in glory. - Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, - Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. - - - O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, - And thinner, clearer, farther going! - O sweet and far from cliff and scar - The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! - Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: - Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. - - O love, they die in yon rich sky, - They faint on hill or field or river: - Our echoes roll from soul to soul, - And grow for ever and for ever. - Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, - And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. - - -_705._ _Summer Night_ - - Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; - Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; - Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: - The firefly wakens: waken thou with me. - - Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, - And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. - - Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, - And all thy heart lies open unto me. - - Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves - A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. - - Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, - And slips into the bosom of the lake: - So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip - Into my bosom and be lost in me. - - -_706._ _Come down, O Maid_ - - Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: - What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). - In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? - But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease - To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, - To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; - And come, for Love is of the valley, come, - For Love is of the valley, come thou down - And find him; by the happy threshold, he, - Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, - Or red with spirted purple of the vats, - Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk - With Death and Morning on the silver horns, - Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, - Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, - That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls - To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: - But follow; let the torrent dance thee down - To find him in the valley; let the wild - Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave - The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill - Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, - That like a broken purpose waste in air: - So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales - Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth - Arise to thee; the children call, and I - Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, - Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; - Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro’ the lawn, - The moan of doves in immemorial elms, - And murmuring of innumerable bees. - - -_707._ _From ‘In Memoriam’_ - -(ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, MDCCCXXXIII) - - -I - - Fair ship, that from the Italian shore - Sailest the placid ocean-plains - With my lost Arthur’s loved remains, - Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er. - - So draw him home to those that mourn - In vain; a favourable speed - Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead - Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn. - - All night no ruder air perplex - Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright - As our pure love, thro’ early light - Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. - - Sphere all your lights around, above; - Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; - Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, - My friend, the brother of my love; - - My Arthur, whom I shall not see - Till all my widow’d race be run; - Dear as the mother to the son, - More than my brothers are to me. - - -II - - I hear the noise about thy keel; - I hear the bell struck in the night; - I see the cabin-window bright; - I see the sailor at the wheel. - - - Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife, - And travell’d men from foreign lands; - And letters unto trembling hands; - And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life. - - So bring him: we have idle dreams: - This look of quiet flatters thus - Our home-bred fancies: O to us, - The fools of habit, sweeter seems - - To rest beneath the clover sod, - That takes the sunshine and the rains, - Or where the kneeling hamlet drains - The chalice of the grapes of God; - - Than if with thee the roaring wells - Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; - And hands so often clasp’d in mine, - Should toss with tangle and with shells. - - -III - - Calm is the morn without a sound, - Calm as to suit a calmer grief, - And only thro’ the faded leaf - The chestnut pattering to the ground: - - Calm and deep peace on this high wold, - And on these dews that drench the furze, - And all the silvery gossamers - That twinkle into green and gold: - - Calm and still light on yon great plain - That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, - And crowded farms and lessening towers, - To mingle with the bounding main: - - - Calm and deep peace in this wide air, - These leaves that redden to the fall; - And in my heart, if calm at all, - If any calm, a calm despair: - - Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, - And waves that sway themselves in rest, - And dead calm in that noble breast - Which heaves but with the heaving deep. - - -IV - - To-night the winds begin to rise - And roar from yonder dropping day: - The last red leaf is whirl’d away, - The rooks are blown about the skies; - - The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d, - The cattle huddled on the lea; - And wildly dash’d on tower and tree - The sunbeam strikes along the world: - - And but for fancies, which aver - That all thy motions gently pass - Athwart a plane of molten glass, - I scarce could brook the strain and stir - - That makes the barren branches loud; - And but for fear it is not so, - The wild unrest that lives in woe - Would dote and pore on yonder cloud - - That rises upward always higher, - And onward drags a labouring breast, - And topples round the dreary west, - A looming bastion fringed with fire. - - -V - - Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze - Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer - Was as the whisper of an air - To breathe thee over lonely seas. - - For I in spirit saw thee move - Thro’ circles of the bounding sky, - Week after week: the days go by: - Come quick, thou bringest all I love. - - Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam - My blessing, like a line of light, - Is on the waters day and night, - And like a beacon guards thee home. - - So may whatever tempest mars - Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; - And balmy drops in summer dark - Slide from the bosom of the stars. - - So kind an office hath been done, - Such precious relics brought by thee; - The dust of him I shall not see - Till all my widow’d race be run. - - -VI - - Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, - Or breaking into song by fits, - Alone, alone, to where he sits, - The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot, - - Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, - I wander, often falling lame, - And looking back to whence I came, - Or on to where the pathway leads; - And crying, How changed from where it ran - Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb; - But all the lavish hills would hum - The murmur of a happy Pan: - - When each by turns was guide to each, - And Fancy light from Fancy caught, - And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought - Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech; - - And all we met was fair and good, - And all was good that Time could bring, - And all the secret of the Spring - Moved in the chambers of the blood; - - And many an old philosophy - On Argive heights divinely sang, - And round us all the thicket rang - To many a flute of Arcady. - - -VII - - How fares it with the happy dead? - For here the man is more and more; - But he forgets the days before - God shut the doorways of his head. - - The days have vanish’d, tone and tint, - And yet perhaps the hoarding sense - Gives out at times (he knows not whence) - A little flash, a mystic hint; - - And in the long harmonious years - (If Death so taste Lethean springs) - May some dim touch of earthly things - Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. - - - If such a dreamy touch should fall, - O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; - My guardian angel will speak out - In that high place, and tell thee all. - - -VIII - - The wish, that of the living whole - No life may fail beyond the grave, - Derives it not from what we have - The likest God within the soul? - - Are God and Nature then at strife, - That Nature lends such evil dreams? - So careful of the type she seems, - So careless of the single life; - - That I, considering everywhere - Her secret meaning in her deeds, - And finding that of fifty seeds - She often brings but one to bear, - - I falter where I firmly trod, - And falling with my weight of cares - Upon the great world’s altar-stairs - That slope thro’ darkness up to God, - - I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, - And gather dust and chaff, and call - To what I feel is Lord of all, - And faintly trust the larger hope. - - -IX - - ‘So careful of the type?’ but no. - From scarpèd cliff and quarried stone - She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone - I care for nothing, all shall go. - - - Thou makest thine appeal to me: - I bring to life, I bring to death: - The spirit does but mean the breath: - I know no more.’ And he, shall he, - - Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair, - Such splendid purpose in his eyes, - Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, - Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, - - Who trusted God was love indeed - And love Creation’s final law-- - Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw - With ravine, shriek’d against his creed-- - - Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, - Who battled for the True, the Just, - Be blown about the desert dust, - Or seal’d within the iron hills? - - No more? A monster then, a dream, - A discord. Dragons of the prime, - That tare each other in their slime, - Were mellow music matched with him. - - O life as futile, then as frail! - O for thy voice to soothe and bless! - What hope of answer, or redress? - Behind the veil, behind the veil. - - -X - - Unwatch’d, the garden bough shall sway, - The tender blossom flutter down; - Unloved, that beech will gather brown, - This maple burn itself away; - Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, - Ray round with flames her disk of seed, - And many a rose-carnation feed - With summer spice the humming air; - - Unloved, by many a sandy bar, - The brook shall babble down the plain, - At noon or when the lesser wain - Is twisting round the polar star; - - Uncared for, gird the windy grove, - And flood the haunts of hern and crake; - Or into silver arrows break - The sailing moon in creek and cove; - - Till from the garden and the wild - A fresh association blow, - And year by year the landscape grow - Familiar to the stranger’s child; - - As year by year the labourer tills - His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; - And year by year our memory fades - From all the circle of the hills. - - -XI - - Now fades the last long streak of snow, - Now burgeons every maze of quick - About the flowering squares, and thick - By ashen roots the violets blow. - - Now rings the woodland loud and long, - The distance takes a lovelier hue, - And drown’d in yonder living blue - The lark becomes a sightless song. - - - Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, - The flocks are whiter down the vale, - And milkier every milky sail - On winding stream or distant sea; - - Where now the seamew pipes, or dives - In yonder greening gleam, and fly - The happy birds, that change their sky - To build and brood; that live their lives - - From land to land; and in my breast - Spring wakens too; and my regret - Becomes an April violet, - And buds and blossoms like the rest. - - -XII - - Love is and was my Lord and King, - And in his presence I attend - To hear the tidings of my friend, - Which every hour his couriers bring. - - Love is and was my King and Lord, - And will be, tho’ as yet I keep - Within his court on earth, and sleep - Encompass’d by his faithful guard, - - And hear at times a sentinel - Who moves about from place to place, - And whispers to the worlds of space, - In the deep night, that all is well. - - -_708._ _Maud_ - - Come into the garden, Maud, - For the black bat, Night, has flown, - Come into the garden, Maud, - I am here at the gate alone; - And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, - And the musk of the roses blown. - - For a breeze of morning moves, - And the planet of Love is on high, - Beginning to faint in the light that she loves - On a bed of daffodil sky, - To faint in the light of the sun she loves, - To faint in his light, and to die. - - All night have the roses heard - The flute, violin, bassoon; - All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d - To the dancers dancing in tune; - Till a silence fell with the waking bird, - And a hush with the setting moon. - - I said to the lily, ‘There is but one - With whom she has heart to be gay. - When will the dancers leave her alone? - She is weary of dance and play.’ - Now half to the setting moon are gone, - And half to the rising day; - Low on the sand and loud on the stone - The last wheel echoes away. - - I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes - In babble and revel and wine. - - - O young lord-lover, what sighs are those - For one that will never be thine? - But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose, - ‘For ever and ever, mine.’ - - And the soul of the rose went into my blood, - As the music clash’d in the hall; - And long by the garden lake I stood, - For I heard your rivulet fall - From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, - Our wood, that is dearer than all; - - From the meadow your walks have left so sweet - That whenever a March-wind sighs - He sets the jewel-print of your feet - In violets blue as your eyes, - To the woody hollows in which we meet - And the valleys of Paradise. - - The slender acacia would not shake - One long milk-bloom on the tree; - The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, - As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; - But the rose was awake all night for your sake, - Knowing your promise to me; - The lilies and roses were all awake, - They sigh’d for the dawn and thee. - - Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, - Come hither, the dances are done, - In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, - Queen lily and rose in one; - Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. - To the flowers, and be their sun. - - - There has fallen a splendid tear - From the passion-flower at the gate. - She is coming, my dove, my dear; - She is coming, my life, my fate; - The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’ - And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late,’ - The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’ - And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’ - - She is coming, my own, my sweet; - Were it ever so airy a tread, - My heart would hear her and beat, - Were it earth in an earthy bed; - My dust would hear her and beat, - Had I lain for a century dead; - Would start and tremble under her feet, - And blossom in purple and red. - - -_709._ _O that ’twere possible_ - - O that ’twere possible - After long grief and pain - To find the arms of my true love - Round me once again!... - - A shadow flits before me, - Not thou, but like to thee: - Ah, Christ! that it were possible - For one short hour to see - The souls we loved, that they might tell us - What and where they be! - - - - -RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON - -1809-1885 - - -_710._ _Shadows_ - - They seem’d, to those who saw them meet, - The casual friends of every day; - Her smile was undisturb’d and sweet, - His courtesy was free and gay. - - But yet if one the other’s name - In some unguarded moment heard, - The heart you thought so calm and tame - Would struggle like a captured bird: - - And letters of mere formal phrase - Were blister’d with repeated tears,-- - And this was not the work of days, - But had gone on for years and years! - - Alas, that love was not too strong - For maiden shame and manly pride! - Alas, that they delay’d so long - The goal of mutual bliss beside! - - Yet what no chance could then reveal, - And neither would be first to own, - Let fate and courage now conceal, - When truth could bring remorse alone. - - - - -HENRY ALFORD - -1810-1871 - - -_711._ _The Bride_ - - ‘Rise,’ said the Master, ‘come unto the feast.’ - She heard the call and rose with willing feet; - But thinking it not otherwise than meet - For such a bidding to put on her best, - She is gone from us for a few short hours - Into her bridal closet, there to wait - For the unfolding of the palace gate - That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. - We have not seen her yet, though we have been - Full often to her chamber door, and oft - Have listen’d underneath the postern green, - And laid fresh flowers, and whisper’d short and soft. - But she hath made no answer, and the day - From the clear west is fading fast away. - - - - -SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON - -1810-1886 - - -_712._ _Cean Dubh Deelish_ - - Put your head, darling, darling, darling, - Your darling black head my heart above; - O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, - Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? - - O many and many a young girl for me is pining. - Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, - For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows; - But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee! - - _712._ _Cean dubh deelish_] darling black head. - - Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, - Your darling black head my heart above; - O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, - Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love? - - -_713._ _Cashel of Munster_ - -FROM THE IRISH - - I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array. - And I’d wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray; - My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away - In Cashel town, tho’ the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day! - - O fair maid, remember the green hill-side, - Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide; - Time now has worn me; my locks are turn’d to gray; - The year is scarce and I am poor--but send me not, love, away! - - O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl; - O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl; - Marry me and prove me, and say soon you will - That noble blood is written on my right side still. - - My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white; - No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight; - But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho’ I be and lone, - O, I’d take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone! - - O my girl, I can see ’tis in trouble you are; - And O my girl, I see ’tis your people’s reproach you bear! - --_I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,_ - _And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!_ - - -_714._ _The Fair Hills of Ireland_ - -FROM THE IRISH - - A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, - _Uileacan dubh O!_ - Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; - _Uileacan dubh O!_ - There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, - And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d, - There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand, - On the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee-- - _Uileacan dubh O!_ - Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; - _Uileacan dubh O!_ - And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, - Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, - And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, - For the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, - _Uileacan dubh O!_ - The butter and the cream do wondrously abound; - _Uileacan dubh O!_ - The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, - And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland, - And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forests grand, - On the fair hills of holy Ireland. - - - - -ROBERT BROWNING - -1812-1889 - - -_715._ _Song from ‘Paracelsus’_ - - Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes - Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, - Smear’d with dull nard an Indian wipes - From out her hair: such balsam falls - Down sea-side mountain pedestals, - From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, - Spent with the vast and howling main, - To treasure half their island-gain. - - And strew faint sweetness from some old - Egyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroud - Which breaks to dust when once unroll’d; - Or shredded perfume, like a cloud - From closet long to quiet vow’d, - With moth’d and dropping arras hung, - Mouldering her lute and books among, - As when a queen, long dead, was young. - - -_716._ _The Wanderers_ - - Over the sea our galleys went, - With cleaving prows in order brave - To a speeding wind and a bounding wave-- - A gallant armament: - Each bark built out of a forest-tree - Left leafy and rough as first it grew, - And nail’d all over the gaping sides, - Within and without, with black bull-hides, - Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, - To bear the playful billows’ game; - So, each good ship was rude to see, - Rude and bare to the outward view. - But each upbore a stately tent - Where cedar pales in scented row - Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, - And an awning droop’d the mast below, - In fold on fold of the purple fine, - That neither noontide nor star-shine - Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, - Might pierce the regal tenement. - When the sun dawn’d, O, gay and glad - We set the sail and plied the oar; - But when the night-wind blew like breath, - For joy of one day’s voyage more, - We sang together on the wide sea, - Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; - Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, - Each helm made sure by the twilight star, - And in a sleep as calm as death, - We, the voyagers from afar, - Lay stretch’d along, each weary crew - In a circle round its wondrous tent - Whence gleam’d soft light and curl’d rich scent, - And with light and perfume, music too: - So the stars wheel’d round, and the darkness past, - And at morn we started beside the mast, - And still each ship was sailing fast! - - Now, one morn, land appear’d--a speck - Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky-- - ‘Avoid it,’ cried our pilot, ‘check - The shout, restrain the eager eye!’ - But the heaving sea was black behind - For many a night and many a day, - And land, though but a rock, drew nigh - So we broke the cedar pales away, - Let the purple awning flap in the wind, - And a statue bright was on every deck! - We shouted, every man of us, - And steer’d right into the harbour thus, - With pomp and pæan glorious. - - A hundred shapes of lucid stone! - All day we built its shrine for each, - A shrine of rock for every one, - Nor paused till in the westering sun - We sat together on the beach - To sing because our task was done; - When lo! what shouts and merry songs! - What laughter all the distance stirs! - A loaded raft with happy throngs - Of gentle islanders! - ‘Our isles are just at hand,’ they cried, - ‘Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; - Our temple-gates are open’d wide, - Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping - For these majestic forms’--they cried. - O, then we awoke with sudden start - From our deep dream, and knew, too late, - How bare the rock, how desolate, - Which had received our precious freight: - Yet we call’d out--‘Depart! - Our gifts, once given, must here abide: - Our work is done; we have no heart - To mar our work,’--we cried. - - -_717._ _Thus the Mayne glideth_ - - Thus the Mayne glideth - Where my Love abideth; - Sleep’s no softer: it proceeds - On through lawns, on through meads, - On and on, whate’er befall. - Meandering and musical, - Though the niggard pasturage - Bears not on its shaven ledge - Aught but weeds and waving grasses - To view the river as it passes, - Save here and there a scanty patch - Of primroses too faint to catch - A weary bee.... And scarce it pushes - Its gentle way through strangling rushes - Where the glossy kingfisher - Flutters when noon-heats are near, - Glad the shelving banks to shun, - Red and steaming in the sun, - Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat - Burrows, and the speckled stoat; - Where the quick sandpipers flit - In and out the marl and grit - That seems to breed them, brown as they; - Naught disturbs its quiet way, - Save some lazy stork that springs, - Trailing it with legs and wings, - Whom the shy fox from the hill - Rouses, creep he ne’er so still. - - -_718._ _Pippa’s Song_ - - The year’s at the spring, - And day’s at the morn; - Morning’s at seven; - The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; - The lark’s on the wing; - The snail’s on the thorn; - God’s in His heaven-- - All’s right with the world! - - -_719._ _You’ll love Me yet_ - - You’ll love me yet!--and I can tarry - Your love’s protracted growing: - June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry, - From seeds of April’s sowing. - - I plant a heartful now: some seed - At least is sure to strike, - And yield--what you’ll not pluck indeed, - Not love, but, may be, like. - - You’ll look at least on love’s remains, - A grave’s one violet: - Your look?--that pays a thousand pains. - What’s death? You’ll love me yet! - - -_720._ _Porphyria’s Lover_ - - The rain set early in to-night, - The sullen wind was soon awake, - It tore the elm-tops down for spite, - And did its worst to vex the lake: - I listen’d with heart fit to break. - When glided in Porphyria; straight - She shut the cold out and the storm, - And kneel’d and made the cheerless grate - Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; - Which done, she rose, and from her form - Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, - And laid her soil’d gloves by, untied - Her hat and let the damp hair fall, - And, last, she sat down by my side - And call’d me. When no voice replied, - She put my arm about her waist, - And made her smooth white shoulder bare, - And all her yellow hair displaced, - And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, - And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair, - Murmuring how she loved me--she - Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour, - To set its struggling passion free - From pride, and vainer ties dissever, - And give herself to me for ever. - But passion sometimes would prevail, - Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain - A sudden thought of one so pale - For love of her, and all in vain: - So, she was come through wind and rain. - Be sure I look’d up at her eyes - Happy and proud; at last I knew - Porphyria worshipp’d me; surprise - Made my heart swell, and still it grew - While I debated what to do. - That moment she was mine, mine, fair, - Perfectly pure and good: I found - A thing to do, and all her hair - In one long yellow string I wound - Three times her little throat around, - And strangled her. No pain felt she; - I am quite sure she felt no pain. - As a shut bud that holds a bee, - I warily oped her lids: again - Laugh’d the blue eyes without a stain. - And I untighten’d next the tress - About her neck; her cheek once more - Blush’d bright beneath my burning kiss: - I propp’d her head up as before, - Only, this time my shoulder bore - Her head, which droops upon it still: - The smiling rosy little head, - So glad it has its utmost will, - That all it scorn’d at once is fled, - And I, its love, am gain’d instead! - Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not how - Her darling one wish would be heard. - And thus we sit together now, - And all night long we have not stirr’d, - And yet God has not said a word! - - -_721._ _Song_ - - Nay but you, who do not love her, - Is she not pure gold, my mistress? - Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her? - Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, - And this last fairest tress of all, - So fair, see, ere I let it fall? - - - Because, you spend your lives in praising; - To praise, you search the wide world over: - Then why not witness, calmly gazing, - If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? - Above this tress, and this, I touch - But cannot praise, I love so much! - - -_722._ _Earl Mertoun’s Song_ - - There’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer than the purest; - And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest: - And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre - Hid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, - Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble: - Then her voice’s music ... call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble! - - And this woman says, ‘My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, - Parch’d the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless, - If you loved me not!’ And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, - Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- - I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, - And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me! - - -_723._ _In a Gondola_ - - The moth’s kiss, first! - Kiss me as if you made me believe - You were not sure, this eve, - How my face, your flower, had pursed - Its petals up; so, here and there - You brush it, till I grow aware - Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. - - The bee’s kiss, now! - Kiss me as if you enter’d gay - My heart at some noonday, - A bud that dares not disallow - The claim, so all is render’d up, - And passively its shatter’d cup - Over your head to sleep I bow. - - -_724._ _Meeting at Night_ - - The gray sea and the long black land; - And the yellow half-moon large and low; - And the startled little waves that leap - In fiery ringlets from their sleep, - As I gain the cove with pushing prow, - And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand. - - Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; - Three fields to cross till a farm appears; - A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch - And blue spurt of a lighted match, - And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears, - Than the two hearts beating each to each! - - -_725._ _Parting at Morning_ - - Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, - And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rim - And straight was a path of gold for him, - And the need of a world of men for me. - - -_726._ _The Lost Mistress_ - - All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter - As one at first believes? - Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter - About your cottage eaves! - - And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, - I noticed that, to-day; - One day more bursts them open fully - --You know the red turns gray. - - To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? - May I take your hand in mine? - Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest - Keep much that I resign: - - For each glance of the eye so bright and black, - Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,-- - Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, - Though it stay in my soul for ever!-- - - Yet I will but say what mere friends say, - Or only a thought stronger; - I will hold your hand but as long as all may, - Or so very little longer! - - -_727._ _The Last Ride together_ - - I said--Then, dearest, since ’tis so, - Since now at length my fate I know, - Since nothing all my love avails, - Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails, - Since this was written and needs must be-- - My whole heart rises up to bless - Your name in pride and thankfulness! - Take back the hope you gave,--I claim - Only a memory of the same, - --And this beside, if you will not blame; - Your leave for one more last ride with me. - - My mistress bent that brow of hers, - Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs - When pity would be softening through, - Fix’d me a breathing-while or two - With life or death in the balance: right! - The blood replenish’d me again; - My last thought was at least not vain: - I and my mistress, side by side - Shall be together, breathe and ride, - So, one day more am I deified. - Who knows but the world may end to-night? - - Hush! if you saw some western cloud - All billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’d - By many benedictions--sun’s - And moon’s and evening-star’s at once-- - And so, you, looking and loving best, - Conscious grew, your passion drew - Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, - Down on you, near and yet more near, - Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- - Thus leant she and linger’d--joy and fear! - Thus lay she a moment on my breast. - - Then we began to ride. My soul - Smooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scroll - Freshening and fluttering in the wind. - Past hopes already lay behind. - What need to strive with a life awry? - Had I said that, had I done this, - So might I gain, so might I miss. - Might she have loved me? just as well - She might have hated, who can tell! - Where had I been now if the worst befell? - And here we are riding, she and I. - - Fail I alone, in words and deeds? - Why, all men strive and who succeeds? - We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew, - Saw other regions, cities new, - As the world rush’d by on either side. - I thought,--All labour, yet no less - Bear up beneath their unsuccess. - Look at the end of work, contrast - The petty done, the undone vast, - This present of theirs with the hopeful past! - I hoped she would love me; here we ride. - - What hand and brain went ever pair’d? - What heart alike conceived and dared? - What act proved all its thought had been? - What will but felt the fleshly screen? - We ride and I see her bosom heave. - There’s many a crown for who can reach. - Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each! - The flag stuck on a heap of bones, - A soldier’s doing! what atones? - They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. - My riding is better, by their leave. - - What does it all mean, poet? Well, - Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell - What we felt only; you express’d - You hold things beautiful the best, - And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. - ’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then, - Have you yourself what’s best for men? - Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- - Nearer one whit your own sublime - Than we who never have turn’d a rhyme? - Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride. - - And you, great sculptor--so, you gave - A score of years to Art, her slave, - And that’s your Venus, whence we turn - To yonder girl that fords the burn! - You acquiesce, and shall I repine? - What, man of music, you grown gray - With notes and nothing else to say, - Is this your sole praise from a friend, - ‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend, - But in music we know how fashions end!’ - I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine. - - Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate - Proposed bliss here should sublimate - My being--had I sign’d the bond-- - Still one must lead some life beyond, - Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. - This foot once planted on the goal, - This glory-garland round my soul, - Could I descry such? Try and test! - I sink back shuddering from the quest. - Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? - Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. - - And yet--she has not spoke so long! - What if heaven be that, fair and strong - At life’s best, with our eyes upturn’d - Whither life’s flower is first discern’d, - We, fix’d so, ever should so abide? - What if we still ride on, we two - With life for ever old yet new, - Changed not in kind but in degree, - The instant made eternity,-- - And heaven just prove that I and she - Ride, ride together, for ever ride? - - -_728._ _Misconceptions_ - - This is a spray the Bird clung to, - Making it blossom with pleasure, - Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, - Fit for her nest and her treasure. - O, what a hope beyond measure - Was the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,-- - So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! - - - This is a heart the Queen leant on, - Thrill’d in a minute erratic, - Ere the true bosom she bent on, - Meet for love’s regal dalmatic. - O, what a fancy ecstatic - Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on-- - Love to be saved for it, proffer’d to, spent on! - - -_729._ _Home-thoughts, from Abroad_ - - O to be in England - Now that April’s there, - And whoever wakes in England - Sees, some morning, unaware, - That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf - Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, - While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough - In England--now! - - And after April, when May follows, - And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! - Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge - Leans to the field and scatters on the clover - Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge-- - That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, - Lest you should think he never could recapture - The first fine careless rapture! - And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, - All will be gay when noontide wakes anew - The buttercups, the little children’s dower - --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! - - -_730._ _Home-thoughts, from the Sea_ - - Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; - Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; - Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; - In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray; - ‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’--say, - Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, - While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. - - - - -WILLIAM BELL SCOTT - -1812-1890 - - -_731._ _The Witch’s Ballad_ - - O I hae come from far away, - From a warm land far away, - A southern land across the sea, - With sailor-lads about the mast, - Merry and canny, and kind to me. - - And I hae been to yon town - To try my luck in yon town; - Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too. - Right braw we were to pass the gate, - Wi’ gowden clasps on girdles blue. - - Mysie smiled wi’ miminy mouth, - Innocent mouth, miminy mouth; - - _731._ miminy] prim, demure. - - Elspie wore a scarlet gown, - Nort’s grey eyes were unco’ gleg. - My Castile comb was like a crown. - - We walk’d abreast all up the street, - Into the market up the street; - Our hair with marigolds was wound, - Our bodices with love-knots laced, - Our merchandise with tansy bound. - - Nort had chickens, I had cocks, - Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; - Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,-- - For a wee groat or a pound; - We lost nae time wi’ gives and takes. - - --Lost nae time, for well we knew, - In our sleeves full well we knew, - When the gloaming came that night, - Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock - Would be found by candle-light. - - And when our chaffering all was done, - All was paid for, sold and done, - We drew a glove on ilka hand, - We sweetly curtsied, each to each, - And deftly danced a saraband. - - The market-lassies look’d and laugh’d, - Left their gear, and look’d and laugh’d; - They made as they would join the game, - But soon their mithers, wild and wud, - With whack and screech they stopp’d the same. - - gleg] bright, sharp. wud] mad. - - - Sae loud the tongues o’ randies grew, - The flytin’ and the skirlin’ grew, - At all the windows in the place, - Wi’ spoons or knives, wi’ needle or awl, - Was thrust out every hand and face. - - And down each stair they throng’d anon, - Gentle, semple, throng’d anon: - Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan, - The ancient widow young again, - Simpering behind her fan. - - Without a choice, against their will, - Doited, dazed, against their will, - The market lassie and her mither, - The farmer and his husbandman, - Hand in hand dance a’ thegither. - - Slow at first, but faster soon, - Still increasing, wild and fast, - Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, - Blindly doff’d and cast away, - Left them naked, heads and toes. - - They would have torn us limb from limb, - Dainty limb from dainty limb; - But never one of them could win - Across the line that I had drawn - With bleeding thumb a-widdershin. - - But there was Jeff the provost’s son, - Jeff the provost’s only son; - - randies] viragoes. flytin’] scolding. skirlin’] shrieking. souter] - cobbler. doited] mazed. a-widdershin] the wrong way of the sun: or - E. to W. through N. - - There was Father Auld himsel’, - The Lombard frae the hostelry, - And the lawyer Peter Fell. - - All goodly men we singled out, - Waled them well, and singled out, - And drew them by the left hand in; - Mysie the priest, and Elspie won - The Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle, - I mysel’ the provost’s son. - - Then, with cantrip kisses seven, - Three times round with kisses seven, - Warp’d and woven there spun we - Arms and legs and flaming hair, - Like a whirlwind on the sea. - - Like a wind that sucks the sea, - Over and in and on the sea, - Good sooth it was a mad delight; - And every man of all the four - Shut his eyes and laugh’d outright. - - Laugh’d as long as they had breath, - Laugh’d while they had sense or breath; - And close about us coil’d a mist - Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies, - Like the whirlwind shaft it rist. - - Drawn up I was right off my feet, - Into the mist and off my feet; - And, dancing on each chimney-top, - I saw a thousand darling imps - Keeping time with skip and hop. - - waled] chose. cantrip] magic. - - And on the provost’s brave ridge-tile, - On the provost’s grand ridge-tile, - The Blackamoor first to master me - I saw, I saw that winsome smile, - The mouth that did my heart beguile, - And spoke the great Word over me, - In the land beyond the sea. - - I call’d his name, I call’d aloud, - Alas! I call’d on him aloud; - And then he fill’d his hand with stour, - And threw it towards me in the air; - My mouse flew out, I lost my pow’r! - - My lusty strength, my power were gone; - Power was gone, and all was gone. - He will not let me love him more! - Of bell and whip and horse’s tail - He cares not if I find a store. - - But I am proud if he is fierce! - I am as proud as he is fierce; - I’ll turn about and backward go, - If I meet again that Blackamoor, - And he’ll help us then, for he shall know - I seek another paramour. - - And we’ll gang once more to yon town, - Wi’ better luck to yon town; - We’ll walk in silk and cramoisie, - And I shall wed the provost’s son - My lady of the town I’ll be! - - stour] dust. cramoisie] crimson. - - For I was born a crown’d king’s child, - Born and nursed a king’s child, - King o’ a land ayont the sea, - Where the Blackamoor kiss’d me first, - And taught me art and glamourie. - - Each one in her wame shall hide - Her hairy mouse, her wary mouse. - Fed on madwort and agramie,-- - Wear amber beads between her breasts, - And blind-worm’s skin about her knee. - - The Lombard shall be Elspie’s man, - Elspie’s gowden husband-man; - Nort shall take the lawyer’s hand; - The priest shall swear another vow: - We’ll dance again the saraband! - - ayont] beyond. glamourie] wizardry. - - - - -AUBREY DE VERE - -1814-1902 - - -_732._ _Serenade_ - - Softly, O midnight Hours! - Move softly o’er the bowers - Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! - For ye have power, men say, - Our hearts in sleep to sway, - And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. - Round ivory neck and arm - Enclasp a separate charm; - Hang o’er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayer - Silently ye may smile, - But hold your breath the while, - And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair! - Bend down your glittering urns, - Ere yet the dawn returns, - And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; - Upon the air rain balm, - Bid all the woods be calm, - Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed; - That so the Maiden may - With smiles your care repay, - When from her couch she lifts her golden head; - Waking with earliest birds, - Ere yet the misty herds - Leave warm ’mid the gray grass their dusky bed. - - -_733._ _Sorrow_ - - Count each affliction, whether light or grave, - God’s messenger sent down to thee; do thou - With courtesy receive him; rise and bow; - And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave - Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; - Then lay before him all thou hast; allow - No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, - Or mar thy hospitality; no wave - Of mortal tumult to obliterate - The soul’s marmoreal calmness: Grief should be, - Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; - Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; - Strong to consume small troubles; to commend - Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. - - - - -GEORGE FOX - -1815-? - - -_734._ _The County of Mayo_ - -FROM THE IRISH OF THOMAS LAVELLE - - On the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight, - Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night; - Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, - By the blessèd sun! ’tis royally I’d sing thy praise, Mayo! - - When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, - In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round-- - ’Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I’m forced to go - And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo. - - They are alter’d girls in Irrul now; ’tis proud they’re grown and high, - With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by-- - But it’s little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, - That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo. - - ’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, - And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: - And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low, - And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo. - - - - -EMILY BRONTË - -1818-1848 - - -_735._ _My Lady’s Grave_ - - The linnet in the rocky dells, - The moor-lark in the air, - The bee among the heather bells - That hide my lady fair: - - The wild deer browse above her breast; - The wild birds raise their brood; - And they, her smiles of love caress’d, - Have left her solitude! - - I ween that when the grave’s dark wall - Did first her form retain, - They thought their hearts could ne’er recall - The light of joy again. - - They thought the tide of grief would flow - Uncheck’d through future years; - But where is all their anguish now, - And where are all their tears? - - Well, let them fight for honour’s breath, - Or pleasure’s shade pursue-- - The dweller in the land of death - Is changed and careless too. - - And if their eyes should watch and weep - Till sorrow’s source were dry, - She would not, in her tranquil sleep, - Return a single sigh! - - Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: - And murmur, summer streams! - There is no need of other sound - To soothe my lady’s dreams. - - -_736._ _Remembrance_ - - Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, - Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! - Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, - Sever’d at last by Time’s all-severing wave? - - Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover - Over the mountains, on that northern shore, - Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover - Thy noble heart for ever, ever more? - - Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers - From those brown hills have melted into spring: - Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers - After such years of change and suffering! - - Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, - While the world’s tide is bearing me along; - Other desires and other hopes beset me, - Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong! - - No later light has lighten’d up my heaven, - No second morn has ever shone for me; - All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, - All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee. - - But when the days of golden dreams had perish’d, - And even Despair was powerless to destroy; - Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d, - Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy. - - Then did I check the tears of useless passion-- - Wean’d my young soul from yearning after thine; - Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten - Down to that tomb already more than mine. - - - And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, - Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; - Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, - How could I seek the empty world again? - - -_737._ _The Prisoner_ - - Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear - Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; - A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, - And offers for short life, eternal liberty. - - He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs, - With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: - Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, - And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire. - - Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, - When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: - When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm, - I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm. - - But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends; - The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. - Mute music soothes my breast--unutter’d harmony - That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me. - - Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; - My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; - Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found, - Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound. - - O dreadful is the check--intense the agony-- - When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; - When the pulse begins to throb--the brain to think again-- - The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain. - - - Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; - The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; - And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, - If it but herald Death, the vision is divine. - - -_738._ _Last Lines_ - - No coward soul is mine, - No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere: - I see Heaven’s glories shine, - And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. - - O God within my breast, - Almighty, ever-present Deity! - Life--that in me has rest, - As I--undying Life--have power in Thee! - - Vain are the thousand creeds - That move men’s hearts: unutterably vain; - Worthless as wither’d weeds, - Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, - - To waken doubt in one - Holding so fast by Thine infinity; - So surely anchor’d on - The steadfast rock of immortality. - - With wide-embracing love - Thy Spirit animates eternal years, - Pervades and broods above, - Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. - - Though earth and man were gone, - And suns and universes cease to be, - And Thou were left alone, - Every existence would exist in Thee. - - - There is not room for Death, - Nor atom that his might could render void: - Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, - And what Thou art may never be destroyed. - - - - -CHARLES KINGSLEY - -1819-1875 - - -_739._ _Airly Beacon_ - - Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; - O the pleasant sight to see - Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, - While my love climb’d up to me! - - Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; - O the happy hours we lay - Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, - Courting through the summer’s day! - - Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; - O the weary haunt for me, - All alone on Airly Beacon, - With his baby on my knee! - - -_740._ _The Sands of Dee_ - - ‘O Mary, go and call the cattle home, - And call the cattle home, - And call the cattle home, - Across the sands of Dee.’ - The western wind was wild and dark with foam, - And all alone went she. - - - The western tide crept up along the sand, - And o’er and o’er the sand, - And round and round the sand, - As far as eye could see. - The rolling mist came down and hid the land: - And never home came she. - - ‘O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- - A tress of golden hair, - A drownèd maiden’s hair, - Above the nets at sea?’ - Was never salmon yet that shone so fair - Among the stakes of Dee. - - They row’d her in across the rolling foam, - The cruel crawling foam, - The cruel hungry foam, - To her grave beside the sea. - But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, - Across the sands of Dee. - - - - -ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH - -1819-1861 - - -_741._ _Say not the Struggle Naught availeth_ - - Say not the struggle naught availeth, - The labour and the wounds are vain, - The enemy faints not, nor faileth, - And as things have been they remain. - - If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; - It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d, - Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, - And, but for you, possess the field. - - - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, - Seem here no painful inch to gain, - Far back, through creeks and inlets making, - Comes silent, flooding in, the main. - - And not by eastern windows only, - When daylight comes, comes in the light; - In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! - But westward, look, the land is bright! - - - - -WALT WHITMAN - -1819-1892 - - -_742._ _The Imprisoned Soul_ - - At the last, tenderly, - From the walls of the powerful, fortress’d house, - From the clasp of the knitted locks--from the keep of the well-closed doors, - Let me be wafted. - - Let me glide noiselessly forth; - With the key of softness unlock the locks--with a whisper - Set ope the doors, O soul! - - Tenderly! be not impatient! - (Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! - Strong is your hold, O love!) - - -_743._ _O Captain! My Captain!_ - - O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, - The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, - The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, - While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; - But O heart! heart! heart! - O the bleeding drops of red! - Where on the deck my Captain lies, - Fallen cold and dead. - - O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; - Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, - For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths--for you the shores crowding, - For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; - Here, Captain! dear father! - This arm beneath your head! - It is some dream that on the deck - You’ve fallen cold and dead. - - My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, - My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; - The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, - From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; - Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! - But I, with mournful tread, - Walk the deck my Captain lies, - Fallen cold and dead. - - - - -JOHN RUSKIN - -1819-1900 - - -_744._ _Trust Thou Thy Love_ - - Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet? - Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure? - Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet; - Fail, Sun and Breath!--yet, for thy peace, She shall endure. - - - - -EBENEZER JONES - -1820-1860 - - -_745._ _When the World is burning_ - - When the world is burning, - Fired within, yet turning - Round with face unscathed; - Ere fierce flames, uprushing, - O’er all lands leap, crushing, - Till earth fall, fire-swathed; - Up amidst the meadows, - Gently through the shadows, - Gentle flames will glide, - Small, and blue, and golden. - Though by bard beholden, - When in calm dreams folden,-- - Calm his dreams will bide. - - Where the dance is sweeping, - Through the greensward peeping, - Shall the soft lights start; - Laughing maids, unstaying, - Deeming it trick-playing, - High their robes upswaying, - O’er the lights shall dart; - And the woodland haunter - Shall not cease to saunter - When, far down some glade, - Of the great world’s burning, - One soft flame upturning - Seems, to his discerning, - Crocus in the shade. - - - - -FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON - -1821-1895 - - -_746._ _At Her Window_ - - Beating Heart! we come again - Where my Love reposes: - This is Mabel’s window-pane; - These are Mabel’s roses. - - Is she nested? Does she kneel - In the twilight stilly, - Lily clad from throat to heel, - She, my virgin Lily? - - Soon the wan, the wistful stars, - Fading, will forsake her; - Elves of light, on beamy bars, - Whisper then, and wake her. - - Let this friendly pebble plead - At her flowery grating; - If she hear me will she heed? - _Mabel, I am waiting._ - - Mabel will be deck’d anon, - Zoned in bride’s apparel; - Happy zone! O hark to yon - Passion-shaken carol! - - Sing thy song, thou trancèd thrush, - Pipe thy best, thy clearest;-- - Hush, her lattice moves, O hush-- - _Dearest Mabel!--dearest ..._ - - - - -MATTHEW ARNOLD - -1822-1888 - - -_747._ _The Forsaken Merman_ - - Come, dear children, let us away; - Down and away below. - Now my brothers call from the bay; - Now the great winds shoreward blow; - Now the salt tides seaward flow; - Now the wild white horses play, - Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. - Children dear, let us away. - This way, this way! - - Call her once before you go. - Call once yet. - In a voice that she will know: - ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ - Children’s voices should be dear - (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; - Children’s voices, wild with pain. - Surely she will come again. - Call her once and come away. - This way, this way! - ‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’ - The wild white horses foam and fret. - Margaret! Margaret! - - Come, dear children, come away down. - Call no more. - One last look at the white-wall’d town, - And the little grey church on the windy shore. - Then come down. - She will not come though you call all day. - Come away, come away. - Children dear, was it yesterday - We heard the sweet bells over the bay? - In the caverns where we lay, - Through the surf and through the swell, - The far-off sound of a silver bell? - Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, - Where the winds are all asleep; - Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; - Where the salt weed sways in the stream; - Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, - Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; - Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, - Dry their mail, and bask in the brine; - Where great whales come sailing by, - Sail and sail, with unshut eye, - Round the world for ever and aye? - When did music come this way? - Children dear, was it yesterday? - - Children dear, was it yesterday - (Call yet once) that she went away? - Once she sate with you and me, - On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, - And the youngest sate on her knee. - She comb’d its bright hair, and she tended it well, - When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. - She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea. - She said, ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk pray - In the little grey church on the shore to-day. - ’Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! - And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’ - I said, ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves. - Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’ - She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. - Children dear, was it yesterday? - - Children dear, were we long alone? - ‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. - Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say. - Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. - We went up the beach, by the sandy down - Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall’d town. - Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, - To the little grey church on the windy hill. - From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, - But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs. - We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, - And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. - She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: - ‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. - Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone. - The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’ - But, ah! she gave me never a look, - For her eyes were seal’d to the holy book. - Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. - Come away, children, call no more. - Come away, come down, call no more. - - Down, down, down; - Down to the depths of the sea. - She sits at her wheel in the humming town, - Singing most joyfully. - Hark what she sings: ‘O joy, O joy, - For the humming street, and the child with its toy. - For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. - For the wheel where I spun, - And the blessed light of the sun.’ - And so she sings her fill, - Singing most joyfully, - Till the shuttle falls from her hand, - And the whizzing wheel stands still. - She steals to the window, and looks at the sand; - And over the sand at the sea; - And her eyes are set in a stare; - And anon there breaks a sigh, - And anon there drops a tear, - From a sorrow-clouded eye, - And a heart sorrow-laden, - A long, long sigh - For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, - And the gleam of her golden hair. - - Come away, away, children. - Come children, come down. - The hoarse wind blows colder; - Lights shine in the town. - She will start from her slumber - When gusts shake the door; - She will hear the winds howling, - Will hear the waves roar. - We shall see, while above us - The waves roar and whirl, - A ceiling of amber, - A pavement of pearl. - Singing, ‘Here came a mortal, - But faithless was she: - And alone dwell for ever - The kings of the sea.’ - - But, children, at midnight, - When soft the winds blow; - When clear falls the moonlight; - When spring-tides are low: - When sweet airs come seaward - From heaths starr’d with broom; - And high rocks throw mildly - On the blanch’d sands a gloom: - Up the still, glistening beaches, - Up the creeks we will hie; - Over banks of bright seaweed - The ebb-tide leaves dry. - We will gaze, from the sand-hills, - At the white, sleeping town; - At the church on the hill-side-- - And then come back down. - Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one, - But cruel is she. - She left lonely for ever - The kings of the sea.’ - - -_748._ _The Song of Callicles_ - - Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, - Thick breaks the red flame. - All Etna heaves fiercely - Her forest-clothed frame. - - Not here, O Apollo! - Are haunts meet for thee. - But, where Helicon breaks down - In cliff to the sea. - - Where the moon-silver’d inlets - Send far their light voice - Up the still vale of Thisbe, - O speed, and rejoice! - - On the sward at the cliff-top, - Lie strewn the white flocks; - On the cliff-side, the pigeons - Roost deep in the rocks. - - In the moonlight the shepherds, - Soft lull’d by the rills, - Lie wrapt in their blankets, - Asleep on the hills. - - --What forms are these coming - So white through the gloom? - What garments out-glistening - The gold-flower’d broom? - - What sweet-breathing Presence - Out-perfumes the thyme? - What voices enrapture - The night’s balmy prime?-- - - ’Tis Apollo comes leading - His choir, The Nine. - --The Leader is fairest, - But all are divine. - - They are lost in the hollows. - They stream up again. - What seeks on this mountain - The glorified train?-- - - They bathe on this mountain, - In the spring by their road. - Then on to Olympus, - Their endless abode. - - --Whose praise do they mention - Of what is it told?-- - What will be for ever. - What was from of old. - - First hymn they the Father - Of all things: and then, - The rest of Immortals, - The action of men. - - The Day in his hotness, - The strife with the palm; - The Night in her silence, - The Stars in their calm. - - -_749._ _To Marguerite_ - - Yes: in the sea of life enisled, - With echoing straits between us thrown. - Dotting the shoreless watery wild, - We mortal millions live _alone_. - The islands feel the enclasping flow, - And then their endless bounds they know. - - But when the moon their hollows lights, - And they are swept by balms of spring, - And in their glens, on starry nights, - The nightingales divinely sing; - And lovely notes, from shore to shore, - Across the sounds and channels pour; - - O then a longing like despair - Is to their farthest caverns sent! - For surely once, they feel, we were - Parts of a single continent. - Now round us spreads the watery plain-- - O might our marges meet again! - - Who order’d that their longing’s fire - Should be, as soon as kindled, cool’d? - Who renders vain their deep desire?-- - A God, a God their severance ruled; - And bade betwixt their shores to be - The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea. - - -_750._ _Requiescat_ - - Strew on her roses, roses, - And never a spray of yew. - In quiet she reposes: - Ah! would that I did too. - - Her mirth the world required: - She bathed it in smiles of glee. - But her heart was tired, tired, - And now they let her be. - - Her life was turning, turning, - In mazes of heat and sound. - But for peace her soul was yearning, - And now peace laps her round. - - Her cabin’d, ample Spirit, - It flutter’d and fail’d for breath. - To-night it doth inherit - The vasty hall of Death. - - -_751._ _The Scholar-Gipsy_ - - Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; - Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: - No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, - Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, - Nor the cropp’d grasses shoot another head. - But when the fields are still, - And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, - And only the white sheep are sometimes seen - Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch’d green; - Come, Shepherd, and again begin the quest. - - Here, where the reaper was at work of late, - In this high field’s dark corner, where he leaves - His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise, - And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, - Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use; - Here will I sit and wait, - While to my ear from uplands far away - The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, - With distant cries of reapers in the corn-- - All the live murmur of a summer’s day. - - Screen’d is this nook o’er the high, half-reap’d field, - And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be. - Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, - And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see - Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: - And air-swept lindens yield - Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers - Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, - And bower me from the August sun with shade; - And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers: - - - And near me on the grass lies Glanvil’s book-- - Come, let me read the oft-read tale again: - The story of that Oxford scholar poor, - Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, - Who, tired of knocking at Preferment’s door, - One summer morn forsook - His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, - And roam’d the world with that wild brotherhood, - And came, as most men deem’d, to little good, - But came to Oxford and his friends no more. - - But once, years after, in the country lanes, - Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, - Met him, and of his way of life inquired. - Whereat he answer’d that the Gipsy crew, - His mates, had arts to rule as they desired - The workings of men’s brains; - And they can bind them to what thoughts they will: - ‘And I,’ he said, ‘the secret of their art, - When fully learn’d, will to the world impart: - But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill!’ - - This said, he left them, and return’d no more, - But rumours hung about the country-side, - That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, - Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, - In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, - The same the Gipsies wore. - Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; - At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, - On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock’d boors - Had found him seated at their entering, - But, ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly: - And I myself seem half to know thy looks, - And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace; - And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks - I ask if thou hast pass’d their quiet place; - Or in my boat I lie - Moor’d to the cool bank in the summer heats, - ‘Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, - And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor hills, - And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats. - - For most, I know, thou lov’st retirèd ground. - Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, - Returning home on summer nights, have met - Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, - Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, - As the slow punt swings round: - And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, - And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers - Pluck’d in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, - And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream: - - And then they land, and thou art seen no more. - Maidens who from the distant hamlets come - To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, - Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, - Or cross a stile into the public way. - Oft thou hast given them store - Of flowers--the frail-leaf’d, white anemone-- - Dark bluebells drench’d with dews of summer eves, - And purple orchises with spotted leaves-- - But none has words she can report of thee. - - And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time’s here - In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, - Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass - Where black-wing’d swallows haunt the glittering Thames, - To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass, - Have often pass’d thee near - Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown: - Mark’d thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, - Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; - But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone. - - At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills, - Where at her open door the housewife darns, - Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate - To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. - Children, who early range these slopes and late - For cresses from the rills, - Have known thee watching, all an April day, - The springing pastures and the feeding kine; - And mark’d thee, when the stars come out and shine, - Through the long dewy grass move slow away. - - In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood, - Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way - Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see - With scarlet patches tagg’d and shreds of gray, - Above the forest-ground call’d Thessaly-- - The blackbird picking food - Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; - So often has he known thee past him stray - Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither’d spray, - And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. - - And once, in winter, on the causeway chill - Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, - Have I not pass’d thee on the wooden bridge - Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, - Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? - And thou hast climb’d the hill - And gain’d the white brow of the Cumnor range; - Turn’d once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, - The line of festal light in Christ Church hall-- - Then sought thy straw in some sequester’d grange. - - But what--I dream! Two hundred years are flown - Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, - And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe - That thou wert wander’d from the studious walls - To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: - And thou from earth art gone - Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid; - Some country nook, where o’er thy unknown grave - Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave-- - Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree’s shade. - - --No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. - For what wears out the life of mortal men? - ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls: - ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, - Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, - And numb the elastic powers. - Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, - And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, - To the just-pausing Genius we remit - Our worn-out life, and are--what we have been. - - Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? - Thou hadst _one_ aim, _one_ business, _one_ desire: - Else wert thou long since number’d with the dead-- - Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. - The generations of thy peers are fled, - And we ourselves shall go; - But thou possessest an immortal lot, - And we imagine thee exempt from age - And living as thou liv’st on Glanvil’s page, - Because thou hadst--what we, alas, have not! - - For early didst thou leave the world, with powers - Fresh, undiverted to the world without, - Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; - Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, - Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. - O Life unlike to ours! - Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, - Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, - And each half lives a hundred different lives; - Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. - - Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, - Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, - Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will’d, - Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, - Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill’d; - For whom each year we see - Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; - Who hesitate and falter life away, - And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-- - Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too? - - Yes, we await it, but it still delays, - And then we suffer; and amongst us One, - Who most has suffer’d, takes dejectedly - His seat upon the intellectual throne; - And all his store of sad experience he - Lays bare of wretched days; - Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and signs, - And how the dying spark of hope was fed, - And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, - And all his hourly varied anodynes. - - This for our wisest: and we others pine, - And wish the long unhappy dream would end, - And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, - With close-lipp’d Patience for our only friend, - Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: - But none has hope like thine. - Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, - Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, - Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, - And every doubt long blown by time away. - - O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, - And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; - Before this strange disease of modern life, - With its sick hurry, its divided aims, - Its heads o’ertax’d, its palsied hearts, was rife-- - Fly hence, our contact fear! - Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! - Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern - From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn, - Wave us away, and keep thy solitude. - - Still nursing the unconquerable hope, - Still clutching the inviolable shade, - With a free onward impulse brushing through, - By night, the silver’d branches of the glade-- - Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue. - On some mild pastoral slope - Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, - Freshen thy flowers, as in former years, - With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, - From the dark dingles, to the nightingales. - - But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! - For strong the infection of our mental strife, - Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; - And we should win thee from thy own fair life, - Like us distracted, and like us unblest. - Soon, soon thy cheer would die, - Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix’d thy powers, - And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made: - And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, - Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. - - Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! - --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, - Descried at sunrise an emerging prow - Lifting the cool-hair’d creepers stealthily, - The fringes of a southward-facing brow - Among the Ægean isles; - And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, - Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, - Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep’d in brine; - And knew the intruders on his ancient home, - The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; - And snatch’d his rudder, and shook out more sail, - And day and night held on indignantly - O’er the blue Midland waters with the gale, - Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, - To where the Atlantic raves - Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails - There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, - Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; - And on the beach undid his corded bales. - - -_752._ _Philomela_ - - Hark! ah, the Nightingale! - The tawny-throated! - Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! - What triumph! hark--what pain! - - O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, - Still, after many years, in distant lands, - Still nourishing in thy bewilder’d brain - That wild, unquench’d, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- - Say, will it never heal? - And can this fragrant lawn - With its cool trees, and night, - And the sweet, tranquil Thames, - And moonshine, and the dew, - To thy rack’d heart and brain - Afford no balm? - - Dost thou to-night behold - Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, - The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? - Dost thou again peruse - With hot cheeks and sear’d eyes - The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister’s shame? - Dost thou once more assay - Thy flight, and feel come over thee, - Poor Fugitive, the feathery change - Once more, and once more seem to make resound - With love and hate, triumph and agony, - Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? - Listen, Eugenia-- - How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves - Again--thou hearest! - Eternal Passion! - Eternal Pain! - - -_753._ _Shakespeare_ - - Others abide our question. Thou art free. - We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, - Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill - That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, - Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, - Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place. - Spares but the cloudy border of his base - To the foil’d searching of mortality; - And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, - Self-school’d, self-scann’d, self-honour’d, self-secure, - Didst walk on earth unguess’d at. Better so! - All pains the immortal spirit must endure, - All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, - Find their sole voice in that victorious brow. - - -_754._ _From the Hymn of Empedocles_ - - Is it so small a thing - To have enjoy’d the sun, - To have lived light in the spring, - To have loved, to have thought, to have done; - To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes; - - That we must feign a bliss - Of doubtful future date, - And while we dream on this - Lose all our present state, - And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose? - - Not much, I know, you prize - What pleasures may be had, - Who look on life with eyes - Estranged, like mine, and sad: - And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you; - - Who’s loth to leave this life - Which to him little yields: - His hard-task’d sunburnt wife, - His often-labour’d fields; - The boors with whom he talk’d, the country spots he knew. - - But thou, because thou hear’st - Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; - Because the gods thou fear’st - Fail to make blest thy state, - Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are. - - I say, Fear not! life still - Leaves human effort scope. - But, since life teems with ill, - Nurse no extravagant hope. - Because thou must not dream, thou need’st not then despair. - - - - -WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS - -1823-1880 - - -_755._ _The Flowers_ - - When Love arose in heart and deed - To wake the world to greater joy, - ‘What can she give me now?’ said Greed, - Who thought to win some costly toy. - - He rose, he ran, he stoop’d, he clutch’d; - And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, - In Greed’s hot grasp were fray’d and smutch’d, - And Greed said, ‘Flowers! Can this be all?’ - - He flung them down and went his way, - He cared no jot for thyme or rose; - But boys and girls came out to play, - And some took these and some took those-- - - Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; - And at their touch the dew return’d, - And all the bloom a thousandfold-- - So red, so ripe, the roses burn’d! - - -_756._ _The Thought_ - - Into the skies, one summer’s day, - I sent a little Thought away; - Up to where, in the blue round, - The sun sat shining without sound. - - Then my Thought came back to me.-- - Little Thought, what did you see - In the regions whence you come? - And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb. - - But she breathed of what was there, - In the pure bright upper air; - And, because my Thought so shone, - I knew she had been shone upon. - - Next, by night a Thought I sent - Up into the firmament; - When the eager stars were out, - And the still moon shone about. - - And my Thought went past the moon - In between the stars, but soon - Held her breath and durst not stir, - For the fear that covered her; - Then she thought, in this demur: - - ‘Dare I look beneath the shade, - Into where the worlds are made; - Where the suns and stars are wrought? - Shall I meet another Thought? - - ‘Will that other Thought have wings? - Shall I meet strange, heavenly things? - Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights, - Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?’ - - Then my Thought began to hark - In the illuminated dark, - Till the silence, over, under, - Made her heart beat more than thunder. - - And my Thought, came trembling back, - But with something on her track, - And with something at her side; - Nor till she has lived and died, - Lived and died, and lived again, - Will that awful thing seem plain. - - - - -WILLIAM PHILPOT - -1823-1889 - - -_757._ _Maritæ Suæ_ - - -I - - Of all the flowers rising now, - Thou only saw’st the head - Of that unopen’d drop of snow - I placed beside thy bed. - - In all the blooms that blow so fast, - Thou hast no further part, - Save those the hour I saw thee last, - I laid above thy heart. - - Two snowdrops for our boy and girl, - A primrose blown for me, - Wreathed with one often-play’d-with curl - From each bright head for thee. - - And so I graced thee for thy grave, - And made these tokens fast - With that old silver heart I gave, - My first gift--and my last. - - -II - - I dream’d, her babe upon her breast, - Here she might lie and calmly rest - Her happy eyes on that far hill - That backs the landscape fresh and still. - - I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs - Where careless birds on love carouse, - And gaze those apple-blossoms through - To revel in the boundless blue. - - But now her faculty of sight - Is elder sister to the light, - And travels free and unconfined - Through dense and rare, through form and mind. - - Or else her life to be complete - Hath found new channels full and meet-- - Then, O, what eyes are leaning o’er, - If fairer than they were before! - - - - -WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY - -1823-1892 - - -_758._ _Mimnermus in Church_ - - You promise heavens free from strife, - Pure truth, and perfect change of will; - But sweet, sweet is this human life, - So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; - Your chilly stars I can forgo, - This warm kind world is all I know. - - You say there is no substance here, - One great reality above: - Back from that void I shrink in fear, - And child-like hide myself in love: - Show me what angels feel. Till then - I cling, a mere weak man, to men. - - You bid me lift my mean desires - From faltering lips and fitful veins - To sexless souls, ideal quires, - Unwearied voices, wordless strains: - My mind with fonder welcome owns - One dear dead friend’s remember’d tones. - - Forsooth the present we must give - To that which cannot pass away; - All beauteous things for which we live - By laws of time and space decay. - But O, the very reason why - I clasp them, is because they die. - - -_759._ _Heraclitus_ - - They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, - They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. - I wept as I remember’d how often you and I - Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. - - And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, - A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, - Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; - For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. - - - - -COVENTRY PATMORE - -1823-1896 - - -_760._ _The Married Lover_ - - Why, having won her, do I woo? - Because her spirit’s vestal grace - Provokes me always to pursue, - But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; - Because her womanhood is such - That, as on court-days subjects kiss - The Queen’s hand, yet so near a touch - Affirms no mean familiarness; - Nay, rather marks more fair the height - Which can with safety so neglect - To dread, as lower ladies might, - That grace could meet with disrespect; - Thus she with happy favour feeds - Allegiance from a love so high - That thence no false conceit proceeds - Of difference bridged, or state put by; - Because although in act and word - As lowly as a wife can be, - Her manners, when they call me lord, - Remind me ’tis by courtesy; - Not with her least consent of will, - Which would my proud affection hurt, - But by the noble style that still - Imputes an unattain’d desert; - Because her gay and lofty brows, - When all is won which hope can ask, - Reflect a light of hopeless snows - That bright in virgin ether bask; - Because, though free of the outer court - I am, this Temple keeps its shrine - Sacred to Heaven; because, in short, - She’s not and never can be mine. - - -_761._ ‘_If I were dead_’ - - ‘If I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child!’ - The dear lips quiver’d as they spake, - And the tears brake - From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. - Poor Child, poor Child! - I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. - It is not true that Love will do no wrong. - Poor Child! - And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, - How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, - And of those words your full avengers make? - Poor Child, poor Child! - And now, unless it be - That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, - O God, have Thou _no_ mercy upon me! - Poor Child! - - -_762._ _Departure_ - - It was not like your great and gracious ways! - Do you, that have naught other to lament, - Never, my Love, repent - Of how, that July afternoon, - You went, - With sudden, unintelligible phrase, - And frighten’d eye, - Upon your journey of so many days - Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? - I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; - And so we sate, within the low sun’s rays, - You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, - Your harrowing praise. - Well, it was well - To hear you such things speak, - And I could tell - What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, - As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. - And it was like your great and gracious ways - To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, - Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash - To let the laughter flash, - Whilst I drew near, - Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. - But all at once to leave me at the last, - More at the wonder than the loss aghast, - With huddled, unintelligible phrase, - And frighten’d eye, - And go your journey of all days - With not one kiss, or a good-bye, - And the only loveless look the look with which you pass’d: - ’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. - - -_763._ _The Toys_ - - My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes - And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, - Having my law the seventh time disobey’d, - I struck him, and dismissed - With hard words and unkiss’d, - --His Mother, who was patient, being dead. - Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, - I visited his bed, - But found him slumbering deep, - With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet - From his late sobbing wet. - And I, with moan, - Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; - For, on a table drawn beside his head, - He had put, within his reach, - A box of counters and a red-vein’d stone, - A piece of glass abraded by the beach, - And six or seven shells, - A bottle with bluebells, - And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, - To comfort his sad heart. - So when that night I pray’d - To God, I wept, and said: - Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath, - Not vexing Thee in death, - And Thou rememberest of what toys - We made our joys, - How weakly understood - Thy great commanded good, - Then, fatherly not less - Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, - Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say, - ‘I will be sorry for their childishness.’ - - -_764._ _A Farewell_ - - With all my will, but much against my heart, - We two now part. - My Very Dear, - Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. - It needs no art, - With faint, averted feet - And many a tear, - In our opposèd paths to persevere. - Go thou to East, I West. - We will not say - There’s any hope, it is so far away. - But, O, my Best, - When the one darling of our widowhead, - The nursling Grief, - Is dead, - And no dews blur our eyes - To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, - Perchance we may, - Where now this night is day, - And even through faith of still averted feet, - Making full circle of our banishment, - Amazèd meet; - The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet - Seasoning the termless feast of our content - With tears of recognition never dry. - - - - -SYDNEY DOBELL - -1824-1874 - - -_765._ _The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston_ - - The murmur of the mourning ghost - That keeps the shadowy kine, - ‘O Keith of Ravelston, - The sorrows of thy line!’ - - Ravelston, Ravelston, - The merry path that leads - Down the golden morning hill, - And thro’ the silver meads; - - Ravelston, Ravelston, - The stile beneath the tree, - The maid that kept her mother’s kine, - The song that sang she! - - She sang her song, she kept her kine, - She sat beneath the thorn, - When Andrew Keith of Ravelston - Rode thro’ the Monday morn. - - His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, - His belted jewels shine; - O Keith of Ravelston, - The sorrows of thy line! - - Year after year, where Andrew came, - Comes evening down the glade, - And still there sits a moonshine ghost - Where sat the sunshine maid. - - Her misty hair is faint and fair, - She keeps the shadowy kine; - O Keith of Ravelston, - The sorrows of thy line! - - I lay my hand upon the stile, - The stile is lone and cold, - The burnie that goes babbling by - Says naught that can be told. - - Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, - She keeps her shadowy kine; - O Keith of Ravelston, - The sorrows of thy line! - - Step out three steps, where Andrew stood-- - Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? - The ancient stile is not alone, - ’Tis not the burn I hear! - - She makes her immemorial moan, - She keeps her shadowy kine; - O Keith of Ravelston, - The sorrows of thy line! - - -_766._ _Return!_ - - Return, return! all night my lamp is burning, - All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn; - Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning - Bears witness that the absent can return, - Return, return. - - Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, - Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, - Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness - To feed the sorrowy signal for return, - Return, return. - - Like it, like it, whene’er the east wind sings, - I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn, - When Hope’s late butterflies, with whispering wings, - Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn-- - Burn in the watchfire of return, - Return, return. - - Like it, the very flame whereby I pine - Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn - My soul becomes a better soul than mine, - And from its brightening beacon I discern - My starry love go forth from me, and shine - Across the seas a path for thy return, - Return, return. - - Return, return! all night I see it burn, - All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin - Of palmèd praying hands that meet and yearn-- - Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. - Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, - And wans the light that withers, tho’ it burn - As warmly still for thy return; - Still thro’ the splendid load uplifts the thin - Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn - Naught but that votive sign for thy return-- - That single suppliant sign for thy return, - Return, return. - - Return, return! lest haply, love, or e’er - Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, - And thou, who thro’ the window didst discern - The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair - To find no wide eyes watching there, - No wither’d welcome waiting thy return! - A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, - The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, - Warm with the famish’d fire that lived to burn-- - Burn out its lingering life for thy return, - Its last of lingering life for thy return, - Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, - Return, return. - - -_767._ _A Chanted Calendar_ - - First came the primrose, - On the bank high, - Like a maiden looking forth - From the window of a tower - When the battle rolls below, - So look’d she, - And saw the storms go by. - Then came the wind-flower - In the valley left behind, - As a wounded maiden, pale - With purple streaks of woe, - When the battle has roll’d by - Wanders to and fro, - So totter’d she, - Dishevelled in the wind. - - Then came the daisies, - On the first of May, - Like a banner’d show’s advance - While the crowd runs by the way, - With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. - As a happy people come, - So came they, - As a happy people come - When the war has roll’d away, - With dance and tabor, pipe and drum. - And all make holiday. - - Then came the cowslip, - Like a dancer in the fair, - She spread her little mat of green, - And on it danced she. - With a fillet bound about her brow, - A fillet round her happy brow, - A golden fillet round her brow, - And rubies in her hair. - - -_768._ _Laus Deo_ - - In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands. - At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands. - The bed of state is hung with crape--the grand old bed where she was wed-- - And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed. - Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain’d door, - And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o’er the silent floor, - And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red; - ‘Touch him not,’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’ - ‘O my own dear mistress,’ the ancient Nurse did say, - ‘Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch’d him where he lay.’ - ‘Seven long days and seven long nights,‘the hoary Steward said; - ‘Seven long days and seven long nights,’ groan’d the Warrener gray; - ‘Seven,’ said the old Henchman, and bow’d his aged head; - ‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried,‘he is but newly dead!’ - Then a father Priest they sought, - The Priest that taught her all she knew, - And they told him of her loss. - ‘For she is mild and sweet of will, - She loved him, and his words are peace, - And he shall heal her ill.’ - But her watch she did not cease. - He bless’d her where she sat distraught, - And show’d her holy cross,-- - The cross she kiss’d from year to year-- - But she neither saw nor heard; - And said he in her deaf ear - All he had been wont to teach, - All she had been fond to hear, - Missall’d prayer, and solemn speech, - But she answer’d not a word. - Only when he turn’d to speak with those who wept about the bed, - ‘On your lives!’ she shriek’d and cried, ‘he is but newly dead!’ - Then how sadly he turn’d from her, it were wonderful to tell, - And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well, - And he lean’d o’er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low, - ‘He is not dead, but sleepeth,’ said the Priest, and smooth’d his brow. - ‘Sleepeth?’ said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face! - ‘He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.’ - ‘He is better,’ said the Priest, and call’d her maidens round. - With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child; - O Nurse!’ she sigh’d, ‘O Nurse!’ she cried, ‘O Nurse!’ and then she smiled, - And then she wept; with that they drew - About her, as of old; - Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, - Her trembling touch was cold; - But she said, ‘My maidens true, - No more weeping and well-away; - Let them kill the feast. - I would be happy in my soul. - “He is better,” saith the Priest; - He did but sleep the weary day, - And will waken whole. - Carry me to his dear side, - And let the halls be trim; - Whistly, whistly,’ said she, - ‘I am wan with watching and wail, - He must not wake to see me pale, - Let me sleep with him. - See you keep the tryst for me, - I would rest till he awake - And rise up like a bride. - But whistly, whistly!’ said she. - ‘Yet rejoice your Lord doth live; - And for His dear sake - Say _Laus, Domine_.’ - Silent they cast down their eyes, - And every breast a sob did rive, - She lifted her in wild surprise - And they dared not disobey. - ‘_Laus Deo_,’ said the Steward, hoary when her days were new; - ‘_Laus Deo_,’ said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows; - ‘_Laus Deo_,’ the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee. - The old Nurse moved her lips in vain, - And she stood among the train - Like a dead tree shaking dew. - Then the Priest he softly slept - Midway in the little band, - And he took the Lady’s hand. - ‘_Laus Deo_,’ he said aloud, - ‘_Laus Deo_,’ they said again, - Yet again, and yet again, - Humbly cross’d and lowly bow’d, - Till in wont and fear it rose - To the Sabbath strain. - - - But she neither turn’d her head - Nor ‘Whistly, whistly,’ said she. - Her hands were folded as in grace, - We laid her with her ancient race - And all the village wept. - - -WILLIAM ALLINGHAM - -1824-1889 - - -_769._ _The Fairies_ - - - Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushy glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk, - Trooping all together; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather! - - Down along the rocky shore - Some make their home, - They live on crispy pancakes - Of yellow tide-foam; - Some in the reeds - Of the black mountain lake, - With frogs for their watch-dogs, - All night awake. - - High on the hill-top - The old King sits; - He is now so old and gray - He’s nigh lost his wits. - - - With a bridge of white mist - Columbkill he crosses, - On his stately journeys - From Slieveleague to Rosses; - Or going up with music - On cold starry nights - To sup with the Queen - Of the gay Northern Lights. - - They stole little Bridget - For seven years long; - When she came down again - Her friends were all gone. - They took her lightly back, - Between the night and morrow, - They thought that she was fast asleep, - But she was dead with sorrow. - They have kept her ever since - Deep within the lake, - On a bed of flag-leaves, - Watching till she wake. - - By the craggy hill-side, - Through the mosses bare, - They have planted thorn-trees - For pleasure here and there. - If any man so daring - As dig them up in spite, - He shall find their sharpest thorns - In his bed at night. - - Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushy glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk, - Trooping all together; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather! - - - - -GEORGE MAC DONALD - -1824-1905 - - -_770._ _That Holy Thing_ - - They all were looking for a king - To slay their foes and lift them high: - Thou cam’st, a little baby thing - That made a woman cry. - - O Son of Man, to right my lot - Naught but Thy presence can avail; - Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, - Nor on the sea Thy sail! - - My how or when Thou wilt not heed, - But come down Thine own secret stair, - That Thou mayst answer all my need-- - Yea, every bygone prayer. - - - - -DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI - -1828-1882 - - -_771._ _The Blessèd Damozel_ - - The blessèd Damozel lean’d out - From the gold bar of Heaven: - Her blue grave eyes were deeper much - Than a deep water, even. - She had three lilies in her hand, - And the stars in her hair were seven. - - - Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, - No wrought flowers did adorn, - But a white rose of Mary’s gift - On the neck meetly worn; - And her hair, lying down her back, - Was yellow like ripe corn. - - Herseem’d she scarce had been a day - One of God’s choristers; - The wonder was not yet quite gone - From that still look of hers; - Albeit, to them she left, her day - Had counted as ten years. - - (To _one_ it is ten years of years: -... Yet now, here in this place, - Surely she lean’d o’er me,--her hair - Fell all about my face.... - Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. - The whole year sets apace.) - - It was the terrace of God’s house - That she was standing on,-- - By God built over the sheer depth - In which Space is begun; - So high, that looking downward thence, - She scarce could see the sun. - - It lies from Heaven across the flood - Of ether, as a bridge. - Beneath, the tides of day and night - With flame and darkness ridge - The void, as low as where this earth - Spins like a fretful midge. - - - But in those tracts, with her, it was - The peace of utter light - And silence. For no breeze may stir - Along the steady flight - Of seraphim; no echo there, - Beyond all depth or height. - - Heard hardly, some of her new friends, - Playing at holy games, - Spake, gentle-mouth’d, among themselves, - Their virginal chaste names; - And the souls, mounting up to God, - Went by her like thin flames. - - And still she bow’d herself, and stoop’d - Into the vast waste calm; - Till her bosom’s pressure must have made - The bar she lean’d on warm, - And the lilies lay as if asleep - Along her bended arm. - - From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw - Time, like a pulse, shake fierce - Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, - In that steep gulf, to pierce - The swarm; and then she spoke, as when - The stars sang in their spheres. - - ‘I wish that he were come to me, - For he will come,’ she said. - ‘Have I not pray’d in solemn Heaven? - On earth, has he not pray’d? - Are not two prayers a perfect strength? - And shall I feel afraid? - - - ‘When round his head the aureole clings, - And he is clothed in white, - I’ll take his hand, and go with him - To the deep wells of light, - And we will step down as to a stream - And bathe there in God’s sight. - - ‘We two will stand beside that shrine, - Occult, withheld, untrod, - Whose lamps tremble continually - With prayer sent up to God; - And where each need, reveal’d, expects - Its patient period. - - ‘We two will lie i’ the shadow of - That living mystic tree - Within whose secret growth the Dove - Sometimes is felt to be, - While every leaf that His plumes touch - Saith His name audibly. - - ‘And I myself will teach to him,-- - I myself, lying so,-- - The songs I sing here; which his mouth - Shall pause in, hush’d and slow, - Finding some knowledge at each pause, - And some new thing to know.’ - - (Alas! to _her_ wise simple mind - These things were all but known - Before: they trembled on her sense,-- - Her voice had caught their tone. - Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas - For life wrung out alone! - - - Alas, and though the end were reach’d?... - Was _thy_ part understood - Or borne in trust? And for her sake - Shall this too be found good?-- - May the close lips that knew not prayer - Praise ever, though they would?) - - ‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves - Where the lady Mary is, - With her five handmaidens, whose names - Are five sweet symphonies:-- - Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, - Margaret and Rosalys. - - ‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks - And bosoms coverèd; - Into the fine cloth, white like flame, - Weaving the golden thread, - To fashion the birth-robes for them - Who are just born, being dead. - - ‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb. - Then I will lay my cheek - To his, and tell about our love, - Not once abash’d or weak: - And the dear Mother will approve - My pride, and let me speak. - - ‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, - To Him round whom all souls - Kneel--the unnumber’d solemn heads - Bow’d with their aureoles: - And Angels, meeting us, shall sing - To their citherns and citoles. - - - ‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord - Thus much for him and me:-- - To have more blessing than on earth - In nowise; but to be - As then we were,--being as then - At peace. Yea, verily. - - ‘Yea, verily; when he is come - We will do thus and thus: - Till this my vigil seem quite strange - And almost fabulous; - We two will live at once, one life; - And peace shall be with us.’ - - She gazed, and listen’d, and then said, - Less sad of speech than mild,-- - ‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased: - The light thrill’d past her, fill’d - With Angels, in strong level lapse. - Her eyes pray’d, and she smiled. - - (I saw her smile.) But soon their flight - Was vague ’mid the poised spheres. - And then she cast her arms along - The golden barriers, - And laid her face between her hands, - And wept. (I heard her tears.) - - - - -GEORGE MEREDITH - -1828-1909 - - -_772._ _Love in the Valley_ - - Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, - Couch’d with her arms behind her golden head, - Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, - Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. - Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, - Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, - Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: - Then would she hold me and never let me go? - - * * * * * - - Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, - Swift as the swallow along the river’s light - Circleting the surface to meet his mirror’d winglets, - Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. - Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, - Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, - She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, - Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! - - * * * * * - - When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, - Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, - Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, - More love should I have, and much less care. - When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, - Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, - Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, - I should miss but one for many boys and girls. - - * * * * * - - - Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows - Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. - No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: - Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. - Deals she an unkindness, ’tis but her rapid measure, - Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: - Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones - Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. - - * * * * * - - Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping - Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. - Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, - Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown evejar. - Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: - So were it with me if forgetting could be will’d. - Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, - Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill’d. - - * * * * * - - Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, - Arm in arm, all against the raying West, - Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, - Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess’d. - Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking - Whisper’d the world was; morning light is she. - Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; - Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. - - * * * * * - - Happy happy time, when the white star hovers - Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, - Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, - Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. - Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens - Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. - Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; - Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. - - * * * * * - - Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting - Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, - Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter - Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. - Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather’d bosom - Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend - Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset - Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. - - * * * * * - - When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window - Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, - Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily - Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. - When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle - In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, - Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily - Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. - - * * * * * - - Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash’d twilight, - Low-lidded twilight, o’er the valley’s brim, - Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, - Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. - Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, - Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. - Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever - Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. - - * * * * * - - - All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; - Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. - My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, - Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. - Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, - Coming the rose: and unaware a cry - Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, - Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why. - - * * * * * - - Kerchief’d head and chin she darts between her tulips, - Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain: - Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel - She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. - Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: - She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. - So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder - Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth. - - * * * * * - - Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, - Train’d to stand in rows, and asking if they please. - I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: - O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. - You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, - Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, - They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, - You are of life’s, on the banks that line the way. - - * * * * * - - Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, - Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. - Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine - Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. - Sweeter unpossessed, have I said of her my sweetest? - Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, - Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine - Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. - - * * * * * - - Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; - Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; - Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; - Blue-neck’d the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. - Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; - Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: - Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, - Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. - - * * * * * - - This I may know: her dressing and undressing - Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport - Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder - Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port - White sails furl; or on the ocean borders - White sails lean along the waves leaping green. - Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight - Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. - - * * * * * - - Front door and back of the moss’d old farmhouse - Open with the morn, and in a breezy link - Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow’d orchard, - Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. - Busy in the grass the early sun of summer - Swarms, and the blackbird’s mellow fluting notes - Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: - Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats! - - * * * * * - - - Cool was the woodside; cool as her white dairy - Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, - Cricketing below, rush’d brown and red with sunshine; - O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! - Spying from the farm, herself she fetch’d a pitcher - Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. - Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, - Said, ‘I will kiss you’: she laugh’d and lean’d her cheek. - - * * * * * - - Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof - Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. - Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway - Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. - Cows flap a slow tail knee-deep in the river, - Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. - Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, - Lightning may come, straight rains and tiger sky. - - * * * * * - - O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! - O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! - O the treasure-tresses one another over - Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! - Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet - Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, - Gathered, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! - O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! - - * * * * * - - Large and smoky red the sun’s cold disk drops, - Clipped by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: - Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, - Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. - Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree - Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. - Here may life on death or death on life be painted. - Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! - - * * * * * - - Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber - Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. - ‘When she was a tiny,’ one agèd woman quavers, - Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. - Faults she had once as she learn’d to run and tumbled: - Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. - Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy - Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. - - Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, - Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise - High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; - Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. - Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, - Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.-- - Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, - Arms up, she dropp’d: our souls were in our names. - - * * * * * - - Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. - Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, - Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, - Felt the girdle loosen’d, seen the tresses fly. - Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. - Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing’d Spring! - Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, - Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. - - * * * * * - - - Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April - Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you - Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, - Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: - Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: - Fair as in image my seraph love appears - Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: - Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. - - * * * * * - - Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, - I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. - Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, - Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. - Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; - Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; - Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: - All seem to know what is for heaven alone. - - -_773._ _Phœbus with Admetus_ - - When by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, - Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God, - Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked, - Who: and what a track show’d the upturn’d sod! - Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe - Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide, - How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere, - Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - - Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch’d in ranks: - Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray: - Scarce the stony lizard suck’d hollows in his flanks: - Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. - Sudden bow’d the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard, - Lengthen’d ran the grasses, the sky grew slate: - Then amid a swift flight of wing’d seed white as curd, - Clear of limb a Youth smote the master’s gate. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - Water, first of singers, o’er rocky mount and mead, - First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, - Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed, - Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. - Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool, - Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, - Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool - Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: - Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: - Big of heart we labour’d at storing mighty yields, - Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! - Hand-like rush’d the vintage; we strung the bellied skins - Plump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose: - Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; - Gentle beasties through push’d a cold long nose. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm’d the slender shaft: - Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teeth - Grin against his will, trapp’d by masterstrokes of craft; - Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! - Safe the tender lambs tugg’d the teats, and winter sped - Whirl’d before the crocus, the year’s new gold. - Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead - Redden’d through his feathers for our dear fold. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darkened - That had thee here obscure. - - Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above: - Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb’d air! - Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love - Ease because the creature was all too fair. - Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good, - Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. - He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood - Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp’d mast. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, - Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame. - Ere the string was tighten’d we heard the mellow tone, - After he had taught how the sweet sounds came. - Stretch’d about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you see - Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. - So began contention to give delight and be - Excellent in things aim’d to make life kind. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats, - You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! - Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! - Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! - You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays, - You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: - He has been our fellow, the morning of our days; - Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. - God! of whom music - And song and blood are pure, - The day is never darken’d - That had thee here obscure. - - -_774._ _Tardy Spring_ - - Now the North wind ceases, - The warm South-west awakes; - Swift fly the fleeces, - Thick the blossom-flakes. - - Now hill to hill has made the stride, - And distance waves the without-end: - Now in the breast a door flings wide; - Our farthest smiles, our next is friend. - And song of England’s rush of flowers - Is this full breeze with mellow stops, - That spins the lark for shine, for showers; - He drinks his hurried flight, and drops. - The stir in memory seem these things, - Which out of moisten’d turf and clay, - Astrain for light push patient rings, - Or leap to find the waterway. - ’Tis equal to a wonder done, - Whatever simple lives renew - Their tricks beneath the father sun, - As though they caught a broken clue: - So hard was earth an eyewink back; - But now the common life has come, - The blotting cloud a dappled pack, - The grasses one vast underhum. - A City clothed in snow and soot, - With lamps for day in ghostly rows, - Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot, - The river that reflective flows: - And there did fog down crypts of street - Play spectre upon eye and mouth:-- - Their faces are a glass to greet - This magic of the whirl for South. - A burly joy each creature swells - With sound of its own hungry quest; - Earth has to fill her empty wells, - And speed the service of the nest; - The phantom of the snow-wreath melt, - That haunts the farmer’s look abroad, - Who sees what tomb a white night built, - Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod. - For iron Winter held her firm; - Across her sky he laid his hand; - And bird he starved, he stiffen’d worm; - A sightless heaven, a shaven land. - Her shivering Spring feign’d fast asleep. - The bitten buds dared not unfold: - We raced on roads and ice to keep - Thought of the girl we love from cold. - - But now the North wind ceases, - The warm South-west awakes, - The heavens are out in fleeces, - And earth’s green banner shakes. - - -_775._ _Love’s Grave_ - - Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, - Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back’d wave! - Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave; - Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, - And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: - In hearing of the ocean, and in sight - Of those ribb’d wind-streaks running into white. - If I the death of Love had deeply plann’d, - I never could have made it half so sure, - As by the unblest kisses which upbraid - The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! - ’Tis morning: but no morning can restore - What we have forfeited. I see no sin: - The wrong is mix’d. In tragic life, God wot, - No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: - We are betray’d by what is false within. - - -_776._ _Lucifer in Starlight_ - - On a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose. - Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend - Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen’d, - Where sinners hugg’d their spectre of repose. - Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. - And now upon his western wing he lean’d, - Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careen’d, - Now the black planet shadow’d Arctic snows. - Soaring through wider zones that prick’d his scars - With memory of the old revolt from Awe, - He reach’d a middle height, and at the stars, - Which are the brain of heaven, he look’d, and sank. - Around the ancient track march’d, rank on rank, - The army of unalterable law. - - - - -ALEXANDER SMITH - -1829-1867 - - -_777._ _Love_ - - The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, - The churlish thistles, scented briers, - The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, - Down to the central fires, - - Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea - Filling all the abysses dim - Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally - Suns and their bright broods swim. - - This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, - Is sternly just to sun and grain; - ’Tis laving at this moment Saturn’s sides, - ’Tis in my blood and brain. - - - All things have something more than barren use; - There is a scent upon the brier, - A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, - Cold morns are fringed with fire. - - The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers; - In music dies poor human speech, - And into beauty blow those hearts of ours - When Love is born in each. - - Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, - Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give. - The world is very lovely. O my God, - I thank Thee that I live! - - -_778._ _Barbara_ - - On the Sabbath-day, - Through the churchyard old and gray, - Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; - And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, - ’Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ-calms, - ’Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, - I stood careless, Barbara. - - My heart was otherwhere, - While the organ shook the air, - And the priest, with outspread hands, bless’d the people with a prayer; - But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine - Gleam’d a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine-- - Gleam’d and vanish’d in a moment--O that face was surely thine - Out of heaven, Barbara! - - O pallid, pallid face! - O earnest eyes of grace! - When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. - You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: - The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist-- - A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss’d, - That wild morning, Barbara. - - I searched, in my despair, - Sunny noon and midnight air; - I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. - O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, - My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone-- - Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, - You were sleeping, Barbara. - - ’Mong angels, do you think - Of the precious golden link - I clasp’d around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? - Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, - Was emptied of its music, and we watch’d, through lattice-bars, - The silent midnight heaven creeping o’er us with its stars, - Till the day broke, Barbara? - - - In the years I’ve changed; - Wild and far my heart has ranged, - And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; - But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack’d: - I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact-- - Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. - Still I love you, Barbara. - - Yet, Love, I am unblest; - With many doubts opprest, - I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest. - Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, - The hunger of my soul were still’d; for Death hath told you more - Than the melancholy world doth know--things deeper than all lore - You could teach me, Barbara. - - In vain, in vain, in vain! - You will never come again. - There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; - The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, - Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea; - There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee-- - Barbara! - - - - -CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI - -1830-1894 - - -_779._ _Bride Song_ - -FROM ‘THE PRINCE’S PROGRESS’ - - Too late for love, too late for joy, - Too late, too late! - You loiter’d on the road too long, - You trifled at the gate: - The enchanted dove upon her branch - Died without a mate; - The enchanted princess in her tower - Slept, died, behind the grate; - Her heart was starving all this while - You made it wait. - - Ten years ago, five years ago, - One year ago, - Even then you had arrived in time, - Though somewhat slow; - Then you had known her living face - Which now you cannot know: - The frozen fountain would have leap’d. - The buds gone on to blow, - The warm south wind would have awaked - To melt the snow. - - Is she fair now as she lies? - Once she was fair; - Meet queen for any kingly king, - With gold-dust on her hair. - Now there are poppies in her locks, - White poppies she must wear; - Must wear a veil to shroud her face - And the want graven there: - Or is the hunger fed at length, - Cast off the care? - - We never saw her with a smile - Or with a frown; - Her bed seem’d never soft to her, - Though toss’d of down; - She little heeded what she wore, - Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; - We think her white brows often ached - Beneath her crown, - Till silvery hairs show’d in her locks - That used to be so brown. - - We never heard her speak in haste: - Her tones were sweet, - And modulated just so much - As it was meet: - Her heart sat silent through the noise - And concourse of the street. - There was no hurry in her hands, - No hurry in her feet; - There was no bliss drew nigh to her, - That she might run to greet. - - You should have wept her yesterday, - Wasting upon her bed: - But wherefore should you weep to-day - That she is dead? - Lo, we who love weep not to-day, - But crown her royal head. - Let be these poppies that we strew, - Your roses are too red: - Let be these poppies, not for you - Cut down and spread. - - -_780._ _A Birthday_ - - My heart is like a singing bird - Whose nest is in a water’d shoot; - My heart is like an apple-tree - Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; - My heart is like a rainbow shell - That paddles in a halcyon sea; - My heart is gladder than all these, - Because my love is come to me. - - Raise me a daïs of silk and down; - Hang it with vair and purple dyes; - Carve it in doves and pomegranates, - And peacocks with a hundred eyes; - Work it in gold and silver grapes, - In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; - Because the birthday of my life - Is come, my love is come to me. - - -_781._ _Song_ - - When I am dead, my dearest, - Sing no sad songs for me; - Plant thou no roses at my head, - Nor shady cypress tree: - Be the green grass above me - With showers and dewdrops wet; - And if thou wilt, remember. - And if thou wilt, forget. - - I shall not see the shadows, - I shall not feel the rain; - I shall not hear the nightingale - Sing on, as if in pain; - And dreaming through the twilight - That doth not rise nor set, - Haply I may remember, - And haply may forget. - - -_782._ _Twice_ - - I took my heart in my hand - (O my love, O my love), - I said: Let me fall or stand, - Let me live or die, - But this once hear me speak - (O my love, O my love)-- - Yet a woman’s words are weak; - You should speak, not I. - - You took my heart in your hand - With a friendly smile, - With a critical eye you scann’d, - Then set it down, - And said, ‘It is still unripe, - Better wait awhile; - Wait while the skylarks pipe, - Till the corn grows brown.’ - - - As you set it down it broke-- - Broke, but I did not wince; - I smiled at the speech you spoke, - At your judgement I heard: - But I have not often smiled - Since then, nor question’d since, - Nor cared for cornflowers wild, - Nor sung with the singing bird. - - I take my heart in my hand, - O my God, O my God, - My broken heart in my hand: - Thou hast seen, judge Thou. - My hope was written on sand, - O my God, O my God: - Now let thy judgement stand-- - Yea, judge me now. - - This contemn’d of a man, - This marr’d one heedless day, - This heart take thou to scan - Both within and without: - Refine with fire its gold, - Purge Thou its dross away-- - Yea, hold it in Thy hold, - Whence none can pluck it out. - - I take my heart in my hand-- - I shall not die, but live-- - Before Thy face I stand; - I, for Thou callest such: - All that I have I bring, - All that I am I give, - Smile Thou and I shall sing, - But shall not question much. - - -_783._ _Uphill_ - - Does the road wind uphill all the way? - Yes, to the very end. - Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? - From morn to night, my friend. - - But is there for the night a resting-place? - A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. - May not the darkness hide it from my face? - You cannot miss that inn. - - Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? - Those who have gone before. - Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? - They will not keep you waiting at that door. - - Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? - Of labour you shall find the sum. - Will there be beds for me and all who seek? - Yea, beds for all who come. - - -_784._ _Passing Away_ - - Passing away, saith the World, passing away: - Chances, beauty and youth sapp’d day by day: - Thy life never continueth in one stay. - Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray - That hath won neither laurel nor bay? - I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: - Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay - On my bosom for aye. - Then I answer’d: Yea. - - - Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: - With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play, - Hearken what the past doth witness and say: - Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, - A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. - At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day, - Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: - Watch thou and pray. - Then I answer’d: Yea. - - Passing away, saith my God, passing away: - Winter passeth after the long delay: - New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, - Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven’s May. - Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray. - Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day; - My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say-- - Then I answer’d: Yea. - - -_785._ _Marvel of Marvels_ - - Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold - With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; - Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, - Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, - Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. - O saints, my belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould, - Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll’d, - See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold - Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,-- - _The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!_ - - Cold it is, my belovèd, since your funeral bell was toll’d: - Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold! - - -_786._ _Is it Well with the Child?_ - - Safe where I cannot die yet, - Safe where I hope to lie too, - Safe from the fume and the fret; - You, and you, - Whom I never forget. - Safe from the frost and the snow, - Safe from the storm and the sun, - Safe where the seeds wait to grow - One by one, - And to come back in blow. - - -_787._ _Remember_ - - Remember me when I am gone away, - Gone far away into the silent land; - When you can no more hold me by the hand, - Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. - Remember me when no more day by day - You tell me of our future that you plann’d: - Only remember me; you understand - It will be late to counsel then or pray. - Yet if you should forget me for a while - And afterwards remember, do not grieve: - For if the darkness and corruption leave - A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, - Better by far you should forget and smile - Than that you should remember and be sad. - - -_788._ _Aloof_ - - The irresponsive silence of the land, - The irresponsive sounding of the sea, - Speak both one message of one sense to me:-- - Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand - Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band - Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; - But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? - What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand? - And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, - And sometimes I remember days of old - When fellowship seem’d not so far to seek, - And all the world and I seem’d much less cold, - And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold, - And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak. - - -_789._ _Rest_ - - O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; - Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; - Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth - With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. - She hath no questions, she hath no replies, - Hush’d in and curtain’d with a blessèd dearth - Of all that irk’d her from the hour of birth; - With stillness that is almost Paradise. - Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, - Silence more musical than any song; - Even her very heart has ceased to stir: - Until the morning of Eternity - Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; - And when she wakes she will not think it long. - - - - -THOMAS EDWARD BROWN - -1830-1897 - - -_790._ _Dora_ - - She knelt upon her brother’s grave, - My little girl of six years old-- - He used to be so good and brave, - The sweetest lamb of all our fold; - He used to shout, he used to sing, - Of all our tribe the little king-- - And so unto the turf her ear she laid, - To hark if still in that dark place he play’d. - No sound! no sound! - Death’s silence was profound; - And horror crept - Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. - If this is as it ought to be, - My God, I leave it unto Thee. - - -_791._ _Jessie_ - - When Jessie comes with her soft breast, - And yields the golden keys, - Then is it as if God caress’d - Twin babes upon His knees-- - Twin babes that, each to other press’d, - Just feel the Father’s arms, wherewith they both are bless’d. - - But when I think if we must part, - And all this personal dream be fled-- - O then my heart! O then my useless heart! - Would God that thou wert dead-- - A clod insensible to joys and ills-- - A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills! - - -_792._ _Salve!_ - - To live within a cave--it is most good; - But, if God make a day, - And some one come, and say, - ‘Lo! I have gather’d faggots in the wood!’ - E’en let him stay, - And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood! - - So sit till morning! when the light is grown - That he the path can read, - Then bid the man God-speed! - His morning is not thine: yet must thou own - They have a cheerful warmth--those ashes on the stone. - - -_793_. _My Garden_ - - A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! - Rose plot, - Fringed pool, - Fern’d grot-- - The veriest school - Of peace; and yet the fool - Contends that God is not-- - Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? - Nay, but I have a sign; - ’Tis very sure God walks in mine. - - - - -EDWARD ROBERT BULWER LYTTON, EARL OF LYTTON - -1831-1892 - - -_794._ _A Night in Italy_ - - Sweet are the rosy memories of the lips - That first kiss’d ours, albeit they kiss no more: - Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships, - Altho’ they leave us on a lonely shore: - Sweet are familiar songs, tho’ Music dips - Her hollow shell in Thought’s forlornest wells: - And sweet, tho’ sad, the sound of midnight bells - When the oped casement with the night-rain drips. - - There is a pleasure which is born of pain: - The grave of all things hath its violet. - Else why, thro’ days which never come again, - Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret? - Why put the posy in the cold dead hand? - Why plant the rose above the lonely grave? - Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave? - Why deem the dead more near in native land? - - Thy name hath been a silence in my life - So long, it falters upon language now, - O more to me than sister or than wife, - Once ... and now--nothing! It is hard to know - That such things have been, and are not; and yet - Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure, - And goes upon its business and its pleasure, - And knows not all the depths of its regret.... - - Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do - The snake’s brood theirs in spring! and be once more - Wholly renew’d, to dwell i’ the time that’s new, - With no reiterance of those pangs of yore. - Peace, peace! My wild song will go wandering - Too wantonly, down paths a private pain - Hath trodden bare. What was it jarr’d the strain? - Some crush’d illusion, left with crumpled wing - - Tangled in Music’s web of twinèd strings-- - That started that false note, and crack’d the tune - In its beginning. Ah, forgotten things - Stumble back strangely! and the ghost of June - Stands by December’s fire, cold, cold! and puts - The last spark out.--How could I sing aright - With those old airs haunting me all the night - And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts? - - For back she comes, and moves reproachfully, - The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft - (Cruel to the last!) as tho’ ’twere I, not she, - That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left - Memory comfortless.--Away! away! - Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, - Hopeless regret! In thinking of these things - Some men have lost their minds, and others may. - - Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour! - One deep, deep draught of the departed time! - O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power, - To beat and breathe thro’ all the valves of rhyme! - Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that art - The cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long, - Brim all the vacant chalices of song - With health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart - One draught of what I shall not taste again - Save when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm’d,-- - One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain, - And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm’d, - Love’s footsteps thro’ the waning Past to explore - Undaunted; and to carve in the wan light - Of Hope’s last outposts, on Song’s utmost height, - The sad resemblance of an hour or more. - - Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy! - Love in the land where love most lovely seems! - Land of my love, tho’ I be far from thee, - Lend, for love’s sake, the light of thy moonbeams, - The spirit of thy cypress-groves and all - Thy dark-eyed beauty for a little while - To my desire. Yet once more let her smile - Fall o’er me: o’er me let her long hair fall.... - - Under the blessèd darkness unreproved - We were alone, in that best hour of time - Which first reveal’d to us how much we loved, - ’Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublime - Hung trembling o’er us. At her feet I knelt, - And gazed up from her feet into her eyes. - Her face was bow’d: we breathed each other’s sighs: - We did not speak: not move: we look’d: we felt. - - The night said not a word. The breeze was dead. - The leaf lay without whispering on the tree, - As I lay at her feet. Droop’d was her head: - One hand in mine: and one still pensively - Went wandering through my hair. We were together. - How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream, - Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream: - Whither? Together: then what matter whither? - - It was enough for me to clasp her hand: - To blend with her love-looks my own: no more. - Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land, - Blown by faint winds about a magic shore) - To realize, in each mysterious feeling, - The droop of the warm cheek so near my own: - The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown: - Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling. - - How little know they life’s divinest bliss, - That know not to possess and yet refrain! - Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss: - Grasp it--a few poor grains of dust remain. - See how those floating flowers, the butterflies, - Hover the garden thro’, and take no root! - Desire for ever hath a flying foot: - Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies. - - Close not thy hand upon the innocent joy - That trusts itself within thy reach. It may, - Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroy - The wingèd wanderer. Let it go or stay. - Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem. - Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold. - Blessèd are those that spare, and that withhold; - Because the whole world shall be trusted them. - - The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling Nymph - That culls her flowers beside the precipice - Or dips her shining ankles in the lymph: - But, just when she must perish or be his, - Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shore - Gains some new fountain; or the lilied lawn - A rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun! - To thee she shall be changed for evermore. - - Chase not too close the fading rapture. Leave - To Love his long auroras, slowly seen. - Be ready to release as to receive. - Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, between - Whose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh. - Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own, - If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknown - Is life to love, religion, poetry. - - The moon had set. There was not any light, - Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars pale - In outer air, and what by fits made bright - Hot oleanders in a rosy vale - Searched by the lamping fly, whose little spark - Went in and out, like passion’s bashful hope. - Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slope - A ponderous shoulder sunward thro’ the dark. - - And the night pass’d in beauty like a dream. - Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny, - With her last star descending in the gleam - Of the cold morrow, from the emptied sky. - The hour, the distance from her old self, all - The novelty and loneness of the place - Had left a lovely awe on that fair face, - And all the land grew strange and magical. - - As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch’d hill, - Heavy with all heaven’s tears, for all earth’s care, - She droop’d unto me, without force or will, - And sank upon my bosom, murmuring there - A woman’s inarticulate passionate words. - O moment of all moments upon earth! - O life’s supreme! How worth, how wildly worth, - Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords. - - What even Eternity can not restore! - When all the ends of life take hands and meet - Round centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more, - Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweet - Be mingled so in the pale after-years! - One hour of life immortal spirits possess. - This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, - And parching passion, and perplexing tears. - - Sad is it, that we cannot even keep - That hour to sweeten life’s last toil: but Youth - Grasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep, - We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth, - They fall upon our work which must be done. - And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking: - Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching: - And follow the long pathway all alone. - - -_795._ _The Last Wish_ - - Since all that I can ever do for thee - Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be: - That thou mayst never guess nor ever see - The all-endured this nothing-done costs me. - - - - -JAMES THOMSON - -1834-1882 - - -_796._ _In the Train_ - - As we rush, as we rush in the Train, - The trees and the houses go wheeling back, - But the starry heavens above the plain - Come flying on our track. - - All the beautiful stars of the sky, - The silver doves of the forest of Night, - Over the dull earth swarm and fly, - Companions of our flight. - - We will rush ever on without fear; - Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet! - For we carry the Heavens with us, dear, - While the Earth slips from our feet! - - -_797._ _Sunday up the River_ - - My love o’er the water bends dreaming; - It glideth and glideth away: - She sees there her own beauty, gleaming - Through shadow and ripple and spray. - - O tell her, thou murmuring river, - As past her your light wavelets roll, - How steadfast that image for ever - Shines pure in pure depths of my soul. - - -_798._ _Gifts_ - - Give a man a horse he can ride, - Give a man a boat he can sail; - And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, - On sea nor shore shall fail. - - Give a man a pipe he can smoke, - Give a man a book he can read: - And his home is bright with a calm delight, - Though the room be poor indeed. - - Give a man a girl he can love, - As I, O my love, love thee; - And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, - At home, on land, on sea. - - -_799._ _The Vine_ - - The wine of Love is music, - And the feast of Love is song: - And when Love sits down to the banquet, - Love sits long: - - Sits long and arises drunken, - But not with the feast and the wine; - He reeleth with his own heart, - That great, rich Vine. - - - - -WILLIAM MORRIS - -1834-1896 - - -_800._ _Summer Dawn_ - - Pray but one prayer for me ’twixt thy closed lips, - Think but one thought of me up in the stars. - The summer night waneth, the morning light slips - Faint and gray ’twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, - That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: - Patient and colourless, though Heaven’s gold - Waits to float through them along with the sun. - Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, - The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold - The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; - Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn - Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. - Speak but one word to me over the corn, - Over the tender, bow’d locks of the corn. - - -_801._ _Love is enough_ - - Love is enough: though the World be a-waning, - And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, - Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover - The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, - Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, - And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over, - Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; - The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter - These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover. - - -_802._ _The Nymph’s Song to Hylas_ - - I know a little garden-close - Set thick with lily and red rose, - Where I would wander if I might - From dewy dawn to dewy night, - And have one with me wandering. - - And though within it no birds sing, - And though no pillar’d house is there, - And though the apple boughs are bare - Of fruit and blossom, would to God, - Her feet upon the green grass trod, - And I beheld them as before! - - There comes a murmur from the shore, - And in the place two fair streams are, - Drawn from the purple hills afar, - Drawn down unto the restless sea; - The hills whose flowers ne’er fed the bee, - The shore no ship has ever seen, - Still beaten by the billows green, - Whose murmur comes unceasingly - Unto the place for which I cry. - - For which I cry both day and night, - For which I let slip all delight, - That maketh me both deaf and blind, - Careless to win, unskill’d to find, - And quick to lose what all men seek. - - Yet tottering as I am, and weak, - Still have I left a little breath - To seek within the jaws of death - An entrance to that happy place; - To seek the unforgotten face - Once seen, once kiss’d, once reft from me - Anigh the murmuring of the sea. - - - - -RODEN BERKELEY WRIOTHESLEY NOEL - -1834-1894 - - -_803._ _The Water-Nymph and the Boy_ - - I flung me round him, - I drew him under; - I clung, I drown’d him, - My own white wonder!... - - Father and mother, - Weeping and wild, - Came to the forest, - Calling the child, - Came from the palace, - Down to the pool, - Calling my darling, - My beautiful! - Under the water, - Cold and so pale! - Could it be love made - Beauty to fail? - - Ah me for mortals! - In a few moons, - If I had left him, - After some Junes - He would have faded, - Faded away, - He, the young monarch, whom - All would obey, - Fairer than day; - Alien to springtime, - Joyless and gray, - He would have faded, - Faded away, - Moving a mockery, - Scorn’d of the day! - Now I have taken him - All in his prime, - Saved from slow poisoning - Pitiless Time, - Fill’d with his happiness, - One with the prime, - Saved from the cruel - Dishonour of Time. - Laid him, my beautiful, - Laid him to rest, - Loving, adorable, - Softly to rest, - Here in my crystalline, - Here in my breast! - - -_804._ _The Old_ - - They are waiting on the shore - For the bark to take them home: - They will toil and grieve no more; - The hour for release hath come. - - All their long life lies behind - Like a dimly blending dream: - There is nothing left to bind - To the realms that only seem. - - They are waiting for the boat; - There is nothing left to do: - What was near them grows remote, - Happy silence falls like dew; - Now the shadowy bark is come, - And the weary may go home. - - By still water they would rest - In the shadow of the tree: - After battle sleep is best, - After noise, tranquillity. - - - - -THOMAS ASHE - -1836-1889 - - -_805._ _Meet We no Angels, Pansie?_ - - Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, - In white, to find her lover; - The grass grew proud beneath her feet, - The green elm-leaves above her:-- - Meet we no angels, Pansie? - - She said, ‘We meet no angels now’; - And soft lights stream’d upon her; - And with white hand she touch’d a bough; - She did it that great honour:-- - What! meet no angels, Pansie? - - O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, - Down-dropp’d brown eyes, so tender! - Then what said I? Gallant replies - Seem flattery, and offend her:-- - But--meet no angels, Pansie? - - -_806._ _To Two Bereaved_ - - You must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, - ’Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven. - Alas, for me ’tis hard my grief to rule, - Who only met her as she went to school; - Who never heard the little lips so sweet - Say even ‘Good-morning,’ though our eyes would meet - As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh, - Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I, - Who never clasp’d the small hands any day! - Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray. - - - - -THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON - -1836-1914 - - -_807._ _Wassail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern_ - - Christmas knows a merry, merry place, - Where he goes with fondest face, - Brightest eye, brightest hair: - Tell the Mermaid where is that one place, - Where? - - _Raleigh._ - - ’Tis by Devon’s glorious halls, - Whence, dear Ben, I come again: - Bright of golden roofs and walls-- - El Dorado’s rare domain-- - Seem those halls when sunlight launches - Shafts of gold thro’ leafless branches, - Where the winter’s feathery mantle blanches - Field and farm and lane. - - CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. - - _Drayton._ - - ’Tis where Avon’s wood-sprites weave - Through the boughs a lace of rime, - While the bells of Christmas Eve - Fling for Will the Stratford-chime - O’er the river-flags emboss’d - Rich with flowery runes of frost-- - O’er the meads where snowy tufts are toss’d-- - Strains of olden time. - - CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. - - _Shakespeare’s Friend._ - - ’Tis, methinks, on any ground - Where our Shakespeare’s feet are set. - There smiles Christmas, holly-crown’d - With his blithest coronet: - Friendship’s face he loveth well: - ’Tis a countenance whose spell - Sheds a balm o’er every mead and dell - Where we used to fret. - - CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. - - _Heywood._ - - More than all the pictures, Ben, - Winter weaves by wood or stream, - Christmas loves our London, when - Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam-- - Clouds like these, that, curling, take - Forms of faces gone, and wake - Many a lay from lips we loved, and make - London like a dream. - - CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c. - - _Ben Jonson._ - - Love’s old songs shall never die, - Yet the new shall suffer proof: - Love’s old drink of Yule brew I - Wassail for new love’s behoof. - Drink the drink I brew, and sing - Till the berried branches swing, - Till our song make all the Mermaid ring-- - Yea, from rush to roof. - - FINALE. - - Christmas loves this merry, merry place; - Christmas saith with fondest face, - Brightest eye, brightest hair: - ‘Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace; - Rare!’ - - - - -ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE - -1837-1909 - - -_808._ _Chorus from ‘Atalanta’_ - - When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, - The mother of months in meadow or plain - Fills the shadows and windy places - With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; - And the brown bright nightingale amorous - Is half assuaged for Itylus, - For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. - The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. - - Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, - Maiden most perfect, lady of light, - With a noise of winds and many rivers, - With a clamour of waters, and with might; - Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, - Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; - For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, - Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. - - Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, - Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? - O that man’s heart were as fire and could spring to her, - Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! - For the stars and the winds are unto her - As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; - For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, - And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. - - For winter’s rains and ruins are over, - And all the season of snows and sins; - The days dividing lover and lover, - The light that loses, the night that wins; - And time remember’d is grief forgotten, - And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, - And in green underwood and cover - Blossom by blossom the spring begins. - - The full streams feed on flower of rushes, - Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, - The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes - From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; - And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, - And the oat is heard above the lyre, - And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes - The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. - - - And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, - Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, - Follows with dancing and fills with delight - The Mænad and the Bassarid; - And soft as lips that laugh and hide - The laughing leaves of the trees divide, - And screen from seeing and leave in sight - The god pursuing, the maiden hid. - - The ivy falls with the Bacchanal’s hair - Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; - The wild vine slipping down leaves bare - Her bright breast shortening into sighs; - The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, - But the berried ivy catches and cleaves - To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare - The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. - - -_809._ _Hertha_ - - I am that which began; - Out of me the years roll; - Out of me God and man; - I am equal and whole; - God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. - - Before ever land was, - Before ever the sea, - Or soft hair of the grass, - Or fair limbs of the tree, - Or the flesh-colour’d fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me. - - First life on my sources - First drifted and swam; - Out of me are the forces - That save it or damn; - Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I am. - - Beside or above me - Naught is there to go; - Love or unlove me, - Unknow me or know, - I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow. - - I the mark that is miss’d - And the arrows that miss, - I the mouth that is kiss’d - And the breath in the kiss, - The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is. - - I am that thing which blesses - My spirit elate; - That which caresses - With hands uncreate - My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate. - - But what thing dost thou now, - Looking Godward, to cry, - ‘I am I, thou art thou, - I am low, thou art high’? - I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I. - - I the grain and the furrow, - The plough-cloven clod - And the ploughshare drawn thorough, - The germ and the sod, - The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. - - Hast thou known how I fashion’d thee, - Child, underground? - Fire that impassion’d thee, - Iron that bound, - Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found? - - Canst thou say in thine heart - Thou hast seen with thine eyes - With what cunning of art - Thou wast wrought in what wise, - By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies? - - Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, - Knowledge of me? - Has the wilderness told it thee? - Hast thou learnt of the sea? - Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee? - - Have I set such a star - To show light on thy brow - That thou sawest from afar - What I show to thee now? - Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou? - - What is here, dost thou know it? - What was, hast thou known? - Prophet nor poet - Nor tripod nor throne - Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone. - - Mother, not maker, - Born, and not made; - Though her children forsake her, - Allured or afraid, - Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have pray’d. - - A creed is a rod, - And a crown is of night; - But this thing is God, - To be man with thy might, - To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light. - - I am in thee to save thee, - As my soul in thee saith; - Give thou as I gave thee, - Thy life-blood and breath, - Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death. - - Be the ways of thy giving - As mine were to thee; - The free life of thy living, - Be the gift of it free; - Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me. - - O children of banishment, - Souls overcast, - Were the lights ye see vanish meant - Alway to last, - Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast. - - I that saw where ye trod - The dim paths of the night - Set the shadow call’d God - In your skies to give light; - But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight. - - The tree many-rooted - That swells to the sky - With frondage red-fruited, - The life-tree am I; - In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die. - - But the Gods of your fashion - That take and that give, - In their pity and passion - That scourge and forgive, - They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live. - - My own blood is what stanches - The wounds in my bark; - Stars caught in my branches - Make day of the dark, - And are worshipp’d as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark. - - Where dead ages hide under - The live roots of the tree, - In my darkness the thunder - Makes utterance of me; - In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea. - - That noise is of Time, - As his feathers are spread - And his feet set to climb - Through the boughs overhead, - And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread. - - The storm-winds of ages - Blow through me and cease, - The war-wind that rages, - The spring-wind of peace, - Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase. - - All sounds of all changes, - All shadows and lights - On the world’s mountain-ranges - And stream-riven heights, - Whose tongue is the wind’s tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights; - - All forms of all faces, - All works of all hands - In unsearchable places - Of time-stricken lands, - All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands. - - Though sore be my burden - And more than ye know, - And my growth have no guerdon - But only to grow, - Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below. - - These too have their part in me, - As I too in these; - Such fire is at heart in me, - Such sap is this tree’s, - Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas. - - In the spring-colour’d hours - When my mind was as May’s - There brake forth of me flowers - By centuries of days, - Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays. - - And the sound of them springing - And smell of their shoots - Were as warmth and sweet singing - And strength to my roots; - And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits. - - I bid you but be; - I have need not of prayer; - I have need of you free - As your mouths of mine air; - That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair. - - More fair than strange fruit is - Of faiths ye espouse; - In me only the root is - That blooms in your boughs; - Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows. - - In the darkening and whitening - Abysses adored, - With dayspring and lightning - For lamp and for sword, - God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord. - - O my sons, O too dutiful - Toward Gods not of me, - Was not I enough beautiful? - Was it hard to be free? - For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see. - - Lo, wing’d with world’s wonders, - With miracles shod, - With the fires of his thunders - For raiment and rod, - God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God. - - For his twilight is come on him, - His anguish is here; - And his spirits gaze dumb on him, - Grown gray from his fear; - And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year. - Thought made him and breaks him, - Truth slays and forgives; - But to you, as time takes him, - This new thing it gives, - Even love, the belovèd Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. - - For truth only is living, - Truth only is whole, - And the love of his giving - Man’s polestar and pole; - Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. - - One birth of my bosom; - One beam of mine eye; - One topmost blossom - That scales the sky; - Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I. - - -_810._ _Ave atque Vale_ - -(IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE) - - Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, - Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? - Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, - Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, - Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, - Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? - Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, - Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat - And full of bitter summer, but more sweet - To thee than gleanings of a northern shore - Trod by no tropic feet? - - For always thee the fervid languid glories - Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; - Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs - Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, - The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave - That knows not where is that Leucadian grave - Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. - Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, - The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear - Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, - Blind gods that cannot spare. - - Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, - Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: - Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, - Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other - Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; - The hidden harvest of luxurious time, - Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; - And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep - Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; - And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, - Seeing as men sow men reap. - - O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, - That were athirst for sleep and no more life - And no more love, for peace and no more strife! - Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping - Spirit and body and all the springs of song, - Is it well now where love can do no wrong, - Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang - Behind the unopening closure of her lips? - Is it not well where soul from body slips - And flesh from bone divides without a pang - As dew from flower-bell drips? - - It is enough; the end and the beginning - Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. - O hand unclasp’d of unbeholden friend, - For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, - No triumph and no labour and no lust, - Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. - O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, - Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night - With obscure finger silences your sight, - Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, - Sleep, and have sleep for light. - - Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, - Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, - Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet - Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, - Such as thy vision here solicited, - Under the shadow of her fair vast head, - The deep division of prodigious breasts, - The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, - The weight of awful tresses that still keep - The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests - Where the wet hill-winds weep? - - Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? - O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, - Hast thou found sown, what gather’d in the gloom? - What of despair, of rapture, of derision, - What of life is there, what of ill or good? - Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? - Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, - The faint fields quicken any terrene root, - In low lands where the sun and moon are mute - And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers - At all, or any fruit? - - Alas, but though my flying song flies after, - O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet - Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, - Some dim derision of mysterious laughter - From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, - Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine’s veil’d head, - Some little sound of unregarded tears - Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, - And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- - These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, - Sees only such things rise. - - Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, - Far too far off for thought or any prayer. - What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? - What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? - Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, - Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, - Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. - Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, - The low light fails us in elusive skies, - Still the foil’d earnest ear is deaf, and blind - Are still the eluded eyes. - - - Not thee, O never thee, in all time’s changes, - Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, - The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll - I lay my hand on, and not death estranges - My spirit from communion of thy song-- - These memories and these melodies that throng - Veil’d porches of a Muse funereal-- - These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold - As though a hand were in my hand to hold, - Or through mine ears a mourning musical - Of many mourners roll’d. - - I among these, I also, in such station - As when the pyre was charr’d, and piled the sods. - And offering to the dead made, and their gods, - The old mourners had, standing to make libation, - I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead - Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed - Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, - And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, - And what I may of fruits in this chill’d air, - And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb - A curl of sever’d hair. - - But by no hand nor any treason stricken, - Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, - The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, - Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. - There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear - Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear - Down the opening leaves of holy poets’ pages. - Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; - But bending us-ward with memorial urns - The most high Muses that fulfil all ages - Weep, and our God’s heart yearns. - - For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often - Among us darkling here the lord of light - Makes manifest his music and his might - In hearts that open and in lips that soften - With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. - Thy lips indeed he touch’d with bitter wine, - And nourish’d them indeed with bitter bread; - Yet surely from his hand thy soul’s food came, - The fire that scarr’d thy spirit at his flame - Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed - Who feeds our hearts with fame. - - Therefore he too now at thy soul’s sunsetting, - God of all suns and songs, he too bends down - To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, - And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. - Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, - Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, - Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, - And hallows with strange tears and alien sighs - Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, - And over thine irrevocable head - Sheds light from the under skies. - - And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, - And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; - That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, - That thing transformed which was the Cytherean, - With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine - Long since, and face no more call’d Erycine-- - A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. - Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell - Did she, a sad and second prey, compel - Into the footless places once more trod, - And shadows hot from hell. - - And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, - No choral salutation lure to light - A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night - And love’s tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. - There is no help for these things; none to mend, - And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, - Will make death clear or make life durable. - Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine - And with wild notes about this dust of thine - At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell - And wreathe an unseen shrine. - - Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, - If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; - And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. - Out of the mystic and the mournful garden - Where all day through thine hands in barren braid - Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, - Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, - Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, - Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, - Shall death not bring us all as thee one day - Among the days departed? - - For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, - Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. - Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, - And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, - With sadder than the Niobean womb, - And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. - Content thee, howsoe’er, whose days are done; - There lies not any troublous thing before, - Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, - For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, - All waters as the shore. - - -_811._ _Itylus_ - - Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, - How can thine heart be full of the spring? - A thousand summers are over and dead. - What hast thou found in the spring to follow? - What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? - What wilt thou do when the summer is shed? - - O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, - Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, - The soft south whither thine heart is set? - Shall not the grief of the old time follow? - Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? - Hast thou forgotten ere I forget? - - Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, - Thy way is long to the sun and the south; - But I, fulfill’d of my heart’s desire, - Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, - From tawny body and sweet small mouth - Feed the heart of the night with fire. - - I the nightingale all spring through, - O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, - All spring through till the spring be done, - Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, - Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, - Take flight and follow and find the sun. - - Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, - Though all things feast in the spring’s guest-chamber, - How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? - For where thou fliest I shall not follow, - Till life forget and death remember, - Till thou remember and I forget. - - Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, - I know not how thou hast heart to sing. - Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? - Thy lord the summer is good to follow, - And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: - But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover? - - O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, - My heart in me is a molten ember - And over my head the waves have met. - But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow - Could I forget or thou remember, - Couldst thou remember and I forget. - - O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, - The heart’s division divideth us. - Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; - But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow - To the place of the slaying of Itylus, - The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea. - - O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, - I pray thee sing not a little space. - - - Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? - The woven web that was plain to follow, - The small slain body, the flower-like face, - Can I remember if thou forget? - - O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! - The hands that cling and the feet that follow, - The voice of the child’s blood crying yet, - _Who hath remember’d me? who hath forgotten?_ - Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, - But the world shall end when I forget. - - - - -WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS - -b. 1837 - - -_812._ _Earliest Spring_ - - Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, - Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, - Through all the moaning chimneys, and ’thwart all the hollows and angles - Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death. - - But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow - Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift - Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, - Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift. - - Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire - (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes-- - Rapture of life ineffable, perfect--as if in the brier, - Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose. - - - - -BRET HARTE - -1839-1902 - - -_813._ _What the Bullet sang_ - - O joy of creation, - To be! - O rapture, to fly - And be free! - Be the battle lost or won, - Though its smoke shall hide the sun, - I shall find my love--the one - Born for me! - - I shall know him where he stands - All alone, - With the power in his hands - Not o’erthrown; - I shall know him by his face, - By his godlike front and grace; - I shall hold him for a space - All my own! - - It is he--O my love! - So bold! - It is I--all thy love - Foretold! - It is I--O love, what bliss! - Dost thou answer to my kiss? - O sweetheart! what is this - Lieth there so cold? - - - - -JOHN TODHUNTER - -1839-1916 - - -_814._ _Maureen_ - - O you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, - Girl of my choice, Maureen! - Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, - Maureen? - - Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, - White rose of the West, Maureen: - For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too, - Maureen! - - Sure it’s one complaint that’s on us, asthore, this day, - Bride of my dreams, Maureen: - The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, - Maureen! - - I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, - Mavourneen, my own Maureen! - When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm’s embrace, - Maureen! - - O where was the King o’ the World that day--only me? - My one true love, Maureen! - And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, - Maureen! - - -_815._ _Aghadoe_ - - There’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, - There’s a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, - Where we met, my love and I, Love’s fair planet in the sky, - O’er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe. - - There’s a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, - There’s a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, - Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies, - That year the trouble came to Aghadoe. - - O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, - On Shaun Dhu, my mother’s son in Aghadoe! - When your throat fries in hell’s drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth, - For the treachery you did in Aghadoe! - - For they track’d me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, - When the price was on his head in Aghadoe: - O’er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, - Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe. - - But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; - With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, - There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where ’twould rest, - Gone, to win the traitor’s gold, from Aghadoe! - - I walk’d to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, - Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe; - Then I cover’d him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn, - Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe. - - - O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! - There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! - Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, - Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe. - - - - -WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT - -b. 1840 - - -_816._ _Song_ - - O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; - Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: - For my heart no measure - Knows, nor other treasure - To buy a garland for my love to-day. - - And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, - Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: - For I fain would borrow - Thy sad weeds to-morrow, - To make a mourning for love’s yesterday. - - The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity, - Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, - But passed forth from the city, - Making thus my ditty - Of fair love lost for ever and a day. - -_817._ _The Desolate City_ - - Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. - Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? - Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. - A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain. - - - Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, - Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. - Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen’d to their chaunting; - Each one sang to his love; only I was alone. - - This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure. - Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, - Each in another’s eyes finds light, the light of compassion, - This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love. - - Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness! - Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul? - Where are those passionate eyes that appeal’d to my eyes in passion? - Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast I laid to my own? - - Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. - Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear? - See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, - See, my desire is fulfill’d in thee, for it fills the earth. - - Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn’d I from the window, - Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, - Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, - None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears. - - Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my belovèd’s. - There I stopp’d at the silent door, and listen’d and tried the latch. - Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, - This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand. - - - I knew the house, with its windows barr’d, and its leafless fig-tree, - Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; - I knew where my hope had climb’d to its goal and there encircled - All that those desolate walls once held, my belovèd’s heart. - - There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not. - She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips. - She told me all her pain and show’d me all her trouble. - I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return’d her kiss. - - Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them. - Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life. - Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; - This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise. - - Weeping strangled my voice. I call’d out, but none answer’d; - Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; - She whom I love, who loved me, look’d not on my yearning, - Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show’d me no more her soul. - - Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, - Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; - Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty, - A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain! - - -_818._ _With Esther_ - - He who has once been happy is for aye - Out of destruction’s reach. His fortune then - Holds nothing secret; and Eternity, - Which is a mystery to other men, - Has like a woman given him its joy. - Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret, - Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die, - He who has once been happy! When I set - The world before me and survey its range, - Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies, - The shreds of pleasure which for lack of change - Men wrap around them and call happiness, - The poor delights which are the tale and sum - Of the world’s courage in its martyrdom; - - When I hear laughter from a tavern door, - When I see crowds agape and in the rain - Watching on tiptoe and with stifled roar - To see a rocket fired or a bull slain, - When misers handle gold, when orators - Touch strong men’s hearts with glory till they weep, - When cities deck their streets for barren wars - Which have laid waste their youth, and when I keep - Calmly the count of my own life and see - On what poor stuff my manhood’s dreams were fed - Till I too learn’d what dole of vanity - Will serve a human soul for daily bread, - --Then I remember that I once was young - And lived with Esther the world’s gods among. - - -_819._ _To Manon, on his Fortune in loving Her_ - - I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love - That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind - As a rude shepherd’s who to some lone grove - His offering brings and cares not at what shrine - He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; - The rest was Love’s. He took me by the hand, - And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, - And spoke the words I might not understand. - I was unwise in all but the dear chance - Which was my fortune, and the blind desire - Which led my foolish steps to Love’s abode, - And youth’s sublime unreason’d prescience - Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire - Its dedication _To the Unknown God_. - - -_820._ _St. Valentines Day_ - - To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, - With hounds and horsemen, a brave company - On this side in its glory lay the sea, - On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. - The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, - And still we gallop’d on from gorse to gorse: - And once, when check’d, a thrush sang, and my horse - Prick’d his quick ears as to a sound unknown. - I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even - Better than all by this, that through my chase - In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven - I seem’d to see and follow still your face. - Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, - My horse a thing of wings, myself a god. - - -_821._ _Gibraltar_ - - Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm - Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more - We ride into still water and the calm - Of a sweet evening, screen’d by either shore - Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o’er, - Our exile is accomplish’d. Once again - We look on Europe, mistress as of yore - Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. - Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules - And Goth and Moor bequeath’d us. At this door - England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill - Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, - And at the summons of the rock gun's roar - To see her red coats marching from the hill! - - -_822._ _Written at Florence_ - - O world, in very truth thou art too young; - When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age? - World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, - Hast thou forgot what generations sprung - Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone? - Hast thou no place in all their heritage - Where thou dost only weep, that I may come - Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers? - O world, in very truth thou art too young. - The heroic wealth of passionate emprize - Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: - How hast thou set thy summer growth among - The broken stones which were their palaces! - Hast thou forgot the darkness where _he_ lies - Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees - Found out his grave to build their honeycombs? - - O world, in very truth thou art too young: - They gave thee love who measured out thy skies, - And, when they found for thee another star, - Who made a festival and straightway hung - The jewel on thy neck. O merry world, - Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes - Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd - One banner of thy bridal car for them. - O world, in very truth thou art too young. - There was a voice which sang about thy spring, - Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips, - And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue - Before thy nightingales were come again. - O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing? - Say, has thy merriment no secret pain, - No sudden weariness that thou art young? - - -_823._ _The Two Highwaymen_ - - I long have had a quarrel set with Time - Because he robb’d me. Every day of life - Was wrested from me after bitter strife: - I never yet could see the sun go down - But I was angry in my heart, nor hear - The leaves fall in the wind without a tear - Over the dying summer. I have known - No truce with Time nor Time’s accomplice, Death. - The fair world is the witness of a crime - Repeated every hour. For life and breath - Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly - The voices of these robbers of the heath - Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by. - --What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time? - What have we done to Death that we must die? - - - - -HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON - -b. 1840 - - -_824._ _A Garden Song_ - - - Here in this sequester’d close - Bloom the hyacinth and rose, - Here beside the modest stock - Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; - Here, without a pang, one sees - Ranks, conditions, and degrees. - - All the seasons run their race - In this quiet resting-place; - Peach and apricot and fig - Here will ripen and grow big; - Here is store and overplus,— - More had not Alcinoüs! - - Here, in alleys cool and green, - Far ahead the thrush is seen; - Here along the southern wall - Keeps the bee his festival; - All is quiet else—afar - Sounds of toil and turmoil are. - - Here be shadows large and long; - Here be spaces meet for song; - Grant, O garden-god, that I, - Now that none profane is nigh,— - Now that mood and moment please,— - Find the fair Pierides! - - -_825._ _Urceus Exit_ - -_Triolet_ - - I intended an Ode, - And it turn’d to a Sonnet - It began _à la mode_, - I intended an Ode; - But Rose crossed the road - In her latest new bonnet; - I intended an Ode; - And it turn’d to a Sonnet. - - -_826._ _In After Days_ - -_Rondeau_ - - In after days when grasses high - O’er-top the stone where I shall lie, - Though ill or well the world adjust - My slender claim to honour’d dust, - I shall not question nor reply. - - I shall not see the morning sky; - I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; - I shall be mute, as all men must - In after days! - - But yet, now living, fain would I - That some one then should testify, - Saying--‘He held his pen in trust - To Art, not serving shame or lust.’ - Will none?--Then let my memory die - In after days! - - - - -HENRY CLARENCE KENDALL - -1841-1882 - - -_827._ _Mooni_ - - He that is by Mooni now - Sees the water-sapphires gleaming - Where the River Spirit, dreaming, - Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming - Under lute of leaf and bough!-- - Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is, - Psalms from unseen wildernesses - Deep amongst far hill-recesses-- - He that is by Mooni now. - - Yea, for him by Mooni’s marge - Sings the yellow-hair’d September, - With the face the gods remember, - When the ridge is burnt to ember, - And the dumb sea chains the barge! - Where the mount like molten brass is, - Down beneath fern-feather’d passes - Noonday dew in cool green grasses - Gleams on him by Mooni’s marge. - - Who that dwells by Mooni yet, - Feels in flowerful forest arches - Smiting wings and breath that parches - Where strong Summer’s path of march is, - And the suns in thunder set! - Housed beneath the gracious kirtle - Of the shadowy water-myrtle-- - Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle, - He is safe by Mooni yet! - - Days there were when he who sings - (Dumb so long through passion’s losses) - Stood where Mooni’s water crosses - Shining tracks of green-hair’d mosses, - Like a soul with radiant wings: - Then the psalm the wind rehearses-- - Then the song the stream disperses-- - Lent a beauty to his verses, - Who to-night of Mooni sings. - - Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme! - Certain days are not above me, - Certain hearts have ceased to love me, - Certain fancies fail to move me, - Like the effluent morning dream. - Head whereon the white is stealing, - Heart whose hurts are past all healing, - Where is now the first, pure feeling? - Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme! - - * * * * * - - Still to be by Mooni cool-- - Where the water-blossoms glister, - And by gleaming vale and vista - Sits the English April’s sister, - Soft and sweet and wonderful! - Just to rest beneath the burning - Outer world--its sneers and spurning-- - Ah, my heart--my heart is yearning - Still to be by Mooni cool! - - - - -ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O’SHAUGHNESSY - -1844-1881 - - -_828._ _Ode_ - - We are the music-makers, - And we are the dreamers of dreams, - Wandering by lone sea-breakers, - And sitting by desolate streams; - World-losers and world-forsakers, - On whom the pale moon gleams: - Yet we are the movers and shakers - Of the world for ever, it seems. - - With wonderful deathless ditties - We build up the world’s great cities, - And out of a fabulous story - We fashion an empire’s glory: - One man with a dream, at pleasure, - Shall go forth and conquer a crown; - And three with a new song’s measure - Can trample an empire down. - - We, in the ages lying - In the buried past of the earth, - Built Nineveh with our sighing, - And Babel itself with our mirth; - And o’erthrew them with prophesying - To the old of the new world’s worth; - For each age is a dream that is dying, - Or one that is coming to birth. - - -_829._ _Song_ - - I made another garden, yea, - For my new Love: - I left the dead rose where it lay - And set the new above. - Why did my Summer not begin? - Why did my heart not haste? - My old Love came and walk’d therein, - And laid the garden waste. - - She enter’d with her weary smile, - Just as of old; - She look’d around a little while - And shiver’d with the cold: - Her passing touch was death to all, - Her passing look a blight; - She made the white rose-petals fall, - And turn’d the red rose white. - - Her pale robe clinging to the grass - Seem’d like a snake - That bit the grass and ground, alas! - And a sad trail did make. - She went up slowly to the gate, - And then, just as of yore, - She turn’d back at the last to wait - And say farewell once more. - - -_830._ _The Fountain of Tears_ - - If you go over desert and mountain, - Far into the country of Sorrow, - To-day and to-night and to-morrow, - And maybe for months and for years; - You shall come with a heart that is bursting - For trouble and toiling and thirsting. - You shall certainly come to the fountain - At length,--to the Fountain of Tears. - - Very peaceful the place is, and solely - For piteous lamenting and sighing, - And those who come living or dying - Alike from their hopes and their fears; - Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, - And statues that cover their faces: - But out of the gloom springs the holy - And beautiful Fountain of Tears. - - And it flows and it flows with a motion - So gentle and lovely and listless, - And murmurs a tune so resistless - To him who hath suffer’d and hears-- - You shall surely--without a word spoken, - Kneel down there and know your heart broken, - And yield to the long-curb’d emotion - That day by the Fountain of Tears. - - For it grows and it grows, as though leaping - Up higher the more one is thinking; - And ever its tunes go on sinking - More poignantly into the ears: - Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain, - Reach’d after dry desert and mountain, - You shall fall down at length in your weeping - And bathe your sad face in the tears. - - Then alas! while you lie there a season - And sob between living and dying, - And give up the land you were trying - To find ’mid your hopes and your fears; - --O the world shall come up and pass o’er you, - Strong men shall not stay to care for you, - Nor wonder indeed for what reason - Your way should seem harder than theirs. - - But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting - Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, - Nor caring to raise your wet tresses - And look how the cold world appears-- - O perhaps the mere silences round you-- - All things in that place Grief hath found you-- - Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting, - May soothe you somewhat through your tears. - - You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes - Your face, as though some one had kiss’d you; - Or think at least some one who miss’d you - Had sent you a thought,--if that cheers; - Or a bird’s little song, faint and broken, - May pass for a tender word spoken: - --Enough, while around you there rushes - That life-drowning torrent of tears. - - And the tears shall flow faster and faster, - Brim over and baffle resistance, - And roll down blear’d roads to each distance - Of past desolation and years; - Till they cover the place of each sorrow, - And leave you no past and no morrow: - For what man is able to master - And stem the great Fountain of Tears? - - But the floods and the tears meet and gather; - The sound of them all grows like thunder: - --O into what bosom, I wonder, - Is pour’d the whole sorrow of years? - For Eternity only seems keeping - Account of the great human weeping: - May God, then, the Maker and Father-- - May He find a place for the tears! - - - - -JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY - -1844-1890 - - -_831._ _A White Rose_ - - The red rose whispers of passion, - And the white rose breathes of love; - O, the red rose is a falcon, - And the white rose is a dove. - - But I send you a cream-white rosebud - With a flush on its petal tips; - For the love that is purest and sweetest - Has a kiss of desire on the lips. - - - - -ROBERT BRIDGES - -b. 1844 - - -_832._ _My Delight and Thy Delight_ - - My delight and thy delight - Walking, like two angels white, - In the gardens of the night: - - My desire and thy desire - Twining to a tongue of fire, - Leaping live, and laughing higher: - - Thro’ the everlasting strife - In the mystery of life. - - Love, from whom the world begun, - Hath the secret of the sun. - - Love can tell, and love alone, - Whence the million stars were strewn, - Why each atom knows its own, - How, in spite of woe and death, - Gay is life, and sweet is breath: - - This he taught us, this we knew, - Happy in his science true, - Hand in hand as we stood - ’Neath the shadows of the wood, - Heart to heart as we lay - In the dawning of the day. - - -_833._ _Spirits_ - - Angel spirits of sleep, - White-robed, with silver hair, - In your meadows fair, - Where the willows weep, - And the sad moonbeam - On the gliding stream - Writes her scatter’d dream: - - Angel spirits of sleep, - Dancing to the weir - In the hollow roar - Of its waters deep; - Know ye how men say - That ye haunt no more - Isle and grassy shore - With your moonlit play; - That ye dance not here, - White-robed spirits of sleep, - All the summer night - Threading dances light? - - -_834._ _Nightingales_ - - Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, - And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom - Ye learn your song: - Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, - Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air - Bloom the year long! - - Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: - Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, - A throe of the heart, - Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, - No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, - For all our art. - - Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men - We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, - As night is withdrawn - From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, - Dream, while the innumerable choir of day - Welcome the dawn. - - -_835._ _A Passer-by_ - - Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, - Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, - That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, - Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? - Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, - When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, - Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest - In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. - - I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, - Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: - I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, - And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, - Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: - Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp’d grandest - Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair - Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest. - - - And yet, O splendid ship, unhail’d and nameless, - I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine - That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, - Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. - But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, - As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, - From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s line - In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. - - -_836._ _Absence_ - - When my love was away, - Full three days were not sped, - I caught my fancy astray - Thinking if she were dead, - - And I alone, alone: - It seem’d in my misery - In all the world was none - Ever so lone as I. - - I wept; but it did not shame - Nor comfort my heart: away - I rode as I might, and came - To my love at close of day. - - The sight of her still’d my fears, - My fairest-hearted love: - And yet in her eyes were tears: - Which when I questioned of, - - ‘O now thou art come,’ she cried, - ‘’Tis fled: but I thought to-day - I never could here abide, - If thou wert longer away.’ - - -_837._ _On a Dead Child_ - - Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, - With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! - Though cold and stark and bare, - The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. - - Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer - To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be - Thy father’s pride:--ah, he - Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. - - To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, - Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; - Startling my fancy fond - With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. - - Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it: - But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; - Yet feels to my hand as if - ’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. - - So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- - Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- - Propping thy wise, sad head, - Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing. - - So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, whither hath he taken thee? - To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? - The vision of which I miss, - Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee? - - - Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us - To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, - Unwilling, alone we embark, - And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us. - - -_838._ _Pater Filio_ - - Sense with keenest edge unusèd, - Yet unsteel’d by scathing fire; - Lovely feet as yet unbruisèd - On the ways of dark desire; - Sweetest hope that lookest smiling - O’er the wilderness defiling! - - Why such beauty, to be blighted - By the swarm of foul destruction? - Why such innocence delighted, - When sin stalks to thy seduction? - All the litanies e’er chaunted - Shall not keep thy faith undaunted. - - I have pray’d the sainted Morning - To unclasp her hands to hold thee; - From resignful Eve’s adorning - Stol’n a robe of peace to enfold thee; - With all charms of man’s contriving - Arm’d thee for thy lonely striving. - - Me too once unthinking Nature, - --Whence Love’s timeless mockery took me,-- - Fashion’d so divine a creature, - Yea, and like a beast forsook me. - I forgave, but tell the measure - Of her crime in thee, my treasure. - - -_839._ _Winter Nightfall_ - - The day begins to droop,-- - Its course is done: - But nothing tells the place - Of the setting sun. - - The hazy darkness deepens, - And up the lane - You may hear, but cannot see, - The homing wain. - - An engine pants and hums - In the farm hard by: - Its lowering smoke is lost - In the lowering sky. - - The soaking branches drip, - And all night through - The dropping will not cease - In the avenue. - - A tall man there in the house - Must keep his chair: - He knows he will never again - Breathe the spring air: - - His heart is worn with work; - He is giddy and sick - If he rise to go as far - As the nearest rick: - - He thinks of his morn of life, - His hale, strong years; - And braves as he may the night - Of darkness and tears. - - -_840._ _When Death to Either shall come_ - - When Death to either shall come,-- - I pray it be first to me,-- - Be happy as ever at home, - If so, as I wish, it be. - - Possess thy heart, my own; - And sing to the child on thy knee, - Or read to thyself alone - The songs that I made for thee. - - - - -ANDREW LANG - -1844-1912 - - -_841._ _The Odyssey_ - - As one that for a weary space has lain - Lull’d by the song of Circe and her wine - In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, - Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, - And only the low lutes of love complain, - And only shadows of wan lovers pine-- - As such an one were glad to know the brine - Salt on his lips, and the large air again-- - So gladly from the songs of modern speech - Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free - Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, - And through the music of the languid hours - They hear like Ocean on a western beach - The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. - - - - -WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY - -1849-1903 - - -_842._ _Invictus_ - - Out of the night that covers me, - Black as the pit from pole to pole, - I thank whatever gods may be - For my unconquerable soul. - - In the fell clutch of circumstance - I have not winced nor cried aloud. - Under the bludgeonings of chance - My head is bloody, but unbow’d. - - Beyond this place of wrath and tears - Looms but the Horror of the shade, - And yet the menace of the years - Finds and shall find me unafraid. - - It matters not how strait the gate, - How charged with punishments the scroll, - I am the master of my fate: - I am the captain of my soul. - - -_843._ _Margaritæ Sorori_ - - A late lark twitters from the quiet skies: - And from the west, - Where the sun, his day’s work ended, - Lingers as in content, - There falls on the old, gray city - An influence luminous and serene, - A shining peace. - - - The smoke ascends - In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires - Shine and are changed. In the valley - Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, - Closing his benediction, - Sinks, and the darkening air - Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- - Night with her train of stars - And her great gift of sleep. - - So be my passing! - My task accomplish’d and the long day done, - My wages taken, and in my heart - Some late lark singing, - Let me be gather’d to the quiet west, - The sundown splendid and serene, - Death. - - -_844._ _England, My England_ - - What have I done for you, - England, my England? - What is there I would not do, - England, my own? - With your glorious eyes austere, - As the Lord were walking near, - Whispering terrible things and dear - As the Song on your bugles blown, - England-- - Round the world on your bugles blown? - - - Where shall the watchful sun, - England, my England, - Match the master-work you’ve done, - England, my own? - When shall he rejoice agen - Such a breed of mighty men - As come forward, one to ten, - To the Song on your bugles blown, - England-- - Down the years on your bugles blown? - - Ever the faith endures, - England, my England:-- - ‘Take and break us: we are yours, - England, my own! - Life is good, and joy runs high - Between English earth and sky: - Death is death; but we shall die - To the Song on your bugles blown, - England-- - To the stars on your bugles blown!’ - - They call you proud and hard, - England, my England: - You with worlds to watch and ward, - England, my own! - You whose mail’d hand keeps the keys - Of such teeming destinies, - You could know nor dread nor ease - Were the Song on your bugles blown, - England, - Round the Pit on your bugles blown! - - - Mother of Ships whose might, - England, my England, - Is the fierce old Sea’s delight, - England, my own, - Chosen daughter of the Lord, - Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, - There’s the menace of the Word - In the Song on your bugles blown, England-- - Out of heaven on your bugles blown! - - - - -EDMUND GOSSE - -b. 1849 - - -_845._ _Revelation_ - - Into the silver night - She brought with her pale hand - The topaz lanthorn-light, - And darted splendour o’er the land; - Around her in a band, - Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying, - And flapping with their mad wings, fann’d - The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying. - - Behind the thorny pink - Close wall of blossom’d may, - I gazed thro’ one green chink - And saw no more than thousands may,-- - Saw sweetness, tender and gay,-- - Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry, - Saw braided locks more dark than bay, - And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry. - - - With food for furry friends - She pass’d, her lamp and she, - Till eaves and gable-ends - Hid all that saffron sheen from me: - Around my rosy tree - Once more the silver-starry night was shining, - With depths of heaven, dewy and free, - And crystals of a carven moon declining. - - Alas! for him who dwells - In frigid air of thought, - When warmer light dispels - The frozen calm his spirit sought; - By life too lately taught - He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing; - Reels from the joy experience brought, - And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing. - - - - -ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON - -1850-1894 - - -_846._ _Romance_ - - I will make you brooches and toys for your delight - Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. - I will make a palace fit for you and me, - Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. - - I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, - Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, - And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white - In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. - - - And this shall be for music when no one else is near, - The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! - That only I remember, that only you admire, - Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. - - -_847._ _In the Highlands_ - - In the highlands, in the country places, - Where the old plain men have rosy faces, - And the young fair maidens - Quiet eyes; - Where essential silence cheers and blesses, - And for ever in the hill-recesses - _Her_ more lovely music - Broods and dies-- - - O to mount again where erst I haunted; - Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, - And the low green meadows - Bright with sward; - And when even dies, the million-tinted, - And the night has come, and planets glinted, - Lo, the valley hollow - Lamp-bestarr’d! - - O to dream, O to awake and wander - There, and with delight to take and render, - Through the trance of silence, - Quiet breath! - Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, - Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; - Only winds and rivers, - Life and death. - - -_848._ _Requiem_ - - Under the wide and starry sky - Dig the grave and let me lie: - Glad did I live and gladly die, - And I laid me down with a will. - - This be the verse you grave for me: - _Here he lies where he long’d to be;_ - _Home is the sailor, home from sea,_ - _And the hunter home from the hill._ - - - - -T. W. ROLLESTON - -b. 1857 - - -_849._ _The Dead at Clonmacnois_ - -FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O’GILLAN - - In a quiet water’d land, a land of roses, - Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair; - And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations - Slumber there. - - There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest - Of the clan of Conn, - Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham - And the sacred knot thereon. - - There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, - There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- - Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran’s plain of crosses - Now their final hosting keep. - - And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, - And right many a lord of Breagh; - Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, - Kind in hall and fierce in fray. - - - Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter - In the red earth lies at rest; - Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, - Many a swan-white breast. - - - - -JOHN DAVIDSON - -1857-1909 - - -_850._ _Song_ - - The boat is chafing at our long delay, - And we must leave too soon - The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray, - The tawny sands, the moon. - - Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight! - Watch from thy pearly throne - Our vessel, plunging deeper into night - To reach a land unknown. - - -_851._ _The Last Rose_ - - ‘O which is the last rose?’ - A blossom of no name. - At midnight the snow came; - At daybreak a vast rose, - In darkness unfurl’d, - O’er-petall’d the world. - - Its odourless pallor - Blossom’d forlorn, - Till radiant valour - Established the morn-- - Till the night - Was undone - In her fight - With the sun. - - The brave orb in state rose, - And crimson he shone first; - While from the high vine - Of heaven the dawn burst, - Staining the great rose - From sky-line to sky-line. - - The red rose of morn - A white rose at noon turn’d; - But at sunset reborn - All red again soon burn’d. - Then the pale rose of noonday - Rebloom’d in the night, - And spectrally white - In the light - Of the moon lay. - - But the vast rose - Was scentless, - And this is the reason: - When the blast rose - Relentless, - And brought in due season - The snow rose, the last rose - Congeal’d in its breath, - Then came with it treason; - The traitor was Death. - - In lee-valleys crowded, - The sheep and the birds - Were frozen and shrouded - In flights and in herds. - In highways - And byways - The young and the old - Were tortured and madden’d - And kill’d by the cold. - But many were gladden’d - By the beautiful last rose, - The blossom of no name - That came when the snow came, - In darkness unfurl’d-- - The wonderful vast rose - That fill’d all the world. - - - - -WILLIAM WATSON - -b. 1858 - - -_852._ _Song_ - - April, April, - Laugh thy girlish laughter; - Then, the moment after, - Weep thy girlish tears! - April, that mine ears - Like a lover greetest, - If I tell thee, sweetest, - All my hopes and fears, - April, April, - Laugh thy golden laughter, - But, the moment after, - Weep thy golden tears! - - -_853._ _Ode in May_ - - Let me go forth, and share - The overflowing Sun - With one wise friend, or one - Better than wise, being fair, - Where the pewit wheels and dips - On heights of bracken and ling, - And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, - Tingles with the Spring. - - What is so sweet and dear - As a prosperous morn in May, - The confident prime of the day, - And the dauntless youth of the year, - When nothing that asks for bliss, - Asking aright, is denied, - And half of the world a bridegroom is, - And half of the world a bride? - - The Song of Mingling flows, - Grave, ceremonial, pure, - As once, from lips that endure, - The cosmic descant rose, - When the temporal lord of life, - Going his golden way, - Had taken a wondrous maid to wife - That long had said him nay. - - For of old the Sun, our sire, - Came wooing the mother of men, - Earth, that was virginal then, - Vestal fire to his fire. - Silent her bosom and coy, - But the strong god sued and press’d; - And born of their starry nuptial joy - Are all that drink of her breast. - - And the triumph of him that begot, - And the travail of her that bore, - Behold they are evermore - As warp and weft in our lot. - We are children of splendour and flame, - Of shuddering, also, and tears. - Magnificent out of the dust we came, - And abject from the Spheres. - - O bright irresistible lord! - We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one, - And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, - Whence first was the seed outpour’d. - To thee as our Father we bow, - Forbidden thy Father to see, - Who is older and greater than thou, as thou - Art greater and older than we. - - Thou art but as a word of his speech; - Thou art but as a wave of his hand; - Thou art brief as a glitter of sand - ’Twixt tide and tide on his beach; - Thou art less than a spark of his fire, - Or a moment’s mood of his soul: - Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir - That chant the chant of the Whole. - - -_854._ _The Great Misgiving_ - - ‘Not ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread; - Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell: - Life is a feast, and we have banqueted-- - Shall not the worms as well? - - - ‘The after-silence, when the feast is o’er, - And void the places where the minstrels stood, - Differs in nought from what hath been before, - And is nor ill nor good.’ - - Ah, but the Apparition--the dumb sign-- - The beckoning finger bidding me forgo - The fellowship, the converse, and the wine, - The songs, the festal glow! - - And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit, - And while the purple joy is pass’d about, - Whether ’tis ampler day divinelier lit - Or homeless night without; - - And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall see - New prospects, or fall sheer--a blinded thing! - _There_ is, O grave, thy hourly victory, - And there, O death, thy sting. - - - - -HENRY CHARLES BEECHING - -1859-1919 - - -_855._ _Prayers_ - - God who created me - Nimble and light of limb, - In three elements free, - To run, to ride, to swim: - Not when the sense is dim, - But now from the heart of joy, - I would remember Him: - Take the thanks of a boy. - - - Jesu, King and Lord, - Whose are my foes to fight, - Gird me with Thy sword - Swift and sharp and bright. - Thee would I serve if I might; - And conquer if I can, - From day-dawn till night, - Take the strength of a man. - - Spirit of Love and Truth, - Breathing in grosser clay, - The light and flame of youth, - Delight of men in the fray, - Wisdom in strength’s decay; - From pain, strife, wrong to be free, - This best gift I pray, - Take my spirit to Thee. - - -_856._ _Going down Hill on a Bicycle_ - -A BOY’S SONG - - With lifted feet, hands still, - I am poised, and down the hill - Dart, with heedful mind; - The air goes by in a wind. - - Swifter and yet more swift, - Till the heart with a mighty lift - Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- - ‘O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. - - ‘Is this, is this your joy? - O bird, then I, though a boy, - For a golden moment share - Your feathery life in air!’ - - - Say, heart, is there aught like this - In a world that is full of bliss? - ’Tis more than skating, bound - Steel-shod to the level ground. - - Speed slackens now, I float - Awhile in my airy boat; - Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, - My feet to the treadles fall. - - Alas, that the longest hill - Must end in a vale; but still, - Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er, - Shall find wings waiting there. - - - - -BLISS CARMAN - -b. 1861 - - -_857._ _Why_ - - For a name unknown, - Whose fame unblown - Sleeps in the hills - For ever and aye; - - For her who hears - The stir of the years - Go by on the wind - By night and day; - - And heeds no thing - Of the needs of spring, - Of autumn’s wonder - Or winter’s chill; - For one who sees - The great sun freeze, - As he wanders a-cold - From hill to hill; - - And all her heart - Is a woven part - Of the flurry and drift - Of whirling snow; - - For the sake of two - Sad eyes and true, - And the old, old love - So long ago. - - - - -DOUGLAS HYDE - -b. 1861 - - -_858._ _My Grief on the Sea_ - -FROM THE IRISH - - My grief on the sea, - How the waves of it roll! - For they heave between me - And the love of my soul! - - Abandon’d, forsaken, - To grief and to care, - Will the sea ever waken - Relief from despair? - - My grief and my trouble! - Would he and I were, - In the province of Leinster, - Or County of Clare! - - - Were I and my darling-- - O heart-bitter wound!-- - On board of the ship - For America bound. - - On a green bed of rushes - All last night I lay, - And I flung it abroad - With the heat of the day. - - And my Love came behind me, - He came from the South; - His breast to my bosom, - His mouth to my mouth. - - - - -ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON - -b. 1862 - - -_859._ _The Phœnix_ - - BY feathers green, across Casbeen - The pilgrims track the Phœnix flown, - By gems he strew’d in waste and wood, - And jewell’d plumes at random thrown. - - Till wandering far, by moon and star, - They stand beside the fruitful pyre, - Where breaking bright with sanguine light - The impulsive bird forgets his sire. - - Those ashes shine like ruby wine, - Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, - The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl - Are with the glorious anguish gilt. - - - So rare the light, so rich the sight, - Those pilgrim men, on profit bent, - Drop hands and eyes and merchandise, - And are with gazing most content. - - - - -HENRY NEWBOLT - -b. 1862 - - -_860._ _He fell among Thieves_ - - ‘Ye have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughtered and made an end, - Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: - What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’ - ‘Blood for our blood,’ they said. - - He laugh’d: ‘If one may settle the score for five, - I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: - I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.’ - ‘You shall die at dawn,’ said they. - - He flung his empty revolver down the slope, - He climb’d alone to the Eastward edge of the trees: - All night long in a dream untroubled of hope - He brooded, clasping his knees. - - He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills - The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows; - He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, - Or the far Afghan snows. - - He saw the April noon on his books aglow, - The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; - He heard his father’s voice from the terrace below - Calling him down to ride. - - - He saw the gray little church across the park, - The mounds that hid the loved and honour’d dead; - The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, - The brasses black and red. - - He saw the School Close, sunny and green, - The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, - The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, - His own name over all. - - He saw the dark wainscot and timber’d roof, - The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; - The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, - The Dons on the daïs serene. - - He watch’d the liner’s stem ploughing the foam, - He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; - He heard the passengers’ voices talking of home, - He saw the flag she flew. - - And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, - And strode to his ruin’d camp below the wood; - He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: - His murderers round him stood. - - Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, - The blood-red snow-peaks chill’d to a dazzling white; - He turn’d, and saw the golden circle at last, - Cut by the Eastern height. - - ‘O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, - I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.’ A sword swept. - Over the pass the voices one by one - Faded, and the hill slept. - - - - -GILBERT PARKER - -b. 1862 - - -_861._ _Reunited_ - - When you and I have play’d the little hour, - Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death - Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, - The first long breath of freedom; when the flower - Of Recompense hath flutter’d to our feet, - As to an actor’s; and, the curtain down, - We turn to face each other all alone-- - Alone, we two, who never yet did meet, - Alone, and absolute, and free: O then, - O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale? - Clasp’d hands, press’d lips, and so clasp’d hands again; - No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, - My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan - Of joy, and then our infinite Alone. - - - - -WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS - -b. 1865 - - -_862._ _Where My Books go_ - - - All the words that I utter, - And all the words that I write, - Must spread out their wings untiring, - And never rest in their flight, - Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, - And sing to you in the night, - Beyond where the waters are moving, - Storm-darken’d or starry bright. - - -_863._ _When You are Old_ - - When you are old and gray and full of sleep - And nodding by the fire, take down this book, - And slowly read, and dream of the soft look - Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; - - How many loved your moments of glad grace, - And loved your beauty with love false or true; - But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, - And loved the sorrows of your changing face. - - And bending down beside the glowing bars, - Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled - And paced upon the mountains overhead, - And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. - - -_864._ _The Lake Isle of Innisfree_ - - I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, - And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; - Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, - And live alone in the bee-loud glade. - - And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, - Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; - There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, - And evening full of the linnet’s wings. - - I will arise and go now, for always night and day - I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; - While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, - I hear it in the deep heart’s core. - - - - -RUDYARD KIPLING - -b. 1865 - - -_865._ _A Dedication_ - - My new-cut ashlar takes the light - Where crimson-blank the windows flare; - By my own work, before the night, - Great Overseer, I make my prayer. - - If there be good in that I wrought, - Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine; - Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thought - I know, through Thee, the blame is mine. - - One instant’s toil to Thee denied - Stands all Eternity’s offence; - Of that I did with Thee to guide - To Thee, through Thee, be excellence. - - Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, - Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain, - Godlike to muse o’er his own trade - And manlike stand with God again. - - The depth and dream of my desire, - The bitter paths wherein I stray, - Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, - Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay. - - One stone the more swings to her place - In that dread Temple of Thy worth-- - It is enough that through Thy grace - I saw naught common on Thy earth. - - - Take not that vision from my ken; - O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed, - Help me to need no aid from men, - That I may help such men as need! - - -_866._ _L’Envoi_ - - There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield - And the ricks stand gray to the sun, - Singing:--‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover - And your English summer’s done.’ - You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind - And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; - You have heard the song--how long! how long! - Pull out on the trail again! - - Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, - We’ve seen the seasons through, - And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - It’s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun, - Or South to the blind Horn’s hate; - Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, - Or West to the Golden Gate; - Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, - And the wildest tales are true, - And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - - The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, - And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; - And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll - Of a black Bilbao tramp; - With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, - And a drunken Dago crew, - And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, - Or the way of a man with a maid; - But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea - In the heel of the North-East Trade. - Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, - And the drum of the racing screw, - As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new? - - See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, - And the fenders grind and heave, - And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, - And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; - It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass, - It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’ - And it’s ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - We’re backing down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - - O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, - And the sirens hoot their dread! - When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep - To the sob of the questing lead! - It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, - With the Gunfleet Sands in view, - Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light - That holds the hot sky tame, - And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floors - Where the scared whale flukes in flame! - Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass, - And her ropes are taut with the dew, - For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - We’re sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, - And the shouting seas drive by, - And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, - And the Southern Cross rides high! - Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, - That blaze in the velvet blue. - They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - - Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start-- - We’re steaming all too slow, - And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle - Where the trumpet-orchids blow! - You have heard the call of the off-shore wind - And the voice of the deep-sea rain; - You have heard the song--how long! how long! - Pull out on the trail again! - - The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, - And the deuce knows what we may do-- - But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, - We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new. - - -_867._ _Recessional_ - -_June 22, 1897_ - - God of our fathers, known of old-- - Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- - Beneath whose awful Hand we hold - Dominion over palm and pine-- - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, - Lest we forget, lest we forget! - - The tumult and the shouting dies-- - The captains and the kings depart-- - Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, - An humble and a contrite heart. - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, - Lest we forget, lest we forget! - - - Far-call’d our navies melt away-- - On dune and headland sinks the fire-- - Lo, all our pomp of yesterday - Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! - Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, - Lest we forget, lest we forget! - - If, drunk with sight of power, we loose - Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- - Such boasting as the Gentiles use - Or lesser breeds without the Law-- - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, - Lest we forget, lest we forget! - - For heathen heart that puts her trust - In reeking tube and iron shard-- - All valiant dust that builds on dust, - And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- - For frantic boast and foolish word, - Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! - - - - -RICHARD LE GALLIENNE - -b. 1866 - - -_868._ _Song_ - - She’s somewhere in the sunlight strong, - Her tears are in the falling rain, - She calls me in the wind’s soft song, - And with the flowers she comes again. - - Yon bird is but her messenger, - The moon is but her silver car; - Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, - And every wistful waiting star. - - -_869._ _The Second Crucifixion_ - - Loud mockers in the roaring street - Say Christ is crucified again: - Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet, - Twice broken His great heart in vain. - - I hear, and to myself I smile, - For Christ talks with me all the while. - - No angel now to roll the stone - From off His unawaking sleep, - In vain shall Mary watch alone, - In vain the soldiers vigil keep. - - Yet while they deem my Lord is dead - My eyes are on His shining head. - - Ah! never more shall Mary hear - That voice exceeding sweet and low - Within the garden calling clear: - Her Lord is gone, and she must go. - - Yet all the while my Lord I meet - In every London lane and street. - - Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, - And Bartimæus still go blind; - The healing hem shall ne’er again - Be touch’d by suffering humankind. - - Yet all the while I see them rest, - The poor and outcast, on His breast. - - - No more unto the stubborn heart - With gentle knocking shall He plead, - No more the mystic pity start, - For Christ twice dead is dead indeed. - - So in the street I hear men say, - Yet Christ is with me all the day. - - - - -LAURENCE BINYON - -b. 1869 - - -_870._ _Invocation to Youth_ - - Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning! - Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renew - Freshness to feel the eternities around it, - Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew. - The strong sun shines above thee: - That strength, that radiance bring! - If Winter come to Winter, - When shall men hope for Spring? - - -_871._ _O World, be Nobler_ - - O World, be nobler, for her sake! - If she but knew thee what thou art, - What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done - In thee, beneath thy daily sun, - Know’st thou not that her tender heart - For pain and very shame would break? - O World, be nobler, for her sake! - - - - -GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (‘A. E.’) - -b. 1853 - - -_872._ _By the Margin of the Great Deep_ - - When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, - All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, - With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; - I am one with the twilight’s dream. - - When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood, - Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast: - Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude, - I am one with their hearts at rest. - - From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love - Stray’d away along the margin of the unknown tide, - All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above - Word or touch from the lips beside. - - Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw - From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, - Such primæval being as o’erfills the heart with awe, - Growing one with its silent stream. - - -_873._ _The Great Breath_ - - Its edges foam’d with amethyst and rose, - Withers once more the old blue flower of day: - There where the ether like a diamond glows, - Its petals fade away. - - A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; - Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; - The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere - The breath of Beauty blows. - - - I saw how all the trembling ages past, - Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, - Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her last - And knows herself in death. - - - - -T. STURGE MOORE - -b. 1870 - - -_874._ _A Duet_ - - ‘Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air, - Flowers posied, flowers for the hair, - Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare----’ - ‘O pick me some!’ - - ‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum, - Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper _Come_, - Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb----’ - ‘O let me hear.’ - - ‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near, - Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear, - Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear----’ - ‘O look at me!’ - - ‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea, - Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free, - Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree----’ - ‘O give me one!’ - - Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon. - - - - -FRANCIS THOMPSON - -1859-1907 - - -_875._ _The Poppy_ - - Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare, - And left the flush’d print in a poppy there; - Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, - And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame. - - With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank - The blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank, - And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shine - When the eastern conduits ran with wine. - - Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, - And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is, - And drowsed in sleepy savageries, - With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss. - - A child and man paced side by side, - Treading the skirts of eventide; - But between the clasp of his hand and hers - Lay, felt not, twenty wither’d years. - - She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair, - And saw the sleeping gipsy there; - And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim, - With--‘Keep it, long as you live!’--to him. - - And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, - Trembled up from a bath of tears; - And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart, - Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart. - - - For _he_ saw what she did not see, - That--as kindled by its own fervency-- - The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly: - - And suddenly ’twixt his hand and hers - He knew the twenty withered years-- - No flower, but twenty shrivelled years. - - ‘Was never such thing until this hour,’ - Low to his heart he said; ‘the flower - Of sleep brings wakening to me, - And of oblivion memory.’ - - ‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said, - ‘Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!’ - And again to his own heart very low: - ‘O child! I love, for I love and know; - - ‘But you, who love nor know at all - The diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall, - Where some rise early, few sit long: - In how differing accents hear the throng - His great Pentecostal tongue; - - ‘Who know not love from amity, - Nor my reported self from me; - A fair fit gift is this, meseems, - You give--this withering flower of dreams. - - ‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true, - Do you know what the days will do to you? - To your Love and you what the days will do, - O frankly fickle, and fickly true? - - - ‘You have loved me, Fair, three lives--or days: - ’Twill pass with the passing of my face. - But where _I_ go, your face goes too, - To watch lest I play false to you. - - ‘I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, - Knowing well when certain years are over - You vanish from me to another; - Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother. - - ‘So, frankly fickle, and fickly true! - For my brief life-while I take from you - This token, fair and fit, meseems, - For me--this withering flower of dreams.’ - - * * * * * - - The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, - Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: - The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeper - The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper. - - I hang ’mid men my needless head, - And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: - The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper - Time shall reap, but after the reaper - The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper! - - Love! love! your flower of wither’d dream - In leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem, - Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme, - From the reaper man, and his reaper Time. - - Love! _I_ fall into the claws of Time: - But lasts within a leavèd rhyme - All that the world of me esteems-- - My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams. - - - - -HENRY CUST - -1861-1917 - - -_876._ _Non Nobis_ - - Not unto us, O Lord, - Not unto us the rapture of the day, - The peace of night, or love’s divine surprise, - High heart, high speech, high deeds ’mid honouring eyes; - For at Thy word - All these are taken away. - - Not unto us, O Lord: - To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar, - The ache of life, the loneliness of death, - The insufferable sufficiency of breath; - And with Thy sword - Thou piercest very far. - - Not unto us, O Lord: - Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given-- - My light and life and earth and sky be blasted-- - But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted: - Let Hell afford - The pavement of her Heaven! - - - - -KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON - -b. 1861 - - -_877._ _Sheep and Lambs_ - - All in the April morning, - April airs were abroad; - The sheep with their little lambs - Pass’d me by on the road. - - - The sheep with their little lambs - Pass’d me by on the road; - All in an April evening - I thought on the Lamb of God. - - The lambs were weary, and crying - With a weak human cry, - I thought on the Lamb of God - Going meekly to die. - - Up in the blue, blue mountains - Dewy pastures are sweet: - Rest for the little bodies, - Rest for the little feet. - - Rest for the Lamb of God - Up on the hill-top green, - Only a cross of shame - Two stark crosses between. - - All in the April evening, - April airs were abroad; - I saw the sheep with their lambs, - And thought on the Lamb of God. - - - - -FRANCES BANNERMAN - - -_878._ _An Upper Chamber_ - - I came into the City and none knew me; - None came forth, none shouted ‘He is here! - Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me, - All the way by which I drew anear-- - Night my banner, and my herald Fear. - - - But I knew where one so long had waited - In the low room at the stairway’s height, - Trembling lest my foot should be belated, - Singing, sighing for the long hours’ flight - Towards the moment of our dear delight. - - I came into the City when you hail’d me - Saviour, and again your chosen Lord:-- - Not one guessing what it was that fail’d me, - While along the way as they adored - Thousands, thousands, shouted in accord. - - But through all the joy I knew--I only-- - How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold, - Silent of its music, and how lonely! - Never, though you crown me with your gold, - Shall I find that little chamber as of old! - - - - -ALICE MEYNELL - -b. 1850 - - -_879._ _Renouncement_ - - I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, - I shun the love that lurks in all delight-- - The love of thee--and in the blue heaven’s height, - And in the dearest passage of a song. - Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng - This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright; - But it must never, never come in sight; - I must stop short of thee the whole day long. - But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, - When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, - And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, - Must doff my will as raiment laid away,-- - With the first dream that comes with the first sleep - I run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart. - - -_880._ _The Lady of the Lambs_ - - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; - She guards them from the steep. - She feeds them on the fragrant height - And folds them in for sleep. - - She roams maternal hills and bright, - Dark valleys safe and deep. - Her dreams are innocent at night; - The chastest stars may peep. - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - - She holds her little thoughts in sight, - Though gay they run and leap. - She is so circumspect and right; - She has her soul to keep. - She walks--the lady of my delight-- - A shepherdess of sheep. - - - - -DORA SIGERSON - -d. 1918 - - -_881._ _Ireland_ - - ’Twas the dream of a God, - And the mould of His hand, - That you shook ’neath His stroke, - That you trembled and broke - To this beautiful land. - - Here He loosed from His hold - A brown tumult of wings, - Till the wind on the sea - Bore the strange melody - Of an island that sings. - - He made you all fair, - You in purple and gold, - You in silver and green, - Till no eye that has seen - Without love can behold. - - I have left you behind - In the path of the past, - With the white breath of flowers, - With the best of God’s hours, - I have left you at last. - - - - -MARGARET L. WOODS - -b. 1856 - - -_882._ _Genius Loci_ - - Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? - Since long ago grace-giving Phœbus died, - And all the train that loved the stream-bright side - Of the poetic mount with him are gone - Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron, - In unexplorèd realms of night to hide. - The clouds that strew their shadows far and wide - Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon. - Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt, - Still may some nameless power of Nature stray, - Pleased with the reedy stream’s continual chant - And purple pomp of these broad fields in May. - The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine, - And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine. - - - - -R. D. BLACKMORE - -1825-1900 - - -_883._ _Dominus Illuminatio Mea_ - - In the hour of death, after this life’s whim, - When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, - And pain has exhausted every limb-- - The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him. - - When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim, - And the mind can only disgrace its fame, - And a man is uncertain of his own name-- - The power of the Lord shall fill this frame. - - When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed, - And the coffin is waiting beside the bed, - And the widow and child forsake the dead-- - The angel of the Lord shall lift this head. - - For even the purest delight may pall, - And power must fail, and the pride must fall, - And the love of the dearest friends grow small-- - But the glory of the Lord is all in all. - -[Illustration] - - - - -INDEX OF AUTHORS AND FIRST LINES INDEX OF AUTHORS - -_The references are to the numbers of the poems_ - - -Addison, Joseph, 433. - -‘A.E.,’ 872, 873. - -Ainslie, Hew, 619. - -Akenside, Mark, 461-463. - -Alford, Henry, 711. - -Allingham, William, 769. - -Anonymous, 1-7, 22-29, 50-72, 367-392. - -Arnold, Matthew, 747-754. - -Ashe, Thomas, 805, 806. - -Ayton, Sir Robert, 182, 183. - - -Baillie, Joanna, 510. - -Baillie, Lady Grisel, 430. - -Bannerman, Frances, 878. - -Barbauld, Anna Lætitia, 474. - -Barbour, John, 9. - -Barnefield, Richard, 203. - -Barnes, William, 658, 659. - -Beattie, James, 472. - -Beaumont, Francis, 234. - -Beaumont, Sir John, 223. - -Beddoes, Thomas Lovell, 666-668. - -Beeching, Henry Charles, 855, 856. - -Behn, Aphra, 411, 412. - -Benson, Arthur Christopher, 859. - -Binyon, Laurence, 870, 871. - -Blackmore, R. D., 883. - -Blake, William, 483-492. - -Blunt, Wilfrid Scawen, 816-823. - -Bowles, William Lisle, 509. - -Boyd, Mark Alexander, 114. - -Breton, Nicholas, 73, 74 (?). - -Bridges, Robert, 832-840. - -Brome, Alexander, 354. - -Brooke, Lord, 96. - -Broome, William, 446, 447 - -Brontë, Emily, 735-738. - -Brown, Thomas Edward, 790-793. - -Browne, William, of Tavistock, 240-246. - -Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 678-687. - -Browning, Robert, 715-730. - -Buckinghamshire, Duke of, 417, 418. - -Bunyan, John, 366. - -Burns, Robert, 493-506. - -Byron, Lord, 597-601. - - -Callanan, Jeremiah Joseph, 638. - -Campbell, Thomas, 580, 581. - -Campion, Thomas, 168-176. - -Carew, Thomas, 289-295. - -Carey, Henry, 444, 445. - -Carman, Bliss, 857. - -Cartwright, William, 330-333. - -Chapman, George, 107. - -Chatterton, Thomas, 479. - -Chaucer, Geoffrey, 10-12. - -Clare, John, 621. - -Clough, Arthur Hugh, 741. - -Coleridge, Hartley, 643-646. - -Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 549-555. - -Coleridge, Sara, 661, 662. - -Collins, William, 457-460. - -Congreve, William, 431, 432. - -Constable, Henry, 110. - -Cory, William (Johnson), 758-9. - -Cotton, Charles, 396. - -Cowley, Abraham, 349-353. - -Cowper, William, 470, 471. - -Crabbe, George, 480-482. - -Crashaw, Richard, 336-342. - -Cunningham, Allan, 589-591. - -Cunninghame-Graham, Robert, of Gartmore, 469. - -Cust, Henry, 876. - -Cutts, Lord, 421. - - -Daniel, Samuel, 111-113. - -Darley, George, 640-642. - -Davenant, Sir William, 301-303. - -Davidson, John, 850, 851. - -Davies, Sir John, 181. - -Davison, F. _or_ W. (?), 64. - -Dekker, Thomas, 204. - -De Vere, Aubrey, 732, 733. - -De Vere, Sir Aubrey, 602. - -Dobell, Sydney, 765-768. - -Dobson, Henry Austin, 824-826. - -Donne, John, 195-202. - -Dorset, Earl of, 408. - -Drayton, Michael, 116-120. - -Drummond, William, of Hawthornden, 224-232. - -Dryden, John, 398-402. - -Dufferin, Lady, 691. - -Dunbar, William, 18-21. - -D’Urfey, Thomas, 395. - - -Edwardes, Richard, 46. - -Elliott, Ebenezer, 587, 588. - -Elliot, Jane, 466. - -Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 669-672. - -Etherege, Sir George, 404, 405. - - -Fanshawe, Sir Richard, 329. - -Ferguson, Sir Samuel, 712-714. - -FitzGerald, Edward, 697, 698. - -Flatman, Thomas, 407. - -Fletcher, Giles, 233. - -Fletcher, John, 141-143 (?), 207-217. - -Fletcher, Phineas, 222. - -Ford, John, 235. - -Fox, George, 734. - - -Gascoigne, George, 47. - -Gay, John, 439. - -Goldsmith, Oliver, 467, 468. - -Gosse, Edmund, 845. - -Gray, Thomas, 453-456. - -Greene, Robert, 103-105. - -Greville, Fanny, 475. - -Griffin, Gerald, 663. - -Grimald, Nicholas, 42. - - -Habington, William, 297, 298. - -Harte, Bret, 813. - -Hawes, Stephen, 32, 33. - -Hawker, Robert Stephen, 674, 675. - -Hemans, Felicia Dorothea, 622. - -Henley, William Ernest, 842-844. - -Henryson, Robert, 16, 17. - -Herbert, George, 281-286. - -Herrick, Robert, 247-275. - -Heywood, John (?), 53. - -Heywood, Thomas, 205, 206. - -Hinkson, Katharine Tynan, 877. - -Hoccleve, Thomas, 13. - -Hood, Thomas, 647-654. - -Hogg, James, 513, 514. - -Horne, Richard Henry, 673. - -Houghton, Lord, 710. - -Howells, William Dean, 82. - -Hume, Alexander, 106. - -Hunt, Leigh, 592. - -Hyde, Douglas, 858. - - -Jago, Richard, 452. - -James I (King of Scotland), 15. - -Johnson, Samuel, 450, 451. - -Jones, Ebenezer, 745. - -Jones, Sir William, 478. - -Jonson, Ben, 184-194. - -Jordan, Thomas, 335. - - -Keats, John, 623-637. - -Keble, John, 620. - -Kendall, Henry Clarence, 827. - -King, Henry (Bishop of Chichester), 278-280. - -Kingsley, Charles, 739, 740. - -Kipling, Rudyard, 865-867. - - -Lamb, Charles, 577-579. - -Lamb, Mary, 511. - -Landor, Walter Savage, 557-576. - -Lang, Andrew, 841. - -Le Gallienne, Richard, 868, 869. - -Lindsay, Lady Anne, 477. - -Locker-Lampson, Frederick, 746. - -Lodge, Thomas, 97-100. - -Logan, John, 476. - -Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 689. - -Lovelace, Richard, 343-348. - -Lydgate, John, 14. - -Lyly, John, 85, 86. - -Lyttelton, Lord, 449. - -Lytton, Earl of, 794, 795. - - -Macaulay, Lord, 657. - -MacDonald, George, 770. - -Mahony, Francis, 677. - -Mangan, James Clarence, 664, 665. - -Mannyng, Robert, of Brunne, 8. - -Marlowe, Christopher, 121. - -Marvell, Andrew, 355-361. - -Mayne, Jasper, 296. - -Melcombe, Lord, 443. - -Meredith, George, 772-776. - -Meynell, Alice, 879, 880. - -Milton, John, 307-324. - -Montgomerie, Alexander, 48. - -Montrose, Marquis of, 334. - -Moore, Thomas, 582-585. - -Moore, T. Sturge, 874. - -Morris, William, 800-802. - -Munday, Anthony, 87. - - -Nairne, Carolina Lady, 512. - -Nashe, Thomas, 166, 167. - -Newbolt, Henry, 860. - -Noel, Roden Berkeley Wriothesley, 803, 804. - -Norton, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah, 692. - - -Oldham, John, 420. - -Oldys, William, 438. - -O’Reilly, John Boyle, 831. - -O’Shaughnessy, Arthur William Edgar, 828-830. - -Otway, Thomas, 419. - - -Pagan, Isobel, 473. - -Parker, Gilbert, 861. - -Parnell, Thomas, 436. - -Patmore, Coventry, 760-764. - -Peacock, Thomas Love, 593-595. - -Peele, George, 101, 102. - -Philips, Katherine (‘Orinda’), 397. - -Philpot, William, 757. - -Poe, Edgar Allan, 694-696. - -Pope, Alexander, 440-442. - -Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, 660. - -Prior, Matthew, 422-428. - - -Quarles, Francis, 276, 277. - - -Raleigh, Sir Walter, 75-78, 122. - -Ramsay, Allan, 437. - -Randolph, Thomas, 299, 300. - -Rands, William Brighty, 755, 756. - -Reynolds, John, 177. - -Rochester, Earl of, 413-416. - -Rolleston, T. W., 849. - -Rossetti, Christina Georgina, 779-789. - -Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 771 - -Rowe, Henry, 507, 508. - -Rowlands, Richard, 165. - -Ruskin, John, 744. - -Russell, George William, 872, 873. - - -Scott, Alexander, 43, 44. - -Scott, Sir Walter, 542-548. - -Scott, William Bell, 731. - -Sedley, Sir Charles, 409, 410. - -Shakespeare, William, 56 (?), 123-164. - -Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 605-618. - -Shirley, James, 287, 288. - -Sidney, Sir Philip, 88-95. - -Sigerson, Dora, 881. - -Skelton, John, 30, 31. - -Smart, Christopher, 465. - -Smith, Alexander, 777, 778. - -Smollett, Tobias George, 464. - -Southey, Caroline, 596. - -Southey, Robert, 556. - -Southwell, Robert, 108, 109. - -Spenser, Edmund, 79-84. - -Stanley, Thomas, 394. - -Stevenson, Robert Louis, 846-848. - -Stevenson, William, 49. - -Stirling, Earl of, 221. - -Strode, William, 393. - -Suckling, Sir John, 325-328. - -Surrey, Earl of, 39-41. - -Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 808-811. - -Sylvester, Joshua, 115. - - -Taylor, Sir Henry, 656. - -Tennyson, Frederick, 688. - -Tennyson, Lord, 699-709. - -Thom, William, 655. - -Thompson, Francis, 875. - -Thomson, James, 448. - -Thomson, James, 796-799. - -Thurlow, Lord, 586. - -Todhunter, John, 814, 815. - -Traherne, Thomas, 406. - -Turner, Charles Tennyson, 693. - - -Vaughan, Henry, 362-365. - - -Wade, Thomas, 676. - -Walker, William Sidney, 639. - -Waller, Edmund, 304-306. - -Walsh, William, 429. - -Watson, William, 852-854. - -Watts, Isaac, 434, 435. - -Watts-Dunton, Theodore, 807. - -Webbe, Charles, 403. - -Webster, John, 218-220. - -Wever, Robert, 45. - -Whitman, Walt, 742, 743. - -Whittier, John Greenleaf, 690. - -Wither, George, 236-239. - -Wolfe, Charles, 603, 604. - -Woods, Margaret L., 882. - -Wordsworth, William, 515-541. - -Wotton, Sir Henry, 178-180. - -Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 34-38. - - -Yeats, William Butler, 862-864. - - - - -INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - -No. - -A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 698 - -A child’s a plaything for an hour, 511 - -A! Fredome is a noble thing!, 9 - -A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!, 793 - -A late lark twitters from the quiet skies, 843 - -A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, 714 - -A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, 242 - -A slumber did my spirit seal, 519 - -A star is gone! a star is gone!, 642 - -A sunny shaft did I behold, 555 - -A sweet disorder in the dress, 258 - -A thousand martyrs I have made, 412 - -A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 546 - -Above yon sombre swell of land, 673 - -Absence, hear thou my protestation, 197 - -Absent from thee, I languish still, 413 - -Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 280 - -Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!, 167 - -Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 499 - -Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit, 406 - -Ah, how sweet it is to love!, 400 - -Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, 104 - -Ah, what avails the sceptred race, 558 - -Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon, 739 - -Alexis, here she stay’d; among these pines, 228 - -All are not taken; there are left behind, 680 - -All holy influences dwell within, 602 - -All in the April morning, 877 - -All is best, though we oft doubt, 324 - -All my past life is mine no more, 414 - -All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair, 554 - -All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter, 726 - -All the flowers of the spring, 220 - -All the words that I utter, 862 - -All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 551 - -All under the leaves and the leaves of life, 382 - -Allas! my worthy maister honorable, 13 - -Amarantha sweet and fair, 346 - -An ancient chestnut’s blossoms threw, 572 - -And, like a dying lady lean and pale, 609 - -And wilt thou leave me thus?, 35 - -Angel, king of streaming morn, 507 - -Angel spirits of sleep, 833 - -April, April, 852 - -Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?, 204 - -As doctors give physic by way of prevention, 428 - -As I in hoary winter’s night, 109 - -As I was walking all alane, 380 - -As it fell upon a day, 203 - -As one that for a weary space has lain, 841 - -As those we love decay, we die in part, 448 - -As we rush, as we rush in the Train, 796 - -As ye came from the holy land, 26 - -Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 289 - -Ask me why I send you here, 254 - -Ask not the cause why sullen Spring, 402 - -At her fair hands how have I grace entreated, 64 - -At the last, tenderly, 742 - -At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly, 585 - -Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, 455 - -Away! Away!, 462 - -Away, delights! go seek some other dwelling, 211 - -Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, 617 - - -Bacchus must now his power resign, 445 - -Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep!, 28 - -Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 630 - -Be it right or wrong, these men among, 25 - -Beating Heart! we come again, 746 - -Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, 834 - -Beauty clear and fair, 215 - -Beauty sat bathing by a spring, 87 - -Behold her, single in the field, 528 - -Being your slave, what should I do but tend, 151 - -Best and brightest, come away, 606 - -Bid me to live, and I will live, 266 - -Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy, 309 - -Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 136 - -Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon, 329 - -Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen, 514 - -Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you, 278 - -Breathes there the man with soul so dead, 547 - -Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art, 637 - -Bring me wine, but wine which never grew, 671 - -Busy, curious, thirsty fly!, 438 - -By feathers green, across Casbeen, 859 - -Bytuene Mershe ant Averil, 2 - - -Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, 473, 506 - -Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 218 - -Calm on the bosom of thy God!, 622 - -Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre, 81 - -Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, 805 - -Charm me asleep, and melt me so, 263 - -Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 256 - -Chloe’s a Nymph in flowery groves, 395 - -Christmas knows a merry, merry place, 807 - -Clerk Saunders and may Margaret, 371 - -Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, 736 - -Come away, come away, death, 134 - -Come, dear children, let us away, 747 - -Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, 706 - -Come into the garden, Maud, 708 - -Come, let us now resolve at last, 417 - -Come little babe, come silly soul, 74 - -Come live with me and be my Love, 121 - -Come not in terrors clad, to claim, 596 - -Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving, 207 - -Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, 94 - -Come, spur away, 300 - -Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning!, 870 - -Come thou, who art the wine and wit, 274 - -Come unto these yellow sands, 129 - -Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come, 112 - -Condemn’d to Hope’s delusive mine, 451 - -Corydon, arise, my Corydon!, 57 - -Count each affliction, whether light or grave, 733 - -Crabbèd Age and Youth, 56 - -Cupid and my Campaspe play’d, 85 - -Cynthia, to thy power and thee, 208 - -Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench, 320 - - -Dark, deep, and cold the current flows, 588 - -Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens, 817 - -Daughter to that good Earl, once President, 317* - -Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark, 587 - -Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love, 223 - -Dear love, for nothing less than thee, 199 - -Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee, 202 - -Deep on the convent-roof the snows, 703 - -‘Do you remember me? or are you proud?’, 569 - -Does the road wind uphill all the way?, 783 - -Drink to me only with thine eyes, 185 - -Drop, drop, slow tears, 222 - - -Earth has not anything to show more fair, 520 - -E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks, 276 - -Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!, 361 - -Even such is Time, that takes in trust, 78 - -Ever let the Fancy roam, 631 - - -Fain would I change that note, 68 - -Fair Amoret is gone astray, 432 - -Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 101 - -Fair daffodils, we weep to see, 252 - -Fair is my Love and cruel as she’s fair, 113 - -Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 253 - -Fair ship, that from the Italian shore, 707 - -Fair stood the wind for France, 119 - -False though she be to me and love, 431 - -False world, good night! since thou hast brough, 190 - -Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, 153 - -Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, 140 - -Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new, 58 - -First came the primrose, 767 - -Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air, 874 - -Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, 308 - -Fly hence, shadows, that do keep, 235 - -Follow a shadow, it still flies you, 187 - -Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!, 170 - -Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!, 171 - -Foolish prater, what dost thou, 351 - -For a name unknown, 857 - -For her gait, if she be walking, 243 - -For knighthood is not in the feats of warre, 32 - -Forbear, bold youth; all’s heaven here, 397 - -Forget not yet the tried intent, 34 - -Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, 114 - -Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king, 79 - -From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 399 - -From low to high doth dissolution climb, 539 - -From the forests and highlands, 605 - -From you have I been absent in the spring, 157 - -From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass, 559 - -Full fathom five thy father lies, 131 - - -Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 248 - -Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn, 247 - -Give a man a horse he can ride, 798 - -Give all to love, 669 - -Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 77 - -Give pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries, 110 - -Give place, you ladies, and begone!, 53 - -Go and catch a falling star, 196 - -Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, 496 - -Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill, 751 - -Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand, 684 - -Go, lovely Rose, 305 - -God Lyæus, ever young, 214 - -God of our fathers, known of old, 867 - -God who created me, 855 - -Gone were but the winter cold, 591 - -Good-morrow to the day so fair, 268 - -Great men have been among us; hands that penn’d, 525 - - -Had we but world enough, and time, 357 - -Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!, 476 - -Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born, 322 - -Hail, sister springs, 337 - -Hail to thee, blithe spirit!, 608 - -Hallow the threshold, crown the posts anew!, 332 - -Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be, 590 - -Happy those early days, when I, 362 - -Hark! ah, the Nightingale, 752 - -Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 139 - -Hark! Now everything is still, 219 - -Hark! the mavis’ evening sang, 506 - -He first deceased; she for a little tried, 180 - -He has conn’d the lesson now, 660 - -He that is by Mooni now, 827 - -He that is down needs fear no fall, 366 - -He that loves a rosy cheek, 292 - -He who has once been happy is for aye, 818 - -Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes, 715 - -Hear the voice of the Bard, 488 - -Hear, ye ladies that despise, 213 - -Helen, thy beauty is to me, 694 - -Hence, all you vain delights, 216 - -Hence, heart, with her that must depart, 43 - -Hence loathed Melancholy, 310 - -Hence vain deluding joyes, 311 - -Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 262 - -Here a little child I stand, 271 - -Here a pretty baby lies, 273 - -Here, ever since you went abroad, 567 - -Here in this sequester’d close, 824 - -Here she lies, a pretty bud, 272 - -Hey nonny no!, 59 - -Hey! now the day dawis, 48 - -Hierusalem, my happy home, 61 - -High-spirited friend, 191 - -Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, 92 - -His golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d, 102 - -How happy is he born and taught, 179 - -How like a Winter hath my absence been, 156 - -How many times do I love thee, dear?, 668 - -How near me came the hand of Death, 239 - -How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 458 - -How vainly men themselves amaze, 359 - -Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, 435 - -Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere, 11 - - -I am that which began, 809 - -I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?, 621 - -I arise from dreams of thee, 611 - -I ask no kind return of love, 475 - -I came into the City and none knew me, 878 - -I cannot change as others do, 415 - -I cannot eat but little meat, 49 - -I dare not ask a kiss, 250 - -I did but look and love awhile, 419 - -I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love, 819 - -I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair, 182 - -I do not love thee!--no! I do not love thee!, 692 - -I dream’d that, as I wander’d by the way, 616 - -I dug, beneath the cypress shade, 594 - -I feed a flame within, which so torments me, 401 - -I flung me round him, 803 - -I got me flowers to straw Thy way, 282 - -I have a mistress, for perfections rare, 299 - -I have had playmates, I have had companions, 577 - -I intended an Ode, 825 - -I know a little garden-close, 802 - -I know a thing that’s most uncommon, 440 - -I know my soul hath power to know all things, 181 - -I left thee last, a child at heart, 678 - -I long have had a quarrel set with Time, 823 - -I loved a lass, a fair one, 236 - -I loved him not; and yet now he is gone, 557 - -I loved thee once; I’ll love no more, 183 - -I made another garden, yea, 829 - -I mind me in the days departed, 679 - -I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 879 - -I, my dear, was born to-day, 425 - -I play’d with you ’mid cowslips blowing, 593 - -I pray thee, leave, love me no more, 116 - -I said--Then, dearest, since ’tis so, 727 - -I saw fair Chloris walk alone, 393 - -I saw my Lady weep, 66 - -I saw old Autumn in the misty morn, 647 - -I saw where in the shroud did lurk, 579 - -I sent a ring--a little band, 641 - -I sing of a maiden, 23 - -I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, 576 - -I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless, 681 - -I that in heill was and gladnèss, 21 - -I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 538 - -I thought once how Theocritus had sung, 682 - -I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem’d, 620 - -I took my heart in my hand, 782 - -I travell’d among unknown men, 517 - -I wander’d lonely as a cloud, 530 - -I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 864 - -I will make you brooches and toys for your delight, 846 - -I wish I were where Helen lies, 387 - -I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head, 96 - -Ichot a burde in boure bryht, 4 - -I’d a dream to-night, 658 - -I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array, 713 - -I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, 691 - -I’m wearin’ awa’, John, 512 - -I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, 466 - -If all the world and love were young, 122 - -If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 459 - -If doughty deeds my lady please, 469 - -If I had thought thou couldst have died, 604 - -‘If I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child!’, 761 - -If rightly tuneful bards decide, 461 - -If the quick spirits in your eye, 290 - -If the red slayer think he slays, 672 - -If there were dreams to sell, 667 - -If thou must love me, let it be for naught, 685 - -If thou wilt ease thine heart, 666 - -If to be absent were to be, 344 - -If you go over desert and mountain, 830 - -In a drear-nighted December, 632 - -In a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay, 45 - -In a quiet water’d land, a land of roses, 849 - -In a valley of this restles mind, 24 - -In after days when grasses high, 826 - -In Clementina’s artless mien, 568 - -In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, 46 - -In Scarlet town, where I was born, 389 - -In somer when the shawes be sheyne, 22 - -In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands, 768 - -In the highlands, in the country places, 847 - -In the hour of death, after this life’s whim, 883 - -In the hour of my distress, 275 - -In the merry month of May, 73 - -In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 550 - -Into the silver night, 845 - -Into the skies, one summer’s day, 756 - -Is it so small a thing, 754 - -It fell about the Martinmas, 374 - -It fell in the ancient periods, 670 - -It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day, 377 - -It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 521 - -It is an ancient Mariner, 549 - -It is not, Celia, in our power, 405 - -It is not death, that sometime in a sigh, 649 - -It is not growing like a tree, 194 - -It is not to be thought of that the flood, 526 - -It is the miller’s daughter, 701 - -It was a dismal and a fearful night, 352 - -It was a lover and his lass, 137 - -It was a’ for our rightfu’ King, 505 - -It was many and many a year ago, 695 - -It was not in the Winter, 651 - -It was not like your great and gracious ways!, 762 - -It was the Winter wilde, 307 - -Its edges foam’d with amethyst and rose, 873 - - -Jenny kiss’d me when we met, 592 - -John Anderson, my jo, John, 497 - - -Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 293 - - -Ladies, though to your conquering eyes, 404 - -Late at een, drinkin’ the wine, 370 - -Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son, 319 - -Lay a garland on my herse, 209 - -Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust, 95 - -Lenten ys come with love to toune, 3 - -Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge, 7 - -Let me go forth, and share, 853 - -Let me not to the marriage of true minds, 162 - -Let the bird of loudest lay, 144 - -Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, 335 - -Life! I know not what thou art, 474 - -Like the Idalian queen, 225 - -Like thee I once have stemm’d the sea of life, 472 - -Like to Diana in her summer weed, 103 - -Like to the clear in highest sphere, 100 - -Lo, quhat it is to love, 44 - -London, thou art of townes _A per se_, 19 - -Long-expected One-and-twenty, 450 - -Look not thou on beauty’s charming, 544 - -Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band, 423 - -Loud mockers in the roaring street, 869 - -Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, 286 - -Love guards the roses of thy lips, 99 - -Love in fantastic triumph sate, 411 - -Love in my bosom like a bee, 97 - -Love is a sickness full of woes, 111 - -Love is enough: though the World be a-waning, 801 - -Love is the blossom where there blows, 233 - -Love not me for comely grace, 71 - -Love, thou art absolute, sole Lord, 338 - -Love thy country, wish it well, 443 - -Love wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to fly, 62 - - -Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, 375 - -Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, 775 - -Martial, the things that do attain, 41 - -Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold, 785 - -Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, 470 - -May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing, 245 - -May! queen of blossoms, 586 - -Me so oft my fancy drew, 238 - -Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, 655 - -Merry Margaret, 31 - -Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint, 321 - -Mild is the parting year, and sweet, 565 - -Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour, 524 - -More love or more disdain I crave, 403 - -Mortality, behold and fear!, 234 - -Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day, 84 - -Mother, I cannot mind my wheel, 564 - -Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!, 629 - -Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, 634 - -Music, when soft voices die, 618 - -My blood so red, 385 - -My Damon was the first to wake, 480 - -My days among the Dead are past, 556 - -My dear and only Love, I pray, 334 - -My delight and thy delight, 832 - -My faint spirit was sitting in the light, 613 - -My grief on the sea, 858 - -My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, 624 - -My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss, 52 - -My heart is like a singing bird, 780 - -My heart leaps up when I behold, 532 - -My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes, 763 - -My Love in her attire doth show her wit, 63 - -My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming, 158 - -My love o’er the water bends dreaming, 797 - -My lute, awake! perform the last, 38 - -My mother bore me in the southern wild, 487 - -My new-cut ashlar takes the light, 865 - -My noble, lovely, little Peggy, 427 - -My Peggy is a young thing, 437 - -My Phillis hath the morning sun, 98 - -My silks and fine array, 485 - -My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on, 277 - -My soul, there is a country, 363 - -My thoughts hold mortal strife, 230 - -My true love hath my heart, and I have his, 88 - - -Nay but you, who do not love her, 721 - -Near to the silver Trent, 118 - -Never seek to tell thy love, 492 - -Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, 176 - -New doth the sun appear, 231 - -News from a foreign country came, 406 - -No coward soul is mine, 738 - -No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist, 628 - -No thyng ys to man so dere, 8 - -Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away, 730 - -Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 603 - -Not, Celia, that I juster am, 410 - -‘Not ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread, 854 - -Not unto us, O Lord, 876 - -Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, 705 - -Now the lusty spring is seen, 212 - -Now the North wind ceases, 774 - -Now winter nights enlarge, 174 - -Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room, 533 - - -O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 543 - -O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 743 - -O Christ of God! whose life and death, 690 - -O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!, 107 - -O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes, 789 - -O fly, my Soul! What hangs upon, 287 - -O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure, 816 - -O for some honest lover’s ghost, 325 - -O for the mighty wakening that aroused, 676 - -O friend! I know not which way I must look, 523 - -O goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung, 626 - -O happy dames! that may embrace, 40 - -O happy Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap, 221 - -O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 150 - -O, I hae come from far away, 731 - -O joy of creation, 813 - -O lusty May, with Flora queen!, 51 - -O many a day have I made good ale in the glen, 638 - -O Mary, at thy window be, 493 - -O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 740 - -O Memory, thou fond deceiver, 468 - -O mistress mine, where are you roaming?, 133 - -O mortal folk, you may behold and see, 33 - -O my Dark Rosaleen, 664 - -O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit, 384 - -O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, 503 - -O never say that I was false of heart, 161 - -O perfect Light, which shaid away, 106 - -O ruddier than the cherry!, 439 - -O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 500 - -O saw ye not fair Ines?, 650 - -O sing unto my roundelay, 479 - -O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, 661 - -O soft embalmer of the still midnight!, 636 - -O Sorrow!, 623 - -O that ’twere possible, 709 - -O the sad day!, 407 - -O thou, by Nature taught, 457 - -O thou that swing’st upon the waving hair, 347 - -O thou undaunted daughter of desires!, 339 - -O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down, 484 - -O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay, 509 - -O, to be in England, 729 - -O turn away those cruel eyes, 394 - -O waly, waly, up the bank, 388 - -O were my Love yon lilac fair, 502 - -O western wind, when wilt thou blow, 27 - -O wha will shoe my bonny foot?, 369 - -O what a plague is love!, 392 - -O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 633 - -‘O which is the last rose?’, 851 - -O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, 610 - -O world, be nobler, for her sake!, 871 - -O world, in very truth thou art too young, 822 - -O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, 10 - -O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, 814 - -Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, 494 - -Of all the flowers rising now, 757 - -Of all the girls that are so smart, 444 - -Of all the torments, all the cares, 429 - -Of Nelson and the North, 581 - -Of Neptune’s empire let us sing, 173 - -Of on that is so fayr and bright, 6 - -Oft, in the stilly night, 584 - -Often I think of the beautiful town, 689 - -Oh how comely it is and how reviving, 323 - -On a day--alack the day!, 124 - -On a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose, 776 - -On a time the amorous Silvy, 72 - -On either side the river lie, 700 - -On parent knees, a naked new-born child, 478 - -On the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight, 734 - -On the Sabbath-day, 778 - -On the wide level of a mountain’s head, 553 - -Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee, 522 - -One more Unfortunate, 654 - -One word is too often profaned, 615 - -Only tell her that I love, 421 - -O’re the smooth enameld green, 312 - -Orpheus with his lute made trees, 143 - -Others abide our question. Thou art free, 753 - -Out of the night that covers me, 842 - -Out upon it, I have loved, 326 - -Over hill, over dale, 127 - -Over the mountains, 391 - -Over the sea our galleys went, 716 - - -Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day!, 205 - -Passing away, saith the World, passing away, 784 - -Passions are liken’d best to floods and streams, 75 - -Past ruin’d Ilion Helen lives, 561 - -Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?, 882 - -Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, 837 - -Phœbus, arise!, 224 - -Piping down the valleys wild, 486 - -Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 164 - -Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds, 303 - -Pray but one prayer for me ’twixt thy closed lips, 800 - -Proud Maisie is in the wood, 542 - -Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak, 562 - -Pure stream, in whose transparent wave, 464 - -Put your head, darling, darling, darling, 712 - - -Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 184 - -Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose, 449 - -Quhen Flora had o’erfret the firth, 50 - -Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife, 656 - - -Remain, ah not in youth alone!, 566 - -Remember me when I am gone away, 787 - -Return, return! all night my lamp is burning, 766 - -‘Rise,’ said the Master, ‘come unto the feast’, 711 - -Robin sat on gude green hill, 16 - -Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, 665 - -Rorate coeli desuper!, 20 - -Rose-cheek’d Laura, come, 169 - -Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 141 - -Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 725 - - -Sabrina fair, 315 - -Safe where I cannot die yet, 786 - -Say, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil, 177 - -Say not the struggle naught availeth, 741 - -Says Tweed to Till, 383 - -Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown’d, 534 - -Seamen three! What men be ye?, 595 - -Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!, 627 - -See how the flowers, as at parade, 356 - -See the Chariot at hand here of Love, 188 - -See where she sits upon the grassie greene, 80 - -See with what simplicity, 358 - -See yon blithe child that dances in our sight!, 662 - -Sense with keenest edge unusèd, 838 - -Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm, 821 - -Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?, 145 - -Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 810 - -Shall I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare?, 54 - -Shall I, wasting in despair, 237 - -She beat the happy pavèment, 345 - -She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 516 - -She fell away in her first ages spring, 83 - -She is not fair to outward view, 644 - -She knelt upon her brother’s grave, 790 - -She pass’d away like morning dew, 645 - -She stood breast-high amid the corn, 652 - -She walks in beauty, like the night, 600 - -She walks--the lady of my delight, 880 - -She was a phantom of delight, 529 - -She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning, 643 - -She who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, 333 - -She’s somewhere in the sunlight strong, 868 - -Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 495 - -Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night, 261 - -Since all that I can ever do for thee, 795 - -Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye, 69 - -Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce, 659 - -Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part, 117 - -Sing his praises that doth keep, 210 - -Sing lullaby, as women do, 47 - -Sister, awake! close not your eyes!, 67 - -Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, 490 - -So shuts the marigold her leaves, 244 - -So, we’ll go no more a-roving, 599 - -Softly, O midnight Hours!, 732 - -Some vex their souls with jealous pain, 418 - -Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife, 545 - -Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king, 166 - -Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 571 - -Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!, 195 - -Steer, hither steer your wingèd pines, 241 - -Stern Daughter of the voice of God!, 531 - -Still do the stars impart their light, 331 - -Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear, 737 - -Still to be neat, still to be drest, 186 - -Strange fits of passion have I known, 515 - -Strew on her roses, roses, 750 - -Sublime--invention ever young, 465 - -Sumer is icumen in, 1 - -Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare, 875 - -Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, 364 - -Surprised by joy--impatient as the Wind, 537 - -Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, 811 - -Sweet are the rosy memories of the lips, 794 - -Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, 264 - -Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 281 - -Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseen, 314 - -Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, 640 - -Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness, 18 - -Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train, 227 - -Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, 249 - -Sweetest Saviour, if my soul, 284 - -Swiftly walk over the western wave, 612 - -Take, O take those lips away, 138 - -Tary no longer; toward thyn heritage, 14 - -Tell me not of a face that’s fair, 354 - -Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 343 - -Tell me not what too well I know, 570 - -Tell me where is Fancy bred, 132 - -Th’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shame, 163 - -Thank Heaven! the crisis, 696 - -That time of year thou may’st in me behold, 152 - -That which her slender waist confined, 304 - -That zephyr every year, 226 - -The beauty and the life, 229 - -The blessèd Damozel lean’d out, 771 - -The boat is chafing at our long delay, 850 - -The chough and crow to roost are gone, 510 - -The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 453 - -The day begins to droop, 839 - -The days are sad, it is the Holy tide, 688 - -The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, 777 - -The forward youth that would appear, 355 - -The glories of our blood and state, 288 - -The gray sea and the long black land, 724 - -The Indian weed witherèd quite, 390 - -The irresponsive silence of the land, 788 - -The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!, 601 - -The king sits in Dunfermline town, 368 - -The Lady Mary Villiers lies, 294 - -The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest, 301 - -The last and greatest Herald of Heaven’s King, 232 - -The leaves are falling; so am I, 575 - -The linnet in the rocky dells, 735 - -The loppèd tree in time may grow again, 108 - -The lovely lass o’ Inverness, 504 - -The man of life upright, 175 - -The merchant, to secure his treasure, 424 - -The moth’s kiss, first!, 723 - -The murmur of the mourning ghost, 765 - -The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth, 91 - -The rain set early in to-night, 720 - -The red rose whispers of passion, 831 - -The reivers they stole Fair Annie, 372 - -The ring, so worn as you behold, 482 - -The Rose was sick and smiling died, 255 - -The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er, 306 - -The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 39 - -The spacious firmament on high, 433 - -The splendour falls on castle walls, 704 - -The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, 313 - -The sun descending in the west, 491 - -The sun rises bright in France, 589 - -The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 349 - -The twentieth year is wellnigh past, 471 - -The wine of Love is music, 799 - -The world is too much with us; late and soon, 535 - -The world’s great age begins anew, 607 - -The year’s at the spring, 718 - -The young May moon is beaming, love, 582 - -Thee too, modest tressèd maid, 508 - -Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now, 154 - -There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men, 430 - -There are two births; the one when light, 330 - -There be none of Beauty’s daughters, 598 - -There is a garden in her face, 168 - -There is a Lady sweet and kind, 70 - -There is a mountain and a wood between us, 574 - -There is a silence where hath been no sound, 648 - -There is sweet music here that softer falls, 702 - -There lived a wife at Usher’s well, 378 - -There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 536 - -There were three ravens sat on a tree, 379 - -There were twa sisters sat in a bour, 376 - -There’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 815 - -There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, 866 - -There’s a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer than the purest, 722 - -There’s not a nook within this silent Pass, 540 - -They are all gone into the world of light!, 365 - -They are waiting on the shore, 804 - -They flee from me that sometime did me seek, 37 - -They seem’d, to those who saw them meet, 710 - -They that have power to hurt and will do none, 155 - -They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, 759 - -They all were looking for a king, 770 - -This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 381 - -This hinder yeir I hard be tald, 17 - -This is a spray the Bird clung to, 728 - -This little vault, this narrow room, 295 - -This winter’s weather it waxeth cold, 29 - -Thou art to all lost love the best, 267 - -Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, 625 - -Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, 398 - -Though beauty be the mark of praise, 189 - -Three years she grew in sun and shower, 518 - -Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way, 583 - -Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, 748 - -Throw away Thy rod, 283 - -Thus the Mayne glideth, 717 - -Thus when the silent grave becomes, 447 - -Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts, 148 - -Thy restless feet now cannot go, 341 - -Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep, 420 - -Tiger, tiger, burning bright, 489 - -Time is the feather’d thing, 296 - -’Tis a dull sight, 697 - -To all you ladies now at land, 408 - -To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb, 460 - -To live within a cave--it is most good, 792 - -To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 159 - -To mute and to material things, 548 - -To my true king I offer’d free from stain, 657 - -To the Ocean now I fly, 316 - -To these whom death again did wed, 342 - -To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, 820 - -To-night retired, the queen of heaven, 463 - -Too late for love, too late for joy, 779 - -Too solemn for day, too sweet for night, 639 - -Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, 812 - -True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, 367 - -Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?, 744 - -’Twas on a lofty vase’s side, 456 - -’Twas the dream of a God, 881 - -Twenty years hence my eyes may grow, 560 - - -Under the greenwood tree, 135 - -Under the wide and starry sky, 848 - -Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, 772 - -Underneath this myrtle shade, 350 - -Underneath this sable herse, 246 - -Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!, 683 - -Up the airy mountain, 769 - -Upon my lap my sovereign sits, 165 - -Urns and odours bring away!, 142 - -Venus, take my votive glass, 426 - -Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying, 552 - -Vital spark of heav’nly flame!, 442 - - -Waes-hael for knight and dame!, 674 - -We are the music-makers, 828 - -We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 340 - -We see them not--we cannot hear, 675 - -We, that did nothing study but the way, 279 - -We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night, 653 - -We’ve trod the maze of error round, 481 - -Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 454 - -Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, 217 - -Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 105 - -Weep with me, all you that read, 193 - -Weep you no more, sad fountains, 65 - -Welcome, maids of honour!, 251 - -Welcome, welcome! do I sing, 240 - -Well then! I now do plainly see, 353 - -Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 115 - -Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ love, 619 - -What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade, 441 - -What bird so sings, yet so does wail?, 86 - -What conscience, say, is it in thee, 265 - -What have I done for you, 844 - -What is your substance, whereof are you made, 149 - -What needs complaints, 269 - -What nymph should I admire or trust, 422 - -What should I say?, 36 - -What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see, 42 - -What was he doing, the great god Pan, 687 - -When by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, 773 - -When, Cœlia, must my old day set, 396 - -When daisies pied and violets blue, 125 - -When, dearest, I but think of thee, 328 - -When Death to either shall come, 840 - -When Delia on the plain appears, 449 - -When God at first made Man, 285 - -When I am dead, my dearest, 781 - -When I consider how my light is spent, 318 - -When I have borne in memory what has tamed, 527 - -When I have fears that I may cease to be, 635 - -When I survey the bright, 298 - -When icicles hang by the wall, 126 - -When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, 146 - -When in the chronicle of wasted time, 160 - -When Jessie comes with her soft breast, 791 - -When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year, 693 - -When like the early rose, 663 - -When Love arose in heart and deed, 755 - -When Love with unconfinèd wings, 348 - -When lovely woman stoops to folly, 467 - -When maidens such as Hester die, 578 - -When my love was away, 836 - -When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 686 - -When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, 872 - -When the fierce North-wind with his airy forces, 434 - -When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, 808 - -When the lamp is shatter’d, 614 - -When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 477 - -When the world is burning, 745 - -When thou must home to shades of underground, 172 - -When thou, poor Excommunicate, 291 - -When thy beauty appears, 436 - -When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought, 147 - -When we two parted, 597 - -When we were idlers with the loitering rills, 646 - -When you and I have play’d the little hour, 861 - -When you are old and gray and full of sleep, 863 - -Whenas in silks my Julia goes, 259 - -Where, like a pillow on a bed, 198 - -Where the bee sucks, there suck I, 130 - -Where the pools are bright and deep, 513 - -Where the remote Bermudas ride, 360 - -Whether on Ida’s shady brow, 483 - -While that the sun with his beams hot, 55 - -Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 835 - -Who hath his fancy pleased, 89 - -Who is it that, this dark night, 90 - -Who is Silvia? What is she?, 123 - -Whoe’er she be, 336 - -Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm, 200 - -Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant, 541 - -Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, 373 - -Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why, 416 - -Why, having won her, do I woo?, 760 - -Why I tie about thy wrist, 260 - -Why so pale and wan, fond lover?, 327 - -Why, why repine, my pensive friend, 563 - -Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 201 - -With all my will, but much against my heart, 764 - -With blackest moss the flower-plots, 699 - -With deep affection, 677 - -With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!, 93 - -With leaden foot Time creeps along, 452 - -With lifted feet, hands still, 856 - -With margerain gentle, 30 - -Worschippe ye that loveris bene this May, 15 - -Wouldst thou hear what Man can say, 192 - -Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 76 - -Wynter wakeneth al my care, 5 - - -Years, many parti-colour’d years, 573 - -Ye banks and braes and streams around, 501 - -Ye blushing virgins happy are, 297 - -Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, 498 - -Ye have been fresh and green, 270 - -‘Ye have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughter’d and made an end, 860 - -Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, 386 - -Ye learnèd sisters, which have oftentimes, 82 - -Ye little birds that sit and sing, 206 - -Ye Mariners of England, 580 - -Yes: in the sea of life enisled, 749 - -Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, 60 - -Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more, 317 - -You are a tulip seen to-day, 257 - -You brave heroic minds, 120 - -You meaner beauties of the night, 178 - -You must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, 806 - -You promise heavens free from strife, 758 - -You spotted snakes with double tongue, 128 - -You’ll love me yet!--and I can tarry, 719 - -Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh, 302 - -Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, 12 - - -PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, OXFORD -BY JOHN JOHNSON, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE; -1250-1900 *** - -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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