Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/flowerofmindchoi00meyn_0 THE FLOWER OF THE MIND THE FLOWER OF THE MIND A Choice among the Best Poems MADE BY ALICE MEYNELL^- LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1907 boston cor, lege CHESTNUT HILL • Mass, PREFACE It has never been necessary to define poetry, but it is always a good work to prove it ; and what proof or demonstration can equal that wherewith this incomparable English poetry serves us? Moreover, though it is futile hard work to define poetry, it is light labour, lovely labour, and not lost, to de- scribe it. Amongst descriptions, then, that which names it la vie comphbnentaire is a happy one. Poetry makes amends. To write it is the grave life-work of the noblest man ; to read it is the ideal consolation of a boy and girl, and of every age, every weak- ness. Complementary life, contemporary life, concurrent life is there. All fine art comes near to realities, as poetry does ; but this is proper to poetry amongst the other PREFACE arts — that having come close to great reali- ties, it is able to speak of them intellectual and all-intelligible words. This selection, to which I have given for title a phrase of Emerson's, is, as nearly as I can make it, the very flower of that poetry which is the flower of the world. The con- ditions will be evident to the reader. The poems are all brief enough to be quoted (with one or two slight exceptions) complete, they are in rhyme, and they cease with Wordsworth. CONTENTS PAGE ANONYMOUS. THE FIRST CAROL I SIR WALTER RALEIGH (1552-1618). VERSES BEFORE DEATH .... I EDMUND SPENSER (1553-1599). EASTER 2 FRESH SPRING 2 LIKE AS A SHIP 3 EPITHALAMION 3 JOHN LYLY (t55 4 ?-i6o6 ). THE SPRING 17 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586). TRUE LOVE 18 THE MOON 18 KISS . 19 SWEET JUDGE 1 9 SLEEP 20 vvat’red was my WINE ... 20 THOMAS LODGE (1556-1625). ROSALYND’S MADRIGAL .... 21 ROSALINE 22 THE SOLITARY SHEPHERD’S SONG . . 24 vii CONTENTS PAGE ANONYMOUS. I SAW MY LADY WEEP ... 24 GEORGE PEELE (i558?-i 5 9 7 ). FAREWELL TO ARMS .... 25 ROBERT GREENE (i 5 6o?-i592>. FAWNIA 26 sephestia’s SONG TO HER CHILD . 27 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (1562-1593). THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 28 SAMUEL DANIEL (1562-1619). SLEEP 29 MY SPOTLESS LOVE . . . . 30 MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631). SINCE THERE’S NO HELP . . . 30 JOSHUA SYLVESTER (1563-1618). WERE I AS BASE 31 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616). POOR SOUL, THE CENTRE OF MY SINFUL EARTH i 32 O me! WHAT EYES HATH LOVE PUT IN MY HEAD 32 SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY? 33 WHEN IN THE CHRONICLE OF WASTED TIME 33 THAT TIME OF YEAR THOU MAY’ST IN ME BEHOLD 34. HOW LIKE A WINTER HATH MY ABSENCE viii BEEN 34 CONTENTS BEING VOUR SLAVE, WHAT SHOULD I DO BUT TEND WHEN IN DISGRACE WITH FORTUNE AND MEN’S EYES THEY THAT HAVE POWER TO HURT, AND WILL DO FAREWELL ! THOU ART TOO DEAR FOR MY POSSESSING WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET SILENT THOUGHT .... DID NOT THE HEAVENLY RHETORIC OF THINE EYE THE FORWARD VIOLET THUS DID I CHIDE O LEST THE WORLD SHOULD TASK YOU TO RECITE LET ME NOT TO THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS HOW OFT, WHEN THOU, MY MUSIC, MUSIC PLAY’ST FULL MANY A GLORIOUS MORNING HAVE I SEEN THE EXPENSE OF SPIRIT IN A WASTE OF SHAME FANCY FAIRIES COME AWAY ...... FULL FATHOM FIVE .... DIRGE ........ SONG ........ SONG ....... ANONYMOUS. TOM o’ BEDLAM ix PAGE 35 35 36 37 37 38 38 39 39 40 40 41 42 43 43 44 44 45 45 CONTENTS PAGE THOMAS CAMPION ( circa 1567-1620). KIND ARE HER ANSWERS ... 4b LAURA 47 HER SACRED BOWER .... 48 FOLLOW 49 WHEN THOU MUST HOME 50 WESTERN WIND 50 FOLLOW YOUR SAINT . . . . 5 1 CHERRY-RIPE 52 THOMAS NASH (1567-1601?). SPRING 53 JOHN DONNE (1573-1631). THIS HAPPY DREAM .... 53 DEATH 54 HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER ... 55 THE FUNERAL 56 RICHARD BARNEFIELD (1574? ?). THE NIGHTINGALE 57 BEN JONSON (1574-1637). CHARIS’ TRIUMPH 58 JEALOUSY . . . . . 59 EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. . . 59 HYMN TO DIANA 60 ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER . . . 60 ECHO’S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS . . 6 1 AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH’S CHAPEL 6l JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625). INVOCATION TO SLEEP, FROM VALEN- TINIAN 62 TO BACCHUS . . 63 X CONTENTS PAGE JOHN WEBSTER ( ’-1625). SONG FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI . 63 SONG FROM THE DEVIL’S LAW-CASE . 64 IN EARTH, DIRGE FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA 64 WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAW- THORNDEN (1585-1649). SONG 65 SLEEP, SILENCE’ CHILD .... 66 TO THE NIGHTINGALE .... 67 MADRIGAL I 67 MADRIGAL II 68 BEAUMONT and FLETCHER (1586- 1616)— (1579-1625). I DIED TRUE 63 FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1586-1616). ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 69 SIR FRANCIS KYNASTON (1587-1642). TO CYNTHIA, ON CONCEALMENT OF HER BEAUTY 69 NATHANIEL FIELD (1587-1638). MATIN SONG 71 GEORGE WITHER (1588-1667). SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP I 71 THOMAS CAREW (1589-1639). SONG 7* TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS . . 75 AN HYMENEAL DIALOGUE ... 75 INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED . 76 xi CONTENTS PAGE THOMAS DEKKER ( 1638?). LULLABY 77 SWEET CONTENT 77 THOMAS IiEYWOOD ( 1649?). GOOD-MORROW 78 ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674?)- TO DIANEME 79 TO MEADOWS ...... 79 TO BLOSSOMS 80 TO DAFFODILS 8l TO VIOLETS 82 TO PRIMROSES 82 TO DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON . 83 TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME 84 DRESS 84 IN SILKS 85 corinna’s going a-maying . . . 85 GRACE FOR A CHILD .... 88 BEN JONSON 88 GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1632). HOLY BAPTISM 89 VIRTUE . . 0 . . . 89 UNKINDNESS 90 LOVE ..... . . 91 THE PULLEY 91 THE COLLAR ,92 LIFE • •••••« MISERY 94 JAMES SHIRLEY (1596*1666). EQUALITY 97 xii CONTENTS PAGE ANONYMOUS {circa 1603). LULLABY 98 SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT (1605-1668). MORNING 99 EDMUND WALLER (1605-1687). THE ROSE 99 THOMAS RANDOLPH (1606-1634?). HIS MISTRESS IOO CHARLES BEST ( ?). A SONNET OF THE MOON . . IOI JOHN MILTON (1608-1674). hymn on Christ’s nativity . . 101 l’allegro 109 IL PENSEROSO 1 13 LYCIDAS 1 19 ON HIS BLINDNESS 125 ON HIS DECEASED WIFE . . .126 ON SHAKESPEARE 1 26 SONG ON MAY MORNING . . . 12 7 INVOCATION TO SABRINA, FROM COMUS 127 INVOCATION TO ECHO, FROM COMUS . 1 28 THE ATTENDANT SPIRIT, FROM COMUS . 129 JAMES GRAHAM, Marquis of Mon- trose (1612-1650). THE VIGIL OF DEATH . . . 130 RICHARD CRASHAW (i6i 5 ?-i6 52 ). ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R. 131 TO THE MORNING 135 LOVE’S HOROSCOPE . . . . .137 on mr. G. Herbert’s book . . .138 CONTENTS PAGE WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS . 339 QUEM VID 1 STIS PASTORES, ETC. . . 344 music’s DUEL 149 THE FLAMING HEART . . . -3 54 ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667). ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW . 1 57 HYMN TO THE LIGHT . . . -3 59 RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658). TO LUCASTA ON GOING TO THE WARS . 163 TO AMARANTHA 164 LUCASTA 365 TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON . . .166 A GUILTLESS LADY IMPRISONED ! AFTER PENANCED 167 THE ROSE 168 ANDREW MARVELL (1620-1678). A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL’S RETURN FROM IRELAND . . . 169 THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS 1 73 THE NYMPH COMPLAINING OF THE DEATH OF HER FAWN . . .174 THE DEFINITION OF LOVE . . .378 THE GARDEN 179 HENRY VAUGHAN (1621-1695). THE DAWNING 382 CHILDHOOD 183 CORRUPTION 185 THE NIGHT 3 86 THE ECLIPSE 388 XIV CONTENTS PAGE THE RETREAT 388 THE WORLD OF LIGHT . . . .389 SCOTTISH BALLADS. HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL . . 391 THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL . . 1 92 THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW . . 394 SWEET WILLIAM AND MAY MARGARET . 197 SIR PATRICK SPENS .... 399 HAME, HAME, HAME .... 203 BORDER BALLAD. A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE .... 204 JOHN DRYDEN (1631-1700). ODE 205 APHRA BEHN (1640-1689). SONG, FROM ABDELAZAR . . . 209 JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719). HYMN 209 ALEXANDER POPE (1688-1744). ELEGY 210 WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800). LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE 213 ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD (1743- 1825). LIFE 237 WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1828). THE LAND OF DREAMS . . . .237 THE PIPER 2l8 XV CONTENTS PAGE HOLIDAY THURSDAY .... 2ig THE TIGER 220 TO THE MUSES 221 LOVES SECRET 221 ROBERT BURNS (17591796) TO A MOUSE 222 THE FAREWELL 224 WILLIAM WORDSWORTtT (1770-1850). WHY ART THOU SILENT? . , . 225 THOUGHTS OF A BRITON ON THE SUB- JUGATION OF SWITZERLAND . . 226 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING . . .226 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC 227 O FRIEND ! I KNOW NOT . . . 227 SURPRISED BY JOY 228 TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE . . . 228 WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED . 229 THE WORLD 229 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE . . . 230 WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY . 230 THREE YEARS SHE GREW . . 231 THE DAFFODILS 232 THE SOLITARY REAPER .... 233 ELEGIAC STANZAS 234 TO H. C 237 *TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE 238 THE PET LAMB 240 STEPPING WESTWARD ... 243 THE CHILDLESS FATHER . . . 244 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 245 XVI CONTENTS SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832). PROUD MAISIE 232 A WEARY LOT IS THINE . * 252 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH . . . 253 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772- 1834). KUBLA KHAN 254 YOUTH AND AGE 256 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER . 258 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1775-1864). ROSE AYLMER 281 EPITAPH 282 CHILD OF A DAY 282 CHARLES LAMB (1775-1835). HESTER 282 THOMAS CAMPBELL (1777-1844). HOHENLINDEN 283 EARL MARCH ...... 284 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (1784-1842). A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA . 285 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1823). THE ISLES OF GREECE .... 286 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822). HELLAS 29O WILD WITH WEEPING . . . .251 TO THE NIGHT 291 TO A SKYLARK 293 TO THE MOON 297 THE QUESTION . . 297 b xvii CONTENTS PACE THE WANING MOON . . . .298 ODE TO THE WEST WIND . . 299 RARELY, RARELY COMEST THOU . . 30I THE INVITATION, TO JANE . . . 303 THE RECOLLECTION .... 305 ODE TO HEAVEN 308 LIFE OF LIFE 310 AUTUMN 31 1 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES 312 DIRGE FOR THE YEAR .... 313 A WIDOW BIRD 3T4 THE TWO SPIRITS 314 JOHN KEATS (1795-1821). LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI . . 316 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER 318 TO SLEEP 319 THE GENTLE SOUTH .... 319 LAST SONNET 320 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE . . . 32O ODE ON A GRECIAN URN . . . 323 ODE TO AUTUMN 325 ODE TO PSYCHE 326 ODE TO MELANCHOLY .... 328 HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1796-1849). SHE IS NOT FAIR 329 xviii THE FLOWER OF THE MIND ANONYMOUS I3TH CENTURY THE FIRST CAROL Summer is y-comen in ! Loud sing cuckoo! Groweth seed and bloweth mead, And springeth the wood new. Sing cuckoo ! cuckoo ! Ewe bleateth after lamb, Loweth after calfe cow ; Bullock starteth, buck verteth; Merry sing cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! cuckoo I Nor cease thou ever now. Sing cuckoo now ! Sing cuckoo ! SIR WALTER RALEIGH 1552-1618 VERSES BEFORE DEATH 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, EDMUND SPENSER When we have wandered 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 1 EDMUND SPENSER 1553*1599 EASTER Most glorious Lord of life ! that on this day Didst make thy triumph over death and sin ; And, having harrowed hell, didst bring away Captivity then captive, us to win : This glorious day, dear Lord, with joy begin, And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die. Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin. May live for ever in felicity 1 And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love thee for the same again ; And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy, With love may o'ne another entertain. So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought ; Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. FRESH SPRING Fresh Spring, the herald of love’s mighty king, In whose coat-armour richly are displayed All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed : EDMUND SPENSER Go to my love, where she is careless laid, Yet in her winter bower not well awake ; Tell her the joyous time will not be stayed, Unless she do him by the forelock take ; Bid her therefore herself soon ready make, To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew ; Where every one that misseth there her make Shall be by him amerced with penance due. Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time. LIKE AS A SHIP Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide, By conduct of some star doth make her way, When, as a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide, Out of her course doth wander far astray J So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me placed ; Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, My Helice, the loadstar of my life, Will shine again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief : Till then I wander, careful, comfortless. In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness. EPITHALAMION Ye learned sisters, which have oftentimes Been to me aiding, others to adorn, Whom ye thought worthy of your graceful rhymes, That even the greatest did not greatly scorn 3 EDMUND SPENSER To hear their names sung in your simple lays, But joyed in their praise ; And when ye list your own mishaps to mourn. Which death, or love, or fortune’s wreck did raise, Your string could soon to sadder tenor turn, And teach the woods and waters to lament Your doleful dreariment : Now lay those sorrowful complaints aside; And, having all your heads with garlands crowned, Help me mine own love’s praises to resound ; Ne let the same of any be envied : So Orpheus did for his own bride ! So I unto myself alone will sing ; The woods shall to me answer, and my echo ring. Early, before the world’s light-giving lamp His golden beam upon the hills doth spread, Having dispersed the night’s uncheerful damp, Do ye awake ; and, with fresh lusty-head, Go to the bower of my beloved love, My truest turtle dove ; Bid her awake ; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his mask to move, With his bright tead that flames with many a flake, And many a bachelor to wait on him, In their fresh garments trim. Bid her awake therefore, and soon her dight, For lo ! the wished day is come at last, That shall, for all the pains and sorrows past, Pay to her usury of long delight : And, whilst she doth her dight, Do ye to her of joy and solace sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. 4 EDMUND SPENSER Bring with you all the Nymphs that you can hear Both of the rivers and the forests green, And of the sea that neighbours to her near : AH with gay garlands goodly well beseen. And let them also with them bring in hand Another gay garland, For my fair love, of lilies and of roses, Bound truelove wise, with a blue silk riband. And let them make great store of bridal posies, And let them eke bring store of other flowers, To deck the bridal bowers. And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, For fear the stones her tender foot should wrong, Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, And diapred like the discoloured mead. Which done, do at her chamber door await, For she will waken straight ; The whiles do ye this song unto her sing, The woods shall to you answer, and your echo ring. Ye Nymphs of Mulla, which with careful heed The silver scaly trouts do tend full well, And greedy pikes which use therein to feed (Those trouts and pikes all others do excel) ; And ye likewise, which keep the rushy lake, Where none do fishes take ; Bind up the locks the which hang scattered light, And in his waters, which your mirror make, Behold your faces as the crystal bright, That when you come whereas my love doth lie, No blemish she may spy. And eke, ye lightfoot maids, which keep the door, That on the hoary mountain used to tower ; And the wild wolves, which seek them to devour, 5 EDMUND SPENSER With your steel darts do chase from coming near; Be also present here, To help to deck her, and to help to sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Wake now, my love, awake ! for it is time : The Rosy Morn long since left Tithon’s bed, All ready to her silver coach to climb ; And Phoebus ’gins to show his glorious head. Hark ! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays And carol of love’s praise. The merry Lark her matins sings aloft ; The Thrush replies ; the Mavis descant plays : The Ouzel shrills ; the Ruddock warbles soft ; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this day’s merriment. Ah 1 my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long, When meeter were that ye should now awake, T’ await the coming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds’ love-learned song, The dewy leaves among? For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring My love is now awake out of her dreams, And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed were With darksome cloud, now show their goodly beams More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear. Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight, Help quickly her to dight 1 But first come, ye fair hours, which were begot, In Jove’s sweet paradise, of Day and Night ; Which do the seasons of the year allot, 6 EDMUND SPENSER And all, that ever in this world is fair, Do make and still repair : And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen, The which do still adorn her beauty’s pride, Help to adorn my beautifullest bride : And, as ye her array, still throw between Some graces to be seen ; And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, The whiles the woods shall answer, and your echo ring. Now is my love all ready forth to come : Let all the virgins therefore well await : And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom, Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight. Set all your things in seemly good array, Fit for so joyful day : The joyfullest day that ever Sun did see. Fair Sun ! show forth thy favourable ray, And let thy life-full heat not fervent be, For fear of burning her sunshiny face, Her beauty to disgrace. O fairest Phoebus ! father of the Muse ! If ever I did honour thee aright, Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, Do not thy servant’s simple boon refuse ; But let this day, let this one day, be mine ; Let all the rest be thine. Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing, That all the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. Hark 1 how the minstrels ’gin to shrill aloud Their merry Music that resounds from far. The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling crowd, That well agree withouten breach or jar. 7 EDMUND SPENSER But, most of all, the damsels do delight When they their timbrels smite. And thereunto do dance and carol sweet, That all the senses they do ravish quite ; The whiles the boys run up and down the street, Crying aloud with strong confused noise, As if it were one voice, Hymen ! i5 Hymen ! Hymen, they do shout ; That even to the heavens their shouting shrill Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill ; To which the people standing all about, As in approvance, do thereto applaud, And loud advance her laud ; And evermore they Hymen, Hymen ! sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring. Lo ! where she comes along with portly pace, Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the East, Arising forth to run her mighty race, Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been. Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, Do like a golden mantle her attire ; And, being crowned with a garland green, Seem like some maiden Queen. Her modest eyes, abashed to behold So many gazers as on her do stare, Upon the lowly ground affixed are ; Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, So far from being proud. EDMUND SPENSER Nathless, do ye still loud her praises sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Tell me, ye merchants’ daughters, did ye see So fair a creature in your town before ; So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, Adorned with beauty’s grace and virtue’s store? Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining bright, Her forehead ivory white, Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath ruddied. Her lips like cherries charming men to bite, Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded, Her paps like lilies budded, Her snowy neck like to a marble tower ; And all her body like a palace fair, Ascending up, with many a stately stair, To honour’s seat and chastity’s sweet bower. 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 echo ring 1 But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright. Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, And stand astonished like to those which read Medusa’s mazeful head. There dwells sweet love, and constant chastity, Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, Regard of honour, and mild modesty ; There virtue reigns as Queen in royal throne, And giveth laws alone, 9 EDMUND SPENSER The which the base affections do obey, And yield their services unto her will ; Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may Thereto approach to tempt her mind to ill. Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures And unrevealed pleasures, Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing, That all 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 posts adorn as doth behove, And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, For to receive this Saint with honour due, That cometh in to you. With trembling steps, and humble reverence, She cometh in before th’ Almighty’s view ; Of her ye virgins learn 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 endless matrimony make ; And let the roaring organs loudly play The praises of the Lord in lively notes ; The whiles, with hollow throats, The choristers the joyous anthem sing, That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, And blesseth her with his two happy hands, How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, EDMUND SPENSER And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, Like crimson dyed in grain : That even th’ Angels, which continually About the sacred altar do remain, Forget their service and about her fly, Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair, The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governed with goodly modesty, That suffers not one look to glance awry, Which may let in a little thought unsound. Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band ? Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluja sing, That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring. Now all is done : bring home the Bride again ; Bring home the triumph of our victory : Bring home with you the glory of her gain, With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyful day than this, Whom heaven would heap with bliss. Make feast therefore now all this live-long day ; This day for ever to me holy is. Pour out the wine without restraint or stay, Pour not by cups, but by the bellyful ! Pour out to all that wull, And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be withal. Crown ye God Bacchus with a coronal, And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine ; And let the Graces dance unto the rest, For they can do it best : IT EDMUND SPENSER The whiles the maidens do their carol sing, To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring. Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town, And leave your wonted labours for this day : This day is holy ; do ye write it down, That ye for ever it remember may. This day the sun is in his chiefest height, With Barnaby the bright, From whence declining daily by degrees, He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, When once the Crab behind his back he sees. But for this time it ill ordained was, To choose the longest day in all the year, And shortest night, when longest fitter -were: Yet never day so long, but late would pass. Ring ye the bells, to make it wear away, And bonfires make all day ; And dance about them, and about them sing, That all the woods may answer, ajid your echo ring. Ah ! when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the.hours their numbers spend : How slowly does sad Time his feathers move ! Haste thee, O fairest Plai et, to thy home, Within the Western foam : Thy’ tired steeds long since have need of rest. Long though it be, at last I see it gloom, And the bright evening-star with golden crest Appear out of the East. Fair child of beauty ! glorious lamp of love ! That all the host of heaven in ranks dost lead, And guidest lovers through the night’s sad dread, 12 EDMUND SPENSER How cheerfully thou lookest from above, And seem’st to laugh atween thy twinkling light, As joying in the sight Of these glad many, which for joy do sing, That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring ! Now cease, ye damsels, your delights forepast ; Enough it is that all the day was yours : Now day is done, and night is nighing fast, Now bring the Bride into the bridal bowers. The night is come ; now soon her disarray, And in her bed her lay ; Lay her in lilies and in violets, And silken curtains over her display, And odoured sheets, and arras coverlets. Behold how goodly my fair love does lie, In proud humility ! Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took In Tempe, lying on the flowery grass, Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was, With bathing in the Acidalian brook. Now it is night, ye damsels may be gone, And leave my love alone, And leave likewise your former lay to sing : The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring. Now welcome, night ! thou night so long expected, That long day’s labour dost at last defray, And all my cares, which cruel Love collected, Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye : Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, That no man may us see ; And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, From fear of peril and foul horror free. i3 EDMUND SPENSER Let no false treason seek us to entrap, Nor any dread disquiet once annoy The safety of our joy ; But let the night be calm, and quietsome, Without tempestuous storms or sad affray : Like as when Jove with fair Alcmena lay, When he begot the great Tirynthian groom : Or like as when he with thy self did lie And begot Majesty. And let the maids and young men cease to sing ; Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring. Let no lamenting cries nor doleful tears Be heard all night within, nor yet without ; Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden fears. Break gentle sleep with misconceived doubt. Let no deluding dreams, nor dreadful sights, Make sudden sad affrights; Ne let house-fires, nor lightning’s helpless harms, Ne let the Pouke, nor other evil sprights, Ne let mischievous witches with their charms, Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not. Fray us with things that be not : Let not the shriek-owl nor the stork be heard, Nor the night raven, that still deadly yells ; Nor damned ghosts, called up with mighty spells, Nor grisly vultures, make us once afeard : Ne let the unpleasant choir of frogs still croaking Make us to wish their choking ! Let none of these their dreary accents sing ; Ne let the woods them answer, nor their echo ring. But let still Silence true night-watches keep, That sacred Peace may in assurance reign, i4 EDMUND SPENSER And timely Sleep, when it is time to sleep, May pour his limbs forth on your pleasant plain; The whiles an hundred little winged loves, Like divers-feathered doves, Shall fly and flutter round about your bed, And in the secret dark, that none reproves, Their pretty stealths shall work, and snares shall spread To filch away sweet snatches of delight, Concealed through covert night. Ye sons of Venus, play your sports at will ! For greedy Pleasure, careless of your toys, Thinks more upon her paradise of joys, Then what ye do, albeit good or ill ! All night therefore attend your merry play. For it will soon be day : Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing ; Ne will the woods now answer, nor your echo ring'. Who is the same, which at my window peeps, Or whose is that fair face that shines so bright? Is it not Cynthia, she that never sleeps, But walks about high heaven all the night? O ! fairest goddess, do thou not envy My love with me to spy : For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,. And for a fleece of wool, which privily The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, His pleasures with thee wrought ! Therefore to us be favourable now ; And sith of women’s labours thou hast charge, And generation goodly dost enlarge, Incline thy will to effect our wishful vow, And the chaste womb inform with timely seed,. i5 EDMUND SPENSER That may our comfort breed : Till which we cease our hopeful hap to sing ; Ne let the woods us answer, nor our echo ring. And thou, great Juno ! which with awful might The laws of wedlock still dost patronize, And the religion of the faith first plight With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize ; And eke for comfort often called art Of women in their smart ; Eternally bind thou this lovely band, And all thy blessings unto us impart. And thou, glad Genius 1 in whose gentle hand The bridal bower and genial bed remain, Without blemish or stain ; And the sweet pleasures of their love’s delight With secret aid dost succour and supply. Till they bring forth the fruitful progeny; Send us the timely fruit of this same night. And thou, fair Hebe ! and thou, Hymen free ! Grant that it may so be. Till which we cease your further praise to sing ; Ne any woods shall answer, nor your echo ring. And ye high heavens, the Temple of the Gods, In which a thousand torches flaming bright Do burn, that to us wretched earthly clods In dreadful darkness lend desired light ; And all ye powers which in the same remain, More than we men can feign 1 Pour out your blessing on us plenteously, And happy influence upon us rain, That we may raise a large posterity, Which from the earth, which they may long possess 16 JOHN LYLY With lasting happiness, Up to your haughty palaces may mount ; And, for the guerdon of their glorious merit, May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, Of blessed saints for to increase the count. So let us rest, sweet Love, in hope of this, And cease till then our timely joys to sing : The woods no more us answer, nor our echo ring ! Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, With 'which my Love should duly have been decked , Which cutting off through hasty accidents , Ye would not stay your due tune to expect , But promised both to recompense ; Be unto her a goodly ornament , And for short time an endless monument. JOHN LYLY 1554 CO-1606 THE SPRING What bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, *tis the ravished 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 1 Cuckoo to welcome in the spring, Cuckoo to welcome in the spring I 17 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 1554.1586 TRUE LOVE My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven : 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 : His heart his wound received from my sight ; My heart was wounded with his wounded heart ; For as from me on him his hurt did light, So still methought in me his hurt did smart J Both, equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss. My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. THE MOON With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb ’st the skies ! How silently, and with how wan a face ! What, may it be that e’en 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 languished grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY Then, e’en of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed 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? KISS Love still a boy and oft a wanton is, Schooled only by his mother’s tender eye ; What wonder, then, if he his lesson miss, When for so soft a rod dear play he try ? And yet my Star, because a sugared kiss In sport I sucked while she asleep did lie, Doth lower, nay chide, nay threat, for only this. — Sweet, it was saucy Love, not humble I 1 But no ’scuse serves ; she makes her wrath appear In Beauty’s throne ; see now, who dares come near Those scarlet judges, threatening bloody pain 1 O heavenly fool, thy most kiss-worthy face Anger invests with such a lovely grace, That Anger’s self I needs must kiss again. SWEET JUDGE Alas ! whence comes this change of looks ? If I Have changed desert, let mine own conscience be A still-felt plague to self-condemning me, Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eye ; But if all faith, like spotless ermine, lie Safe in my soul, which only doth to thee, 19 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY As his sole object of felicity, With wings of love in air of wonder fly, (\ease your hand, treat not so hard your slave ; Injustice, pains come not till faults do call : Or if 1 needs, sweet Judge, must torments have, Use something else to chasten me withal Than those blest eyes, where all my hopes do dwell : No dooni should make one’s heaven become his hell. 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, The 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 : 0 make in me those civil wars to cease ; 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, A rosy garland and a weary head : And if these things, as being thine in right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shall in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella’s image see. WAT’RED WAS MY WINE Late tired with woe, even ready for to pine, With rage of love, I called my love unkind ; She in whose eyes love, though unfelt, doth shine, Sweet said that I true love in her should find. 20 THOMAS LODGE I joyed ; but straight thus wat’red was my wine, That love she did, but loved a love not blind ; Which would not let me, whom she loved, decline From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind : And therefore, by her love’s authority, Wiled me these tempests of vain love to fly, And anchor fast myself on virtue’s shore. Alas, if this the only metal be Of love new-coined to help my beggary, Dear, love me not, that you may love me more. THOMAS LODGE 1556-1625 rosalynd’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 1 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, will ye ? 21 THOMAS LODGE Else I with roses every day Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play, For your offence ; I 'll shut my eyes to keep you in, I '11 make you fast it for your sin, I ’ll count your power not worth a pin Alas 1 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, And let thy bower my bosom be ; Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee ! O Cupid 1 so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee ! 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 1 22 THOMAS LODGE Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora’s face, Or like the silver crimson shroud That Phoebus’ smiling looks doth grace , Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh. Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity : Heigh ho, would she were mine t Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprisoned 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 in 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 1 23 ANONYMOUS 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! THE SOLITARY SHEPHERD’S SONG O shady vale, O fair enriched meads, O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains ; O painted flowers, green herbs where Flora treads, Refreshed by wanton winds and watery fountains! O all ye winged choristers of wood, That perched aloft, your former pains report ; And straight again recount with pleasant mood Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort ! O all you creatures. whosoever thrive On mother earth, in seas, by air, by fire ; More blest are you than I here under sun ! Love dies in me, when as he doth revive In you ; I perish under Beauty’s ire, Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life H won. ANONYMOUS I SAW MY LADY WEEP I saw my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep Her face was full of woe, 24 GEORGE PEELE 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. GEORGE PEELE 1558 (?)-i597 FAREWELL TO ARMS His golden locks time hath to silver turned ; O time too swift ! O swiftness never ceasing ! His youth ’gainst age, and age at time, hath spurned, But spurned in vain ; youth waneth by increasing! Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen J Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green. His helmet now shall make an hive for bees, And lovers’ sonnets turn to holy psalms ; A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, that are old age’s alms ! But though from court to cottage he depart, His saint is sure of his unspotted heart. 25 ROBERT GREENE And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He ’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,— 1 Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong 1 * Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight. ROBERT GREENE 1560 (?)-i592 FAWN I A 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 1 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 I know not such So as she shows, she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower, Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows, Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower ; Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn. Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note ; Ne’er breathed such glee from Philomela’s bill, Nor from the morning-singer’s swelling throat. 26 ROBERT GREENE 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 thy west, Shine in mine arms, and set thou in my breast 1 sephestia’s song to her child Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. Mother’s wag, pretty boy, Father’s sorrow, father’s joy ; When thy father first did see Such a boy by him and me, He was glad, I was woe, Fortune changed made him so, When he left his pretty boy Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee. When thou art old there ’s grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint, Like pearl drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes, That one another’s place supplies ; Thus he grieved in every part, Tears of blood fell from his heart, When he left his pretty boy, Father’s sorrow, father’s joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old, there 's grief enough for thca. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt ; 27 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE More he crowed, more we cried, Nature could not sorrow hide : He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby bless, 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. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 1562-1593 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, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. 28 SAMUEL DANIEL 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. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. 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. SAMUEL DANIEL 1562-1619 SLEEP Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, Relieve my languish, and restore th He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; Full little thought they than That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below ; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 103 JOHN MILTON When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet As never was by mortal fingers strook — Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took ; The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly 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 done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed ; The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes, to Heaven’s new-born Heir. Such music (as ’tis said) Before was never made But when of old the Sons of ^Iorning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, 104 JOHN MILTON And the well-balanced world on hinges hung ; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres 1 Once bless our human ears, I f ye have power to touch our senses so ; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the bass of heaven’s deep organ blow ; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold ; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould ; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. But wisest Fate says No ; This must not yet be so ; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 105 JOHN MILTON That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss ; So both Himself and us to glorify : Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds out- brake : The aged Earth aghast With terror of that blast Shall from the surface to the centre shake, When, at the world’s last sessibn, The dreadful 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 The old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; And, wroth to see'his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The Oracles are dumb ; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving : No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 106 JOHN MILTON The lonely mountains o’er And the resounding shore A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; From haunted spring and dale Edged with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs 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 Flamens 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 twice-battered God of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven’s queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers’ holy shine ; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn : In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue ; In vain with cymbals’ ring They call the grisly king, 107 JOHN MILTON In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud : Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud ; In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels from Juda’s land The dreaded Infant’s hand ; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show His Godhead true, Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see ! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest ; 108 JOHN MILTON Time is, our tedious song should here have ending : Heaven’s youngest-teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending : And all about the courtly stable Briglit-harnessed Angels sit in order serviceable. l’allegro Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn, ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads hisj ealous wings And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth •With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying — There on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew 109 JOHN MILTON Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides : — Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic 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 crew, To live with her, and live with thee In unreproved pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow Through the sw'eetbriar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine : While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : no JOHN MILTON Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o’er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures ; Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead r ir JOHN MILTON Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequered shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the live-long day-light fail : Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How Faery Mab the junkets eat : — She was pinched and pulled, she said ; And he by Friar’s lantern led ; Tells how the grudging Goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn, That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. IT2 JOHN MILTON 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 youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony ; That Orpheus’ self may heave his head From golden slumber, on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. IL PENSEROSO Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred 1 k 113 JOHN MILTON How little you bestead Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy 1 Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue ; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty’s praise above The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended : Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she ; in Saturn’s reign Such mixture was not held a stain : Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train 114 JOHN MILTON And sable stole of Cipres lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn : Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast : And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove’s altar sing : And add to these retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure But first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, ’Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o’er the accustomed oak. Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy 1 Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among, I woo to hear thy even-song ; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering Moon Riding near her highest noon, US JOHN MILTON Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven’s wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rising ground I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar ; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still, removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman’s drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly ha*m. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 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 demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line, Or the tale of Troy divine ; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 116 JOHN MILTON But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek And made Hell grant what Love did seek ! Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife That owned the virtuous ring and glass ; And of the wondrous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride : And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of tourneys and of trophies hung, Of forests and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 117 JOHN MILTON Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day’s garish eye, While the bee with honeyed thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid : And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister’s pale, And love the high-embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim. religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell ixS JOHN MILTON Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live. LYCIDAS Elegy on a Friend drcnvned in the Irish Channel , 1637 Y et once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced 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 float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse : So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn ; And, as he passes, turn And bid fair peace to be my sable shroud. 119 JOHN MILTON For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill : Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Tempered to the oaten flute, Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long ; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But, oh ! the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown, And all their echoes, mourn : The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd’s ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o’er the head of your loved Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep 120 JOHN MILTON Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : Ay me ! I fondly dream — Had ye been there . - , For what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? Alas 1 what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. ‘ But not the praise,’ Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ; ‘ Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies : But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. 121 JOHN MILTON O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune’s plea. He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain ? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory. They knew not of his story ; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed ; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in the eclipse, and rigged 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 inscribed 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 keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : 1 How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such, as for their bellies’ sake Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ? Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers’ feast, 122 JOHN MILTON And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths 1 that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least That to the faithful herdman’s art belongs I 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 wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said : 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 bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks ; Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears : 123 JOHN MILTON Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise Ay me 1 whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where’er thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide, Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, 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 hapless youth ! Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more. For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor : 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 walked the waves ; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial 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, 124 JOHN MILTON And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth 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 the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey ; He touched the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. ON HIS BLINDNESS When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, — Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? 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 mild yoke, they serve Him best : His state Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed And post o’er land and ocean without rest : They also serve who only stand and wait. 125 JOHN MILTON ON HIS DECEASED WIFE Methought I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alkestis from the grave, Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom washed 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 veiled, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined So clear as in no face with more delight. But oh 1 as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. ON SHAKESPEARE What needs my Shakespeare, for his honoured bones, The labour of an age in piled stones ? Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst, to shame of slow-endeavouring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 126 JOHN MILTON SONG ON MAY MORNING Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and young desire ! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee and wish thee long. INVOCATION TO SABRINA, FROM COM US Sabrina fair ! Listen, where thou art sitting, Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thine amber-dripping 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 majestic pace ; By hoary Nereus’ wrinkled look, And the Carpathian wizard’s hook ; By scaly Triton’s winding shell, And old soothsaying Glaucus’ spell ; 127 JOHN MILTON By Leucothea’s lovely hands, And her son that rules the strands ; By Thetis’ tinsel-slippered feet, And the songs of sirens sweet ; By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb, And fair Ligea’s golden comb, Wherewith 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 rosy head From thy coral-paven bed, And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answered have. Listen and save ! INVOCATION TO ECHO, FROM COM US Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv’st unseen Within thine airy shell By slow Meander’s margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ; Canst thou not tell me of a single pair That likest thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet Queen of Parley, daughter of the Sphere ! So mayest thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace toallHeaven’sharmonies. 128 JOHN MILTON THE ATTENDANT SPIRIT, FROM COM US T o the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky. There I suck the liquid air, All amid the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. Along the crisped shades and bowers Revels the spruce and jocund Spring ; The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours Thither all their bounties bring. There eternal Summer dwells, And west winds with musky wing About the cedarn alleys fling Nard and cassia’s balmy smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hue Than her purpled scarf can show, 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 the Assyrian queen. But far above, in spangled sheen, Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced, n 129 JAMES GRAHAM After her wandering 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 done : I can fly or I can run Quickly to the green earth’s end, Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend. And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the moon. Mortals that would follow me, Love Virtue ; she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime ; Or if feeble Virtue were, Heaven itself would stoop to her. JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE 1612-1650 THE VIGIL OF DEATH Let them bestow on every airth a limb, Then open all my veins, that I may swim To thee, my Maker 1 in that crimson lake. Then place my parboiled head upon a stake — Scatter my ashes — strew them in the air : Lord ! since thou know’st where all these atoms axe, I ’m hopeful thou ’It recover once my dust, And confident thou ’It raise me with the just. 130 RICHARD CRASHAW RICHARD CRASHAW i6i5(?)-i6s2 ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R. Lo, here a little volume, but great book 1 A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native pages, ’sdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast 1 It is in one choice handful, heaven ; and all Heaven’s royal hosts encamped, thus small To prove that true schools use to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell. It is love’s great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Closecouched in your white bosom ; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is an armoury of light ; Let constant use but keep it bright. You ’ll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. RICHARD CRASHAW Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful, and wise. Here ’s a friend shall fight for you ; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part. But, O ! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong ; Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings, Flowers of never-fading graces. To make immortal dressings Foi worthy souls, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin’s Sen. But if the noble Bridegroom when He comes Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad, Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies To take her pleasure, and to play And keep the Devil’s holy day ; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling, But beguiling * 3 * RICHARD CRASHAW Spheres of sweet and sugared lies, Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps, as fair, Flattering, but forswearing, eyes ; Doubtless some other heart Will get the start Meanwhile, and, stepping in before, Will take possession of that secret store Of hidden sweets, and holy joys, Words which are not heard with ears — These tumultuous shops of noise — Effectual whispers, whose still voice The soul itself more feels than hears ; Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Sights which are not seen with eyes, Spiritual and soul-piercing glances Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire And melts it down in sweet desire, Yet does not stay To ask the window’s leave to pass that way ; Delicious deaths, soft exhalations Of soul ; dear and divine annihilations ; A thousand unknown rites Of joys, and rarefied delights ; A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces, And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring, For which it is no shame That dull mortality must not know a name. *33 RICHARD CRASHAW Of all this store Of blessings, and ten thousand more. If when He come He find the heart from home, Doubtless He will unload Himself some otherwhere, And pour abroad His precious sweets, On the fair soul whom first He meets. O fair 1 O fortunate ! O rich 1 O dear ! O happy, and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe’er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse, And close with His immortal kisses ! Happy, indeed, who never misses To improve that precious hour, And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as He rises, Dropping, with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. O, let the blissful heart hold fast Her heavenly armful, she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises ! She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets ; 134 RICHARD CRASHAW Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures ; Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover ! TO THE MORNING Satisfaction for Sleep What succour can I hope the Muse will send, Whose drowsiness hath wronged the Muse’s friend ? What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee, Unless the Muse sing my apology? O ! in that morning of my shame, when I Lay folded up in sleep’s captivity ; How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes Into thy modest veil 1 how didst thou rise Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and didst run To draw the curtains and awake the sun ! Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came, And seeing the loathed object, hid for shame His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides Me from his patronage ; I pray, he chides ; And, pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take My own Apollo, try if I can make His Lethe be my Helicon, and see If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me. Hence ’tis my humble fancy finds no wings, No nimble raptures, starts to heaven and brings Enthusiastic flames, such as can give Marrow to my plump genius, make it live Dressed in the glorious madness of a muse, Whose feet can walk the milky-way, and choose 135 RICHARD CRASHAW Her starry throne ; whose holy heats can warm The grave, and hold up an exalted arm To lift me from my lazy urn, and climb Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time, And trace eternity. But all is dead, All these delicious hopes are buried In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow, Where mercy cannot find them ; but, O thou Bright lady of the morn, pity doth lie So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die ; Have mercy, then, and when he next doth rise, O, meet the angry god, invade his eyes, And stroke his radiant cheeks ; one timely kiss Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss. So to the treasure of thy pearly dew Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true My grief is ; so my wakeful lay shall knock At the oriental gates, and duly mock The early lark’s shrill orisons to be An anthem at the day’s nativity. And the same rosy-fingered hand of thine, That shuts night’s dying eyes, shall open mine. But thou, faint god of sleep, forget that I Was ever known to be thy votary. No more my pillow' shall thine altar be, Nor will I offer any more to thee Myself a melting sacrifice ; I ’m bom Again a fresh child of the buxom morn, Heir of the sun’s first beams ; why threat’st thou so? Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go, Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe, Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne’er know Thy downy finger dwell upon their eyes ; Shut in their tears, shut out their miseries. 136 RICHARD CRASHAW love’s HOROSCOPE Love, brave Virtue’s younger brother, Erst hath made my heart a mother. She consults the anxious spheres, To calculate her young son’s years ; She asks if sad or saving powers Gave omen to his infant hours ; She asks each star that then stood by If poor Love shall live or die. Ah, my heart, is that the way? Are these the beams that rule thy day Thou know’st a face in whose each look Beauty lays ope Love’s fortune-book, On whose fair revolutions wait The obsequious motions of Love's fate. Ah, my heart ! her eyes and she Have taught thee new astrology. Howe’er Love’s native hours were set, Whatever starry synod met, ’Tis in the mercy of her eye, If poor Love shall live or die. If those sharp rays, putting on Points of death, bid Love be gone ; Though the heavens in council sat To crown an uncontrolled fate ; Though their best aspects twined upon The kindest constellation, Cast amorous glances on his birth , And whispered the confederate earth 137 RICHARD CRASHAW To pave his paths with all the good That warms the bed of youth and blood : — Love has no plea against her eye ; Beauty frowns, and Love must die. But if her milder influence move, And gild the hopes of humble Love ; — Though heaven’s inauspicious eye Lay black on Love’s nativity ; Though every diamond in Jove’s crown Fixed his forehead to a frown ; — Her eye a strong appeal can give, Beauty smiles, and Love shall live. O, if Love shall live, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breast, or in her breath, Shall I hide poor Love from death? For in the life aught else can give, Love shall die, although he live. Or, if Love shall die, O where, But in her eye, or in her ear, In her breath, or in her breast, Shall I build his funeral nest ? While Love shall thus entombed lie, Love shall live, although he die 1 on mr. g. Herbert’s book Entitled , ‘ The Temple of Sacred Poems,’ sent to a Gentlewoman Know you, fair, on what you look? Divinest love lies in this book, 138 RICHARD CRASHAW Expecting fire from your eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings, Think you ’ve an angel by the wings ; One that gladly will be nigh To wait upon each morning sigh, To flutter in the balmy air Of your well perfumed prayer. These white plumes of his he ’ll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you, To take acquaintance of the sphere, And all the smooth-faced kindred there And though Herbert’s name do owe These devotions, fairest, know That while I lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine. WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS Whoe’er she be, That not impossible She That shall command my heart and me I Where’er she lie, Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny : Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth : Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : i39 RICHARD CRASHAW Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie. Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that’s best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest. A cheek where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly rueth. 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. 140 RICHARD CRASHAW Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simple nakedness. Eyes that displace Their neighbour diamond, and out-face 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. 141 RICHARD CRASHAW 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. Tears quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers ; ’Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 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 the absence of the day. 142 RICHARD CRASHAW 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. Whate’er delight Can make day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of night. In her whole frame, Have Nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. 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 ; 143 RICHARD CRASHAW Her that dares be What these lines wish to see ; 1 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 1 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. QUEM VIDISTIS PASTORES, ETC. A IIYMN OF THE NATIVITY, SUNG BY THE SHEPHERDS Chorus Come, we shepherds whose blest sight Hath met Love’s noon in Nature’s night ; Come lift we up our loftier song, And wake the sun that lies too long. 1 44 RICHARD CRASHAW To all our world of well-stol’n joy He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, While we found out Heaven’s fairer eye, And kissed the cradle of our King ; Tell him he rises now too late To show us aught worth looking at. Tell him we now can show him more Than he e’er showed to mortal sight, Than he himself e’er saw before, Which to be seen needs not his light : Tell him, Tityrus, where th’ hast been, Tell him, Thyrsis, what th’ hast seen. Tityrus Gloomy night embraced the place Where the noble infant lay : The babe looked up, and showed His face ; In spite of darkness it was day. It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise, Not from the East, but from Thine eyes. Chorus . It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise, Not from the East, but from Thine eyes. Thyrsis Wintei chid aloud, and sent The angry North to wage his wars : The North forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars. By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers, Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers. Chorus. By those sweet eyes’ persuasive powers, Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers. K 145 RICHARD CRASHAW Both 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, Tityrus 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. Chorus. Contend the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth. Thy r sis Proud world, said I, cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone, The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest, Love’s architecture is his own. The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made His own bed ere He was born. Chorus . The babe, whose birth embraves this mom. Made His own bed ere He was born. T ityrus I saw the curled drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o’er the place’s head, OfFring their whitest sheets of snow, To furnish the fair infant’s bed. 146 RICHARD CRASHAW Forbear, said I, be not too bold, Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold. Thy r sis 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? Chorus. Well done, said I ; but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pass for pure? Both No, no, your King’s not yet to seek Where to repose His royal head ; See, see how soon His new-bloomed 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 1 Chorus. Sweet choice, said we ; no way but so, Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow 1 Full Chorus Welcome all wonders in one sight 1 Eternity shut in a span ! Summer in winter ! day in night 1 Chorus Heaven in earth 1 and God in man 1 Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to Heaven, stoops Heaven to earth, 147 RICHARD CRASHAW Welcome, tho’ nor to gold, nor silk, To more than Caesar’s birthright is : Two sister seas of virgin’s milk, With many a rarely-tempered kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other. 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 ! 148 RICHARD CRASHAW music’s DUEL Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Of noon’s high glory, when, hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, Under protection of an oak, there sat A sweet lute’s master : in whose gentle airs He lost the day’s heat, and his own hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stood A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, Their muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she, — There stood she list’ning, and did entertain The music’s soft report, and mould the same In her own murmurs, that whatever mood His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. The man perceived his rival, and her art ; Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport, Awakes his lute, and ’gainst the fight to come Informs it, in a sweet prceludium Of closer strains ; and ere the war begin He slightly skirmishes on every string, Charged with a flying touch ; and straightway she Carves out her dainty voice as readily Into a thousand sweet distinguished tones ; And reckons up in soft divisions Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know By that shrill taste she could do something too. His nimble hand’s instinct then taught each string A cap’ring cheerfulness ; and made them sing To their own dance ; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Blends all together, then distinctly trips From this to that, then, quick returning, skips 1 49 RICHARD CRASHAW And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art ; sometimes, as if in doubt — Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out — Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note Through the sleek passage of her open throat : A clear un wrinkled song ; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that, being reared In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet self she wrangles ; he, amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, The tattling strings — each breathing in his part — Most kindly do fall out ; the grumbling bass In surly groans disdains the treble’s grace ; The high-perched treble chirps at this, and chides Until his finger — moderator — hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill, at once : as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th’ harvest of death’s field, and woo Men’s hearts into their hands ; this lesson, too, She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o’er her skill, And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, The pliant series of her slippery song ; Then starts she suddenly into a throng Of short thick sobs, whose thund’ring volleys float And roll themselves over her lubric throat In panting murmurs, ’stilled out of her breast, That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest 150 RICHARD CRASHAW Of her delicious soul, that there does lie Bathing in streams of liquid melody, — Music’s best seed-plot ; when in ripened ears A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath, Which there reciprocally laboureth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire Founded to th’ name of great Apollo’s lyre ; Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their throats In cream of morning Helicon ; and then Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing ; — Most divine service 1 whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice In the close murmur of a sparkling noise, And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song ; Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out, Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast ; Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Puttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, Winged with their own wild echoes, pratt’ling fly. She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride On the waved back of every swelling strain, Rising and falling in a pompous train ; And while she thus discharges a shrill peal Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal With the cool epode of a graver note ; Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat 151 RICHARD CRASHAW Would reach the brazen voice of war’s hoarse bird ; Her little soul is ravished ; and so poured Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed Above herself— music’s enthusiast t Shame now and anger mixed a double stain In the musician’s face : Yet once again, Mistress, I come. Now reach a strain, my lute, Above her mock, or be for ever mute ; Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy ! So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, And v/ith a quivering coyness tastes the strings : The sweet-lipped sisters, musically frighted, Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted : Trembling as when Apollo’s golden hairs Are fanned and frizzled in the wanton airs Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre, Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven’s self look higher ; From this to that, from that to this, he flies, Feels music’s pulse in all her arteries ; Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, Following those little rills, he sinks into A sea of Helicon ; his hand does go Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Softer than that which pants in Hebe’s cup : The humorous strings expound his learned touch By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single ; Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke, Gives life to some new grace : thus doth he invoke 152 RICHARD CRASHAW Sweetness by all her names ; thus, bravely thus — Fraught with a fury so harmonious — The lute’s light Genius now does proudly rise, Heaved on the surges of swoll’n rhapsodies, Whose flourish, meteor-like, doth curl the air With flash of high-born fancies ; here and there Dancing in lofty measures, and anon Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs, Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares ; Because those precious mysteries that dwell In music’s ravished soul he dare not tell, But whisper to the world : thus do they vary, Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their master’s blest soul, snatched out at his ears By a strong ecstasy, through all the spheres Of music's heaven ; and seat it there on high In th’ empyrceum of pure harmony. At length — after so long, so loud a strife Of all the strings, still breathing the best life Of blest variety, attending on His fingers’ fairest revolution, In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall — A full-mouthed diapason swallows all. This done, he lists what she would say to this ; And she, although her breath’s late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat, Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas, in vain ! for while, sweet soul, she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt’ring strings, by the small size of one Poor simple voice, raised in a‘natural tone, She fails ; and failing, grieves ; and grieving, dies She dies, and leaves her life the victor’s prize. 153 RICHARD CRASHAW Falling upon his lute. O. fit to have — That lived so sweetly— dead, so sweet a grave ! THE FLAMING HEART Upon the Book and Picture of the Sera phi cal Saint Teresa , as she is usually expressed •with a Seraphim beside her Well-meaning readers ! you that come as friends And catch the precious name this piece pretends, Make not too much haste t’ admire That fair-cheekecl fallacy of fire. That is a seraphim, they say, And this the great Teresia. Readers, be ruled by me, and make Here a well-placed and wise mistake ; You must transpose the picture quite, And spell it wrong to read it right ; Read Him for Her, and Her for Him, And call the saint the seraphim. Painter, what didst thou understand To put her dart into his hand? See, even the years and size of him Shows this the mother seraphim. This is the mistress flame, and duteous he Her happy fireworks, here, comes down to see : O, most poor-spirited of men ! Had thy cold pencil kissed her pen, Thou couldst not so unkindly err To show us this faint shade for her. Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame, And mocks with female frost love’s manly flame ; One would suspect thou meant’st to paint Some weak, inferior woman Saint. i54 RICHARD CRASHAW But, had thy pale-faced purple took Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book, Thou wouldst on her have heaped up all That could be found seraphical ; Whate’er this youth of fire wears fair, Rosy fingers, radiant hair, Glowing cheek, and glist’ring wings, All those fair and flagrant things ; But, before all, that fiery dart Had filled the hand of this great heart. Do, then, as equal right requires, Since his the blushes be, and hers the fires, Resume and rectify thy rude design, Undress thy seraphim into mine ; Redeem this injury of thy art, Give him the veil, give her the dart. 'Give him the veil, that he may cover The red cheeks of a rivalled lover, Ashamed that our world now can show Nests of new Seraphims here below. Give her the dart, for it is she, Fair youth, shoots both thy shaft and thee ; Say, all ye wise and well -pierced hearts That live and die amidst her darts, What is ’t your tasteful spirits do prove In that rare life of her and love? Say and bear witness. Sends she not A seraphim at every shot? What magazines of immortal arms there shine ! Heav’n’s great artillery in each love-spun line 1 Give, then, the dart to her who gives the flame, Give him the veil who gives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate Of worst faults to be fortunate, i55 RICHARD CRASHAW If all’s prescription, and proud wrong Hearkens not to an humble song, For all the gallantry of him, Give me the sufF ring seraphim. His be the bravery of those bright things, The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings, The rosy hand, the radiant dart ; Leave her alone the flaming heart. Leave her that, and thou shall leave her Not one loose shaft, but Love’s whole quiver. For in Love’s field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound. Love’s passives are his activ’st part, The wounded is the wounding heart. O heart ! the equal poise of Love’s both parts, Big alike with wounds and darts. Live in these conquering leaves, live all the same, And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame 1 Live here, great heart, and love, and die, and kill, And bleed, and wound, and yield, and conquer still. Let this immortal Life, where’er it comes, Walk in the crowd of loves and martyrdoms. Let mystic deaths wait on ’t, and wise souls be The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. O sweet incendiary ! show here thy art Upon this carcass of a hard, cold heart ; Let all thy scattered shafts of light, that play Among the leaves of thy large books of day, Combined against this breast, at once break in And take away from me myself and sin ; This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be, And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. O thou undaunted daughter of desires 1 By all thy dower of lights and fires, ABRAHAM COWLEY 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 thirst of love more large than they ; By all thy brim-filled 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 sealed thee His ; By all the heav’ns thou hast in Him, Fair sister of the seraphim l 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. ABRAHAM COWLEY 1618-1667 ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW Poet and Saint 1 "to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven ; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead with humanity. Long did the muses banished slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride ; Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms with- stand) Hast brought them nobly back home to their Holy Land. Ah, wretched we, poets of earth ! but thou Wert living the same poet which thou ’rt now. Whilst angels sing to thee their airs divine, And join in an applause so great as thine, Equal society with them to hold, Thou need’st not make new songs, but say the old. 157 ABRAHAM COWLEY And they (kind spirits !) shall all rejoice to see How little less than they exalted man may be. Still the old heathen gods in numbers dwell, The heavenliest thing on earth still keeps up hell. Nor have we yet quite purged the Christian land ; Still idols here, like calves at Bethel, stand. And though Pan’s death long since all oracles broke, Yet still in rhyme the fiend Apollo spoke : Nay, with the worst of heathen dotage we (Vain men !) the monster woman deify ; Find stars, and tie our fates there in a face, And paradise in them, by whom we lost it, place. What different faults corrupt our muses thus 1 Wanton as girls, as old wives fabulous 1 Thy spotless muse, like Mary, did contain The boundless Godhead ; she did well disdain That her eternal verse employed should be On a less subject than eternity ; And for a sacred mistress scorned to take But her whom God Himself scorned not His spouse to make. It (in a kind) her miracle did do *, A fruitful mother was and virgin too. How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death, And make thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great Mistress’ arms, thou most divine And richest offering of Loretto’s shrine ! Where, like some holy sacrifice to expire, A fever burns thee, and love lights the fire. Angels (they say) brought the famed chapel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air. 'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. 138 ABRAHAM COWLEY Hail, bard triumphant 1 and some care bestow On us, the poets militant below. Opposed by our old enemy, adverse chance, Attacked by envy and by ignorance, Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires, Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires. Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise, And, like Elijah, mount alive the skies. Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, More fit thy greatness and my littleness), Lo, here I beg (I, whom thou once didst prove So humble to esteem, so good to love) Not that thy spirit might on me doubled be — I ask but half thy mighty spirit for me ; And when my muse soars with so strong a wing, ’Twill learn of things divine, and first of thee, to sing. HYMN TO THE LIGHT First-born of chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro’s darksome womb ! Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled ! Thou tide of glory which no rest dost know, But ever ebb and ever flow 1 Thou golden shower of a true Jove Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to Earth make love 1 Hail, active Nature’s watchful life and health ! Her joy, her ornament, and wealth ! Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee ! Thou the world’s beauteous Bride, the lusty Bride- groom he. 159 ABRAHAM COWLEY Say from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy winged arrows fly ? Swiftness and power by birth are thine : From thy great Sire they came, thy Sire the Word Divine. 'Tis, I believe, this archery to show, That so much cost in colours thou And skill in painting dost bestow Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow. Swift as light thoughts their empty career run, Thy race is finished when begun. Let a post-angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he. Thou, in the moon’s bright chariot proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey ; And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above The sun's gilt tent for ever move ; And still as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show*. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble glow-worms to adorn, And with those living spangles gild (O greatness without pride !) the lilies of the field. 160 ABRAHAM COWLEY Night and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy owl of night ; Ashamed and fearful to appear, They screen their horrid shapes with the black hemisphere. With them there hastes, and wildly takes the alarm Of painted dreams a busy swarm. At the first opening of thine eye The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly. The guilty serpents and obscener beasts Creep, conscious, to their secret rests ; Nature to thee does reverence pay, 111 omens and ill sights remove out of thy way. At thy appearance, Grief itself is said To shake his wings and rouse his head : And cloudy Care has often took A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look. At thy appearance, Fear itself grows bold ; Thy sunshine melts away his cold. Encouraged at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. Even Lust, the master of a hardened face, Blushes, if thou be ’st in the place, To darkness’ curtain he retires, In sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires. When, goddess, thou lift’st up thy wakened head Out of the morning’s purple bed, Thy quire of birds about thee play, And all thy joyful world salutes the rising day. l 161 ABRAHAM COWLEY The ghosts and monster-spirits that did presume A body’s privilege to assume, Vanish again invisibly, And bodies gain again their visibility. All the world’s bravery that delights our eyes Is but thy several liveries : Thou the rich dye on them bestow’st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go’st. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear’st, A crown of studded gold thou bear’st. The virgin lilies in their white Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. The violet, Spring’s little infant, stands Girt in the purple swaddling-bands ; On the fair tulip thou dost dote, Thou cloth’st it in a gay and parti-coloured coat. With flames condensed thou dost thy jewels fix, And solid colours in it mix : Flora herself envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she. Ah goddess ! would thou couldst thy hand withhold And be less liberal to gold ; Didst thou less value to it give, Of how much care (alas !) might’st thou poor man relieve. To me the sun is more delightful far, And all fair days much fairer are. But few, ah, wondrous few there be Who do not gold prefer, O goddess, even to thee ! 162 RICHARD LOVELACE Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea, Which open all their pores to thee ; Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living streams through the close channels slide. But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, Gently thy source the land o’erflows ; Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing lake. But the vast ocean of unbounded Day In the Empyrean Heaven does stay. Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow. RICHARD LOVELACE 1618-1658 TO LUCASTA ON 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. 163 RICHARD LOVELACE Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore ; I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more. TO AMARANTHA That she would dishevel her hair Amarantha, sweet and fair, Ah, braid no more that shining hair l 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 in that spicy nest. Every tress must be confessed ; But neatly tangled at the best ; Like a clew of golden thread Most excellently ravelled. Do not, then, wind up that light In ribands, and o’er cloud in night, Like the sun in ’s early ray ; But shake your head and scatter day. 164 RICHARD LOVELACE LUCASTA Faying her Obsequies to the chaste memory of my dearest Cousin , Mrs. Bowes Barne See what an undisturbed tear She weeps for her last sleep 1 But viewing her, straight waked, a star, She weeps that she did weep. Grief ne’er before did tyrannise On the honour of that brow, And at the wheels of her brave eyes Was captive led, till now. Thus for a saint’s apostasy, The unimagined woes And sorrows of the hierarchy None but an angel knows. Thus for lost soul’s recovery, The clapping of the wings And triumph of this victory None but an angel sings. So none but she knows to bemoan This equal virgin’s fate ; None but Lucasta can her crown Of glory celebrate. Then dart on me, Chaste Light, one ray, By which I may descry Thy joy clear through this cloudy day To dress my sorrow by. 165 RICHARD LOVELACE TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered 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 crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make N or iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage * 166 RICHARD LOVELACE If I have freedom In my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. A GUILTLESS LADY IMPRISONED : AFTER PENANCED Hark, fair one, how whate’er here is Doth laugh and sing at thy distress, Not out of hate to thy relief, But joy — to enjoy thee, though in grief. See ! that which chains you, you chain here, The prison is thy prisoner ; How much thy jailer’s keeper art ! He binds thy hands, but thou his heart. The gyves to rase so smooth a skin Are so unto themselves within ; But, blest to kiss so fair an arm, Haste to be happy with that harm ; And play about thy wanton wrist, As if in them thou so wert dressed ; But if too rough, too hard they press, O they but closely, closely kiss. And as thy bare feet bless the way, The people do not mock, but pray, And call thee, as amazed they run, Instead of prostitute, a nun. 167 RICHARD LOVELACE The merry torch burns with desire To kindle the eternal fire, 1 And lightly dances in thine eyes To tunes of epithalamies. The sheet tied ever to thy waist, How thankful to be so embraced 1 And see 1 thy very, very bands Are bound to thee to bind such hands. THE ROSE Sweet, serene, sky-like flower, Haste to adorn the bower ; From thy long cloudy bed, Shoot forth thy damask head. New-startled blush of Flora, The grief of pale Aurora (Who will contest no more), Haste, haste to strew her floor ! Vermilion ball that ’s given From lip to lip in Heaven ; Love’s couch’s coverled, Haste, haste to make her bed. Dear offspring of pleased Venus And jolly, plump Silenus, Haste, haste to deck the hair Of the only sweetly fair ! 1 Evidently of love. 1 68 ANDREW MARVELL See ! rosy is her bower, Her floor is all this flower, Her bed a rosy nest By a bed of roses pressed. But early as she dresses, Why fly you her bright tresses? Ah ! I have found, I fear, — Because her cheeks are near. ANDREW MARVELL 1620-1678 A IIORATIAN 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 corselet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, But through adventurous war Urged his active star ; And, like the three-forked 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, 169 ANDREW MARVELL And with such to enclose Is more than to oppose ;) Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent ; And Caesar’s head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame The force of angry Heaven’s flame ; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere, As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot, Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time, And cast the kingdoms old Into another mould. Though Justice against Fate complain And plead the ancient rights in vain (But those do hold or break, As men are strong or weak), Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war Where his were not the deepest scar ? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art ; Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook’s narrow case, 170 ANDREW MARVELL That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn, While round the armed bands Did clap their bloody hands ; He nothing common did, or mean, Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe’s edge did try ; Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed. This was that memorable hour, Which first assured the forced power ; So, when they did design The Capitol’s first line, A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run ; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate. And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed ; So much one man can do, That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed 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 ; ANDREW MARVELL And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs ; And has his sword and spoil ungirt, To lay them at the Public’s skirt : So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having killed, no more doth search, But on the next green bough to perch ; Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure. What may not then our isle presume, While victory his crest does plume ? What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year? As Caesar, he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy a Hannibal, And to all states not free Shall climacteric be. The Piet no shelter now shall find Within his parti-coloured mind, But, from his 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 ; Beside the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night ; The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain. 172 ANDREW MARVELL THE PICTURE OF T. C. IN A PROSPECT OF FLOWERS See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days 1 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 colours best become 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 1 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 ANDREW MARVELL 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, Should quickly make the example yours ; And, ere we see, Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee. THE NYMPH COMPLAINING OF THE DEATH OF HER FAWN The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne’er didst, alive, Them any harm, alas ! nor could Thy death yet ever do them good. I ’m sure I never wished them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will. But if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But O my fears ! It cannot die so. Heaven’s King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain ; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands 174 ANDREW MARVELL In this warm life-blood which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world, to offer for their sin. Inconstant Sylvio, when y;et I had not found him counterfeit, One morning (I remember well), Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me ; nay, and I know What he said then, I ’m sure I do : Said he, ‘ Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer ! ’ But Sylvio soon had me beguiled ; This waxed tame while he grew wild, And quite regardless of my smart Left me his fawn, but took my heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this ; and, very well content, Could so mine idle life have spent ; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game ; it seemed to bless Itself in me ; how could I less Than love it ? 0,1 cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me ! Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did ; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 175 ANDREW MARVELL But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at my own fingers nursed ; And as it grew, so every day It waxed more white and sweet than they — It had so sweet a breath ! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft And white — shall I say? — than my hand, Nay, any lady’s of the land ! It is a wondrous thing how fleet ’Twas on those little silver feet : With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race : — And when ’t had left me far away ’T would stay, and run again, and stay ; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness : And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes. 176 ANDREW MARVELL For in the flaxen lilies’ shade It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips e’en seemed to bleed, And then to me ’twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill. And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold : — Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without — roses within. 0 help ! O help ! I see it faint And die as calmly as a saint 1 See how it weeps ! the tears do come Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam ; so The holy frankincense doth flow ; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these. 1 in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It, till it doth o’erflow, with mine, Then place it in Diana’s shrine. Now my sweet fawn is vanished to Whither the swans and turtles go ; In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure, O, do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. m 177 ANDREW MARVELL First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble ; and withal Let it be weeping too ; but there The engraver sure his art may spare ; For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone, Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there ; Then at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made ; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee. THE DEFINITION OF LOVE My love is of a birth as rare As ’tis, for object, strange and high ; 1 1 was begotten by despair Upon impossibility. Magnanimous despair alone Could show me so divine a thing, Where feeble hope could ne’er have flown But vainly flapped its tinsel wing. And yet I quickly might arrive Where my extended soul is fixed ; But fate does iron wedges drive, And always crowds itself betwixt. For fate with jealous eyes does see Two perfect loves, nor lets them close Their union would her ruin be, And her tyrannic power depose. 178 ANDREW MARVELL And therefore her decrees of steel Us as the distant poles have placed (Though Love’s whole world on us doth wh< Not by themselves to be embraced, Unless the giddy heaven fall, And earth some new convulsion tear, And, us to join, the world should all Be cramped into a planisphere. As lines, so loves oblique may well Themselves in every angle greet ; But ours, so truly parallel, Though infinite, can never meet. Therefore the love which us doth bind, But fate so enviously debars, Is the conjunction of the mind, And opposition of the stars. THE GARDEN Translated out of his own Latin How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do clbse 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 : 179 ANDREW MARVELL 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 her 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, who 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 is this I lead 1 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 ; 180 ANDREW MARVELL 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 claps 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 walked 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 gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new 1 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 reckoned, but with herbs and flowers? 181 HENRY VAUGHAN HENRY VAUGHAN 1621-1695 THE DAWNING Ah ! what time wilt Thou come ? When shall that cry, ‘ The Bridegroom ’s coming ! ’ fill the sky? Shall it in the evening run, When our words and works are done ? Or will Thy all-surprising light Break at midnight, When either sleep or some dark pleasure Possesseth mad man without measure? Or shall these early, fragrant hours Unlock Thy bowers ? And with their blush of light descry Thy locks crowned with eternity? Indeed it is the only time That with Thy glory best doth chime ; All now are stirring, every field Full hymns doth yield ; The whole creation shakes off night, And for Thy shadow looks the light ; Stars now vanish without number, Sleepy planets set and slumber, The pursy clouds disband and scatter, All expect some sudden matter ; Not one beam triumphs, but from far That morning star. O at what time soever Thou, Unknown to us, the heavens wilt bow, And, with Thy angels in the van, 1S2 HENRY VAUGHAN Descend to judge poor careless man, Grant I may not like puddle lie In a corrupt security, Where, if a traveller water crave, He finds it dead, and in a grave ; But as this restless vocal spring All day and night doth run and sing, And, though here born, yet is acquainted Elsewhere, and flowing keeps untainted ; So let me all my busy age In Thy free services engage ; And though — while here — of force I must Have commerce sometimes with poor dust, And in my flesh, though vile and low, As this doth in her channel flow, Yet let my course, my aim, my love, And chief acquaintance be above ; So when that day and hour shall come, In which Thy Self will be the sun, Thou ’It find me dressed and on my way, Watching the break of Thy great day. CHILDHOOD I cannot reach it ; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in. my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to heaven. 183 HENRY VAUGHAN Why should men love A wolf, more than a lamb or dove ? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God’s own beams? Who kissetn thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace ; And sweetly living — fie on men ! — Are, when dead, medicinal then ; If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise ; Since all that age doth teach is ill, Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf, Shall I from thence cast down myself? Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurled? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul. And yet the practice worldlings call Business, and weighty action all, Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away. Dear, harmless age ! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with man ; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries ! which he Must live twice that would God’s face see ; Which angels guard, and with it play ; Angels l which foul men drive away. 184 HENRY VAUGHAN How do I study now, and scan Thee more than e’er I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light 1 O for thy centre and mid-day 1 For sure that is the narrow way 1 CORRUPTION Sure it was so. Man in those early days Was not all stone and earth ; He shined a little, and by those weak rays Had some glimpse of his birth. He saw heaven o’er his head, and knew from whence He came, condemned, hither ; And, as first-love draws strongest, so from hence His mind sure progressed thither. Things here were strange unto him; sweat and till; All was a thorn or weed ; Nor did those last, but — like himself— died still As soon as they did seed ; They seemed to quarrel with him ; for that act, That fell him, foiled them all ; He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked The whole frame with his fall. This made him long for home, as loth to stay With murmurers and foes ; He sighed for Eden, and would often say, ‘ Ah ! what bright days were those ! ’ Nor was heaven cold unto him ; for each day The valley or the mountain Afforded visits, and still Paradise ky In some green shade or fountain. *85 HENRY VAUGHAN Angels lay leiger here ; each bush, and cell, Each oak and highway knew them : Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well, And he was sure to view them. Almighty Love 1 where art Thou now? mad man Sits down and freezeth on ; He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan, But bids the thread be spun. I see Thy curtains are close-drawn ; Thy bow Looks dim, too, in the cloud ; Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below The centre, and his shroud. All ’s in deep sleep and night : thick darkness lies And hatcheth o’er Thy people — But hark I what trumpet ’s that? what angel cries ‘Arise ! thrust in Thy sickle’? THE NIGHT Through that pure virgin shrine, That sacred veil drawn o’er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine, And face the moon : Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night. Most blest believer he ! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see When Thou didst rise ! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun ! t86 HENRY VAUGHAN O, who will tell me where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour ? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower ; Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity^? No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone ; Where trees and herbs did watch, and peep, And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear night ! this world’s defeat ; The stop to busy fools ; care’s check and curb ; The day of spirits ; my soul’s calm retreat Which none disturb ! Christ’s progress, and His prayer-time ; The hours to which high Heaven doth chime. God’s silent, searching flight ; When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night ; His still, soft call ; His knocking-time ; the soul’s dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch. Were my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel’s wing or voice Is seldom rent ; Then I in heaven all the'long year Would keep, and never wander here. 187 HENRY VAUGHAN But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire ; And by this world’s ill-guiding light, Err more than I can do by night. There is in God — some say — A deep but dazzling darkness ; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that night ! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim 1 THE ECLIPSE Whither, O whither didst Thou fly, When I did grieve Thine holy eye? When Thou didst mourn to see me lost, And all Thy care and counsels crossed? O do not grieve, where’er Thou art 1 Thy grief is an undoing smart, Which doth not only pain, but break My heart, and makes me blush to speak. Thy anger I could kiss, and will ; But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill 1 THE RETREAT Happy those early days when I Shined in my angel infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought ; 188 HENRY VAUGHAN When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; While on some gilded cloud or flower 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 every 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 the enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm-trees. But ah 1 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. THE WORLD OF LIGHT They are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here ; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. HENRY VAUGHAN 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. 1 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 shewed them me, To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just, Shining no where, but in the dark ; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark 1 He that hath found some fledged 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 confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there ; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She ’ll shine through all the sphere. 190 SCOTTISH BALLADS 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. SCOTTISH BALLADS 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 for sake o’ me ! 0 think na but my heart was sair When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair ; 1 laid her down 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 ; 191 SCOTTISH BALLADS I lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma’, I hacked him in pieces sma’, For her that died for me. 0 Helen fair, beyond compare ! 1 ’ll make a garland of 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!' 0 Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! If I -were with thee, I were blest, "Where thou liest low and tak’st thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea. 1 wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 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, Since my Love died for me. THE WIFE OF USHER’S WELL There lived a wife at Usher’s Well And a wealthy wife wns she ; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them over the sea. SCOTTISH BALLADS They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, When word came to the carlin wife That her three sons were gane. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, When word came to the carlin 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 Martinmass, When nights are lang and mirk, The carlin wife’s three sons came hame, And their hats were of 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 n 193 SCOTTISH BALLADS Up then crew the red, red cock, And up and crew the grey ; The eldest to the youngest said, ‘ ’Tis time we were awa ! ’ The cock he hadna crawed but once, And clapped 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 mist out o’ our place, A sair pain we maun bide. ‘ Fare ye weel, my mother dear ! Fareweel to barn and byre ! And fair ye weel, the bonny lass That kindles my mother’s fire ! ’ THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW Late at e’en, drinking the wine, And e’er they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawing. ‘O stay at hame, my noble lord, O stay at hame, my marrow ! My cruel brother will you betray On the dowie houms of Yarrow.’ O fare ye weel, my lady gay ! O fare ye weel, my Sarah ! For I maun gae, though I ne’er return Frae the dowie banks of Yarrow.’ 194 SCOTTISH BALLADS She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, As oft she had done before, O ; She belted him with his noble brand, And he’s awa to Yarrow. As he gaed up the Terries’ bank, I wot he gaed with sorrow, Till down in a den he spied nine armed men On the dowie houms of Yarrow. ‘ O, come ye here to part your land, The bonnie forest thorough? Or come ye here to wield your brand On the dowie houms of Yarrow ? ’ * 1 come not here to part my land, And neither to beg or borrow ; I come to wield my noble brand On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. ‘ If I see all, ye ’re nine to ane ; An’ that’s an unequal marrow : Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.’ Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bloody braes of Yarrow ; Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his body thorough. * Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, And tell your sister Sarah, To come and lift her leafu’ lord ; He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.’ 195 SCOTTISH BALLADS ‘ Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu’ dream ; I fear there will be sorrow ! I dreamed I pu’ed the heather green With my true love, on Yarrow. ‘ O gentle wind that bloweth south From where my love repaireth, Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, And tell me how he fareth. ‘ But in the glen strive armed men ; They’ve wrought me dule and sorrow ; They ’ve slain — the comeliest knight they ’ve slain — He bleeding lies on Yarrow.* As she sped down yon high, high hill, She gaed wi’ dule and sorrow, And in the den spied ten slain men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, She searched his wounds all thorough, She kissed them till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. ‘ Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear, For a’ this breeds but sorrow ; I ’ll wed ye to a better lord Than him ye lost on Yarrow.’ { O haud your tongue, my father dear, Ye mind me but of sorrow ; A fairer rose did never bloom Than now lies cropped on Yarrow.* 196 SCOTTISH BALLADS SWEET WILLIAM AND MAY MARGARET There came a ghost to Marg’ret’s door, With many a grievous groan ; And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none. ‘ Is that my father Philip? Or is 't my brother John? Or is’t my true-love Willie, From Scotland new come home?’ ‘’Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John, But ’tis thy true-love Willie From Scotland new come home. * O sweet Marg’ret, O dear Marg’ret ! I pray thee speak to me ; Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret, As I gave it to thee.’ ‘ Thy faith and troth thou ’s never get, Nor it will I thee lend, Till that thou come within my bower And kiss me cheek and chin.’ ‘ If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man ; And should I kiss thy ruby lips Thy days would not be lang. 197 SCOTTISH BALLADS ‘ O sweet Marg’ret ! O dear Marg’ret, I pray thee speak to me ; Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret, As I gave it to thee.’ ‘ Thy faith and troth thou’s never get, Nor it will I thee lend, Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring.’ ‘ My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard Afar beyond the sea ; And it is but my spirit, Marg’ret, That ’s now speaking to thee.’ She stretched out her lily-white hand And for to do her best : ‘ Hae, there ’s your faith and troth, Willie ; God send your soul good rest.’ Now she has kilted her robe o’ green A piece below her knee, And a’ the live-lang winter night The dead corp followed she. 1 Is there any room at your head, Willie, Or any room at your feet ? Or any room at your side, Willie, Wherein that I may creep ? ’ 1 There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret There ’s nae room at my feet ; There ’s nae room at my side, Marg’ret, My coffin ’s made so meet.’ 198 SCOTTISH BALLADS Then up and crew the red red cock, And up and crew the grey ; ’Tis time, *tis time, my dear Marg’ret, That you were gane awa.’ SIR PATRICK SPENS The king sits in Dumfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine ; ‘ O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o’ mine ?’ O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king’s right knee ; ‘ Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea.’ Our king has written a braid letter And sealed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens Was walking on the strand. ‘To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway ower the faem ; The king’s daughter o’ Noroway 'Tis thou must bring her hame.’ The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud loud laughed he ; The neist word that Sir Patrick read The tear blinded his e’e. 199 SCOTTISH BALLADS ‘ 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. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o’ Noroway Began aloud to say : ‘ Ye Scotfishmen spend a’ our king’s goud, And a’ our queenis fee.’ ‘ Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud ! Fu’ loud I hear ye lee. * For I have brought as much white monie As gane my men and me, And I hae brought ahalf-fouof gudered gould Out o’er the sea wi’ me. ‘ Make ready, make read} 7 , my merry men a’ ! Our good ship sails the morn.’ ‘ Now ever alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. 200 SCOTTISH BALLADS ‘ 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 sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grewdark, and the wind blewloud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the top-mast lap, It v'as sic a deadly storm ; And the waves cr n o’er the broken ship Till a’ her sides were torn * O where will I get a gude sailor To tak the helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast, To see if I can spy land ? ’ ‘ O here am I, a sailor gude, To tak the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast, But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’ He hadna gaen a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a boult flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. 1 Gae 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.’ 201 SCOTTISH BALLADS They fetched a web o’ the silken claith, Another o’ the twine, And they wapped 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-heeled shoon ; But lang or a’ the play was played They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather bed That floated on the faem ; And mony was the gude lord’s son That never mair came hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white. The maidens tore their hair, A’ for the sake o’ their true loves, — For them they’ll see nae mair. O lang, lang may the ladyes 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. With their goud kaims in their hair, A’ waiting for their ain dear loves ! For them they’ll see nae mair. Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, ’Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet ! 202 SCOTTISH BALLADS HAME, HAME, HAME Hame ! hame ! hame ! O hame fain wad I be ! O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie. When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame ! O hame fain wad I be ! O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie ! The green leaf o’ loyalty 's beginning now to fa’ ; The bonnie white rose it is withering an’ a’ ; But we ’ll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie, And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie ! Hame, hame, hame ! O hame fain wad I be l O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie ! 0, there ’s nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save, But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave, That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame ! O hame fain wad I be 1 O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie ! The great now are gane, who attempted to save ; The green grass is growing abune their graves ; Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me I ’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame ! O hame fain wad I be l O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie ! 203 BORDER BALLAD BORDER BALLAD A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle , Fire and sleet and candle-lighte, And Christe receive thy saule. When thou from hence away art past, Every nighte and alle , To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last ; And Christe receive thy saule. If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every nighte and alle , Sit thee down and put them on ; And Christe receive thy saule. If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane, Every nighte and alle , The whinnes sail 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 y To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last, A nd Christe receive thy saule. 204 JOHN DRYDEN If ever thou gavest meat or drink, Every nighte and alle, The fire sail never make thee shrink ; A nd Christe receive thy saule. If meat and 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 sleet and candle-lighte, A nd Christe receive thy saule. JOHN DRYDEN 1631-1700 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 ; Wr.ose palms, new-plucked 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 fixed and regular Moved with the heaven’s majestic pace, Or called to more superior bliss, Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss : 205 JOHN DRYDEN Whatever happy region be thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space ; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven’s eternal year is thine. Here, 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 ; *1 hy father was transfused into thy blood : So wert thou born into the tuneful strain (An early, rich and inexhausted vein). But if thy pre-existing soul Was formed 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 l 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 choir 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, 206 JOHN DRYDEN And even the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tuned 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 clustering swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew, ’Twas that such vulgar miracles Heaven had not leisure to renew : For all the best fraternity of love Solemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above. O gracious God ! how far have we Profaned Thy heavenly gift of poesy ! Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debased to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordained above, For tongues of angels and for hymns of love ! O wretched we ! why were we hurried down This lubric and adulterate age (Nay, added fat pollutions of our own), To increase the steaming ordures of the stage? What can we say to excuse our second fall ? Let this thy Vestal, heaven, atone for all ! Her Arethusan stream remains unsoiled, Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled ; 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 : 207 JOHN DRYDEN Such noble vigour did her verse adorn That it seemed borrowed, where ’twas only bom. 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 expressed) Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream ; So cold herself, while she such warmth expressed, *Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream. When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations underground ; When in the valley of Jehosophat The judging God shall close the book of Fate, And there the last assizes keep F or those who wake and those who sleep ; When rattling bones together fly From the four quarters of the sky ; When sinews o’er the skeletons are spread, Those clothed 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 covered with the lightest ground ; And straight with inborn vigour, on the wing, Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shalt go. As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learned below. 208 JOSEPH ADDISON APHRA BEHlY 1640-1689 SONG, FROM AI3DELAZAR Love in fantastic triumph sat, Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create ; And strange tyrannic power he showed. From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled ; But ’twas from mine he took desires Enough to undo the amorous world. From me he took his sighs and tears, From thee his pride and cruelty ; From me his languishment and fears, And every killing dart from thee. Thus thou and I the god have armed, And set him up a deity ; But my poor heart alone is harmed, Whilst thine the victor is, and free. JOSEPPI ADDISON 1672-1719 HYMN The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens (a shining frame !) Their great Original proclaim, o 209 ALEXANDER POPE The unwearied sun from day to day Doth his Creator’s power display, And publisheth 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 this dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice nor sound Amid 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.* ALEXANDER POPE 1688-1744 ELEGY To the Memory of an unfortunate Lady What beckoning 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 ? 210 ALEXANDER POPE O ever beauteous, ever friendly ! tell, Is it in heaven 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 Powers ! 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 snatched 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 breath which warmed 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 hearses shall besiege your gates ; 2 1 1 ALEXANDER POPE There passengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long fun’rals blacken all the way), ‘ Lo ! these were they whose souls the F uries steeled And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day ! So perish all whose breasts ne’er learned 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 adorned, By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned. What though 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 though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, N or polished marble emulate thy face ? What though no sacred earth allow thee room, N or hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb ? Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be dressed, 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 relics made. So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame. How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot ; 212 WILLIAM COWPER 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 ! WILLIAM COWPER 1731-1800 LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE O that those lips had language 1 Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, ‘ Grieve not, my child — chase all thy fears away 1 ’ The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalise, The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 0 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own : 213 WILLIAM COWPER And while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, 'long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot, But though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 214 WILLIAM COWPER In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced : Thy nightly visits to my chamber paid That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes ; All this still legible in memory’s page, And still to be so till my latest age, Adds jpy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might — But no — what here we call our life is such. WILLIAM COWPER So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed). Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, * Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,’ And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchored at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed — Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current’s thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, O the thought that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; But higher far my proud pretensions rise — The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell — Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again ; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine ; 216 ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD 1743-1825 LIFE Life 1 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. Life 1 we ’ve 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. WILLIAM BLAKE 1757-1828 THE LAND OF DREAMS Awake, awake, my little boy ! Thou wast thy mother’s only joy. Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep ? Awake, thy Father does thee keep. 217 WILLIAM BLAKE ‘ O, what land is the Land of Dreams, What are its mountains and what are its streams ? 0 father, I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair. ‘ Among the lambs clothed in white, She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight ; 1 wept for joy, like a dove I mourn, O, when shall I again return ? * Dear child, I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams, But though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side. * Father, O Father ! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear? The Land of Dreams is better far Above the light of the morning star.’ THE PIPER 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. 218 WILLIAM BLAKE ‘ Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer. ’ So I sang 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 vanished from my sight, And I plucked a hollow reed ; And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. HOLY THURSDAY ’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green ; Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town ! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own ; The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. 219 WILLIAM BLAKE Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among ; Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. 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 ? 220 WILLIAM BLAKE Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 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 enjoyed in you ! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few* love’s SECRET Never seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be ; F or the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. 221 ROBERT BURNS 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 TO A MOUSE On turning her up in her nest with the plough , November 1785 Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, 0 what a panic ’s in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickerin’ brattle ! 1 wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee Wi’ murd’ring pattle ! I ’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An’ fellow-mortal ! 222 ROBERT BURNS I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen-icker in a thrave ’S a sma’ request : I ’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, And never miss ’t ! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’ : And naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green ! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’ Baith snell and keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary winter cornin’ fast, An’ cozy here beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out through thy cell. That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter’s sleety dribble An’ cranreuch cauld ! But, mousie, thou art no thy lane In proving foresight may be vain : The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men Gang aft a-gley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promised joy. 223 ROBERT BURNS Still thou art blest compared wi’ me l The present only toucheth thee : But, och ! I backward cast my e’e On prospects drear ! An* forward though I canna see, I guess and fear ! 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 man 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 turned him right and round about Upon the Irish shore ; And gae his bridle-reins a shake, With Adieu for evermore, My dear, Adieu for evermore. The sodger frae the wars returns, The sailor frae the main ; But I hae parted frae my love. 224 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Never to meet again, My dear, Never to meet again. When day is gane, and night is come, And a’ folks 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. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1770-1850 WHY ART THOU SILENT? Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair ? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, Bound to thy service with unceasing care — The mind’s least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak I — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird’s-nest filled with snow ’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine — Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! 225 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THOUGHTS OF A BRITON ON THIi SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND Two Voices are there ; one is of the Sea, One of the Mountains ; each a mighty voice : In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought’st against him — but hast vainly striven l Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. — Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE 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 his tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven is on 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 untouched 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, 226 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC 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 reached its final day ; Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away. O FRIEND ! I KNOW NOT O friend ! I know not which way I must look For comfort ; being, as I am, oppressed To think that now our life is only dressed For show ; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblessed ; 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. 227 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH SURPRISED BY JOY 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, recalled 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. TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shed His beams around thee, or thou rest thy head Pillowed in some dark dungeon’s noisome den — O miserable chieftain 1 where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not ; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow ; Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee : air, earth, and skies There ’s not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, Arid love, and man’s unconquerable mind. 228 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SFRINKLED With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad ; And lustily along the bay she strode, * Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.* This ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look ; This ship to all the rest did I prefer : When will she turn, and whither ? She will brook No tarrying ; where she comes the winds must stir On went she— and due north her journey took. 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-gathered now like sleeping flowers, — For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; It moves us not.— Great God ! I ’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 229 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3 , l802 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. N ever 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 ! WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations ; how ennobling thoughts depart, What 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 do 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 1 2jO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THREE YEARS SHE GREW 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 Ev’n in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form By silent sjmipathy. 231 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ‘ 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. THE DAFFODILS I wandered 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. 232 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched 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. THE SOLITARY REALER 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. 233 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been and may be again ? Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work, And o’er the sickle bending ; — I listened, motionless and still ; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. ELEGIAC STANZAS Suggested by a picture of Peele Castle in a storm I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile ! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : I saw thee every day ; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 234 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! So like, so very like, was day to day 1 Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there ; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm ! It seemed no sleep, No mood, which season takes away or brings : I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah ! then — if mine had been the painter’s hand To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet’s dream, — I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, Amid a world how different from this ! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine Of peaceful years : a chronicle of heaven ; — Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given. A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; No motion but the moving tide ; a breeze ; Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made ; And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 235 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH So once it would have been— ’tis so no more ; I have submitted to a new control : A power is gone which nothing can restore ; A deep distress hath humanized my soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been ; The feeling of m3’ loss will ne’er be old 4 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the friend, If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O 'tis a passionate work ! — yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves — Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time — The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind ! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind. 236 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Bat welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne, — Such sights, or worse, as are before me here 1 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. TO H. C. ( Hartley Coleridge ; six years old) O thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float In such clear water that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; 0 blessed vision ! O happy child ! That art so exquisitely wild, 1 think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality ; And grief, uneasy lover ! never rest But when she sat within the touch of thee. O ! too industrious folly ! O ! vain and causeless melancholy l Nature will either end thee quite ; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb’s heart among the full-grown flocks. 2 37 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH "What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings fortn, Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks ; Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives ; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife Slips in a moment out of life. 5 TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE ’Tis said that some have died for love : And here and there a churchyard grave is found In the cold North’s unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, — His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known ; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn’s side : He loved the pretty Barbara died, And thus he makes his moan : Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid, When thus his moan he made : ‘ O move, thou cottage, from behind that oak ! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie. That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky ! The clouds pass on ; they from the heavens depart I look — the sky is empty space ; I know not what I trace ; But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart 238 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH * O what a weight is in these shades ! Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be suppressed,? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves. It robs my heart of rest. Thou thrush, that singest loud — and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit ; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. * Roll back, sweet rill ! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained ! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained ; If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, O let it then be dumb ! — Be anything, sweet rill, but that which thou art new. ‘ Thou eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale), Thou one fair shrub — oh, shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale ! For thus to see thee nodding in the air, — To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, — Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can beai. The man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle love ! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle love ! nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know Such happiness as I have known to-day. 239 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE PET LAMB A Fastoral The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; I heard a voice : it said, ‘ Drink, pretty creature, drink ! ’ And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side. No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail with pleasure shook. ‘Drink, pretty creature, drink,’ she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own. ’Twas little Barbara Lewth waite, a child of beauty rare ! I watched them with delight ; they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty can the maiden turned away ; But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay. Towards the lamb she looked ; and from that shady place I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face ; If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing 240 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ‘What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord ? Is it not well with thee ? Well both for bed and board ? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Rest, little young one, rest; what is 't that aileth thee? ‘ What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting to thy heart ? Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beautiful thou art : This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no peers ; And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! ‘ If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain ; For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st not fear ; — The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here. ‘ Rest, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away : Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none ; And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. ‘ He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home : A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. Q 241 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ‘Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and new. ‘ Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I ’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough ; My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is cold, Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. ‘ It will not, will not rest ! — poor creature, can it be That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. * Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair ! I ’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there ; The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry roar like lions for their prey. ‘ Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky ; Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? Sleep— and at break of day I will come to thee again ! * As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 242 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was mine. Again, and once again did I repeat the song ; ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘more than half to the damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own.’ STEPPING WESTWARD While my fellozv-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Katrine , one fine evening after sunset , in our road to a hut where in the course of our tour we had been hospitably enter i aincd some weeks before , we met , in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region , tivo well-dressed women, one of whom said to us, by zvay of greet big, ‘ What, you are stepping westward? ’ ‘ What , you are stepping westward? ’ — ‘ I \a.' — ’T would be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of chance ; Yet who would stop, or fear t’ advance, Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on ? The dewy ground was dark and cold ; Behind, all gloomy to behold ; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny : I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound Of something without place or bound ; 243 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright. The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake ; The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy ; Its power was felt ; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. THE CHILDLESS FATHER *L r P, Timothy, up with your staff and away ! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; The hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds, And Skiddaw is.glad with the cry of the hounds.’ — Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show. The basin of boxwood , 1 just six months before, Had stood on the table at Timothy’s door ; A coffin through Timothy’s threshold had passed ; One child did it bear, and that child was his last. 1 In several parts of the north of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this boxwood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased. 244 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the ‘ hark ! hark away ! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut, With a leisurely motion, the door of his hilt. Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, * The key I must take, for my Helen is dead.’ But of this in my ears not a word did he speak, And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. ODE ON 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 Apparelled 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 past away a glory from the earth. 245 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor’s sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief : A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; — No more shall grief of mine the season wrong : I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay ; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ; — Thou child of joy Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy ! Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. O evil day ! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May-morning ; And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm And the babe leaps up on his mother’s aim 246 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — But there 's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked 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, 247 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years’ darling of a pigmy size ! See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses, With light upon him from his father’s eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his ‘ humorous stage’ With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That life brings with her in her equipage ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul’s immensity ; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind 248 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 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 ; 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 1 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, 249 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, 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 1 250 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 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 0,ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, For bode 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 tripped 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. 252 SIR WALTER SCOTT SIR WALTER SCOTT 1771-1832 PROUD MA1SIE 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?’ 4 The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. 4 The glowworm o’er grave and stone Shall light thee steady ; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.’ A WEARY LOT IS THINE 4 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. 252 SIR WALTER SCOTT A lightsome eye, a soldier’s mien A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green — • No more of me you knew, My Love ! No more of me you knew. ‘This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ; But sh§ shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.' He turned his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said, 4 Adieu for evermore, My Love ! And adieu for evermore.’ THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 0 lovers’ eyes are sharp to see, And lovers’ ears in hearing ; And love, in life’s extremity, Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary’s bower And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower To watch her love’s returning. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decayed by pining, Till through her wasted hand, at night, You saw the taper shining. 253 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE By fits a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying ; By fits so ashy pale she grew Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seemed in her frame residing ; Before the watch-dog pricked his ear She heard her lover’s riding ; Ere scarce a distant form was kenned She knew and waved to greet him, And o’er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him. He came — he passed — an heedless gaze As o’er some stranger glancing ; Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser’s prancing — The castle-arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1772-1834 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 : 254 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover 1 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 reached 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 1 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 1 A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw : It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, 255 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’t would 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. 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 flashed 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 ! Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in’t together. 256 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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 ! 0 Youth ! for years so many and sweet, ’Tis known that thou and I were one, 1 ’ll think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be that thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled : — 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 altered size ; But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but Thought : so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates still. Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve, Where no hope is, life’s forewarning 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 p®or nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismissed, Yet hath out-stayed his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile. 257 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER In seven parts ARGUMENT How a ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole ; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell ; and in what manner the Ancient Mariner came back to his own Country. PART I 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 opened wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set : May’st hear the merry din.’ He holds him with his skinny hand, ‘ There was a ship,’ quoth he. ‘ Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! * Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 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. 258 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1 The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. 1 The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he ! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. ‘ Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon — The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The 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. * And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong : He struck with his o’ertaking wings, Ar t d chased us south along. * With sloping masts and dipping prow As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, 259 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared 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. ‘ 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 cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound ! ‘ At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came ; As it had been a Christian soul, We hailed 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 steered us through ! * And a good south wind sprang up behind ; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner’s hollo ! 260 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ‘ In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moon-shine. 5 * God save thee, ancient Mariner ! From the fiends that plague thee thus 1 — Why look’st thou so?’ — With my cross-bow 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 mariner’s hollo ! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work ’em woe : For all averred I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head The glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred I had killed the bird That brought tl>e fog and mist. ’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. 261 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. 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. 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. 262 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so, Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. 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 in There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, 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 seemed a little speck, And then it seemed 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 neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered. 263 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail ; Through utter drought all dumb we stood 1 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 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. 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 ! And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven’s Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 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 ? 264 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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 white as leprosy ; The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 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. The Sun’s rim dips ; the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up ; Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too. quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. 265 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy* thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly, — They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! PART IV * I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. ‘ I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand so brown.’ — Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful 1 And they all dead did lie ; And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did I. 266 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew mine eyes away : I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven and tried to pray ; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me Had never passed 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. The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide : Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside — 267 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam : and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare ; A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware : Sure my kind Saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. 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 ! 268 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I woke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs ; I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was-a blessed ghost. 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 poured down from one black do :td ; The Moon was at its edge. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side : Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on 1 Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, 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 steered, 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 — W e were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother’s son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I pulled at one rope But he said nought to me. ‘ I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! ’ Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest 1 ’Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest : 270 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast ; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning 1 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 sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe ; Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. 271 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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 fixed 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 letgjo, She made a sudden bound : It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, I heard, and in my soul discerned, Two voices in the air. ‘ Is it he ? ’ quoth one, £ Is this the man 1 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.’ 272 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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.’ 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. S 273 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ‘ Fly, brother, fly 1 more high, more high t Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner’s trance is abated.* 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 fixed on me their stony eyes. That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died Had never passed away ; I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. And now this spell was snapt : once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked 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. 274 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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 fanned 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 sailed softly too ; Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew. 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 steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. 275 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE And the bay was white with silent light, Till, rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were : I turned 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 oh ! 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 turned 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. 276 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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 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 neared : I heard them talk i ‘ Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights, so many and fair, That signal made but now ? ’ * Strange, by my faith ! ’ the Hermit said — ‘ And they answered not our cheer ! The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere ! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were 277 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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-feared ’ — * Push on, push on ! ’ Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread ; It reached the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned 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. 278 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars : the Pilot’s boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed 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 1 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. * O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man I * The Hermit crossed his brow. * Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘ I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou ? ’ Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns : And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart wfthin me burns. 279 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 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 1 The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are : And hark the little vesper-bell Which biddeth me to prayer ! O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea : So lonely ’twas, that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, ’Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company — To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay ! Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. 280 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 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 Turned from the bridegroom’s door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn ; A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow-morn. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 1775-1864 ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace 1 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these watchful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sigh I consecrate to thee. 281 CHARLES LAMB EPITAPH I strove with none, for none were worth my strife. Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art. I warmed both hands before the fire of life ; It sinks, and I am ready to depart. CHILD OF A DAY Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, N or, if thou knewest, could’st return ! And why the wish 1 the pure and blest Watch, like thy mother, o’er thy sleep ; O peaceful night i O envied rest ! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. CHARLES LAMB 177s- 1835 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. 282 THOMAS CAMPBELL A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate That flushed 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 trained 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 fore-warning ? THOMAS CAMPBELL 1777-1844 HOHENLINDEN On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. THOMAS CAMPBELL But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven Then rushed the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stained snow ; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. ’Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, Who rush to glory or the grave I Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part, where many meet 1 The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre. 284 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM EARL MARCH Earl March looked on his dying child, And, smit with grief to view her — The youth, he cried, whom I exiled Shall be restored to woo her. She ’s at the window many an hour His coming to discover : And he looked up to Ellen’s bower And she looked on her lover — But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling ! And am I then forgot — forgot ? It broke the heart of Ellen. In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, Her cheek is cold as ashes ; Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 1784-1842 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, - While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. 285 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON O for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There ’s tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud ; But hark the music, mariners ! The wind is piping loud ; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free — While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON 1788-1823 THE ISLES OF GREECE The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung 1 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 ; 286 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON 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 dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For, standing on the Persians’ grave, I could not think 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 l 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 1 And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine ? ’Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered 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. 287 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah I 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 1 ’ ’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 Poly crates — A tyrant ; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. 288 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom’s best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades ! Oh ! 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 1 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, \Yhere 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 ! t 289 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1792-1822 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. 290 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Another Athens shall arise, And to remoter time Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, The splendour of its prime ; And leave, if nought so bright may live, Ail earth can take or Heaven can give. 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 l WILD WITH WEEPING My head is wild with weeping for a grief Which is the shadow of a gentle mind. I walk into the air (but no relief To seek, — or haply, if I sought, to find ; It came unsought) ; to wonder that a chief Among men’s spirits should be cold and blind. TO THE 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 1 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 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 sighed for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noon-tide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me? — And I replied No, not thee ! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night-r- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon ! 292 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 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 lightning Of the sunken sun O’er which clouds are brightening, 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. 293 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 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 over- flowed. What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody ; — Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not ; Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : 294 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened 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 chaunt Matched 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 ? Whac fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 295 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 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, 1 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 I 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 ! 296 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY TO THE MOON 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? THE QUESTION I dreamed that as I wandered by the way Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray, Mixed 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 kissed it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets ; Faint oxlips ; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that wets 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 cow-bind and the moonlight-coloured May And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day ; 297 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY And wild roses, and ivy serpentine With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray ; And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. And nearer to the river’s trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked 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 imprisoned children of the Hours Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, I hastened to the spot whence I had come That I might there present it — O ! to Whom? THE WANING MOON And like a dying lady, lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapt 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. 298 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ODE TO THE WEST WIND O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill : Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; Destroyer and Preserver : Hear, oh hear 1 Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s com- motion, Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed. Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, Angels of rain and lightning 1 there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith’s height — The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : 0 hear 1 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Thou who didst waken from his summer- dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, Ail 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 grey with fear And tremble and despoil themselves : O hear 1 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 seemed a vision, ~I would ne’er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 0 ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 1 fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed ! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own 1 The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 300 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce. My spirit 1 be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextiirguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? RARELY, RARELY COMEST THOU Rarely, rarely comest thou. Spirit of Delight ! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night ? Many a weary night and day ’Tis since thou art fled away. How shall ever one like me Win thee back again ? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain. Spirit false ! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; Even the sighs of grief 301 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear. Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure, Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure. Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight 1 The fresh Earth in new leaves drest, And the starry night, Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born. I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost ; I love waves, and winds, and storms — Everything almost Which is Nature’s, and may be Untainted by man’s misery. I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise and good ; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less. I love Love — though he has wings, And like light can flee, 302 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee — Thou art love and life ! O come, Make once more my heart thy home ! THE INVITATION, TO JANE 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 kissed 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 Strewed 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 303 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 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 W’oe W T ith smiles, nor follow where I go ; Long having lived on thy 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 oT the Day, Awake 1 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 sand-hills of the sea ; — 304 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, The 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. THE RECOLLECTION Now the last day of many days All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dead : Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! Up— to thy wonted work l come, trace The epitaph of glory fled, For now the earth has changed its face, A frown is on the hpaven’s brow. We wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean’s foam ; The lightest wind was in its nest. The tempest in its home. The whispering waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of heaven lay ; u 305 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY It seemed as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies Which scattered from above the sun A light of Paradise ! We paused amid the pines that stood The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude As serpents interlaced, — And soothed by every azure breath That under heaven is blown, To harmonies and hues beneath, As tender as its own : ^ow all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea. As still as in the silent deep The ocean-woods may be. How calm it was ! — The silence there By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller with her sound The inviolable quietness ; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seemed, from the remotest seat Of the white mountain waste To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced, — A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life ; To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature’s strife ; — 306 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair form that filled with love The lifeless atmosphere. We paused beside the pools that lie Under the forest bough ; Each seemed as ’twere a little sky Gulfed in a world below ; A firmament of purple light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night And purer than the day — In which the lovely forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring la* n. And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views, which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged in the water’s love Of that fair forest green : And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Like one beloved, the scene had lent To the dark water’s breast Its every leaf and lineament With more than truth exprest ; 307 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Until an envious wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought Which from the mind’s too faithful eye Blots one dear image out. — Though thou art ever fair and kind, The forests ever green, Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind Than calm in waters seen ! ODE TO HEAVEN Chorus of Spirits FIRST SPIRIT Palace roof of cloudless nights ! Paradise of golden lights ! Deep, immeasurable, vast, Which art now and which wert then Of the present and the past, Of the eternal where and when, Presence-chamber, temple, home, Ever canopying dome Of acts and ages yet to come ! Glorious shapes have life in thee, Earth, and all earth’s company ; Living globes which ever throng Thy deep chasms and wildernesses ; And green worlds that glide along ; And swift stars with flashing tresses ; And icy moons most cold and bright, And mighty suns beyond the night, Atoms of intensest light. 308 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Even thy name is as a God, Heaven ! for thou art the abode Of that power which is the glass Wherein man his nature sees. Generations as they pass Worship thee with bended knees. Their unremaining gods and they Like a river roll away : Thou remainest such alway. SECOND SPIRIT Thou art but the mind’s first chamber, Round which its young fancies clamber, Like weak insects in a cave, Lighted up by stalactites ; By the portal of the grave, Where a world of new delights Will make thy best glories seem But a dim and noonday gleam From the shadow of a dream ! THIRD SPIRIT Peace ! the abyss is wreathed with scorn At your presumption, atom-born ! What is heaven, and what are ye Who its brief expanse inherit ? What are suns and spheres which flee With the instinct of that spirit Of which ye are but a part? Drops which Nature’s mighty heart Drives through thinnest veins. Depart 1 309 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY What is heaven? a globe of dew, Filling in the morning new Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken On an unimagined world : Constellated suns unshaken, Orbits measureless are furled In that frail and fading sphere, With ten millions gathered there, To tremble, gleam, and disappear. LIFE OF LIFE Life of Life ! thy .lips enkindle With their love the breath between them , And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire ; then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light ! thy limbs are burning Thro’ the vest which seeks to hide them ; As the radiant lines of morning Thro’ the clouds ere they divide them ; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe’er thou shinest. Fair are others ; none beholds thee, But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendour, And all feel, yet see thee never, As I feel now, lost for ever ! 310 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Lamp of Earth ! where’er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! AUTUMN A Dirge The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array ; Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year ; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling ; Come, months, come away ; Put on white, black, and grey ; Let your light sisters play — Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. 3 11 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon’s transparent might : The breath of the moist earth is light Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight — The winds’, the birds’, the ocean-floods’ — The city’s voice itself is soft like Solitude’s. I see the deep’s untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown : I sit upon the sands alone ; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion — How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crowneJ — Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure ; Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 312 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Yet now despair itself is mild Even as the winds and waters aie ; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, — Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o’er my dying brain its ast monotony. DIRGE FOR THE YEAR Orphan hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep ! Merry hours, smile instead, For the year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping. As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So White Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold year to-day ; Solemn hours ! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud. As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year : — be calm and mild ; Trembling hours, she will arise With new love within her eyes. 3'3 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave ; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave. And April weeps — but O, ye hours, Follow with May’s fairest flowers. A WIDOW BIRD A widow bird sat mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough ; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare. No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel’s sound. THE TWO SPIRITS First Spirit O thou, who plumed with strong desire Wouldst float above the earth, beware 1 A shadow tracks the flight of fire — Night is coming ! Bright are the regions of the air, And among the winds and beams It were delight to wander there — Night is coming ! 3i4 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Second Spirit The deathless stars are bright above ; If I would cross the shade of night, Within my heart is the lamp of love, And that is day ! And the moon will smile with gentle light On my golden plumes where’er they move ; The meteors will linger round my flight, And make night day. First Spirit But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain ; See, the bounds of the air are shaken — Night is coming ! The red swift clouds of the hurricane Yon declining sun have overtaken : The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain — Night is coming ! Second Spirit I see the light, and I hear the sound ; I ’ll sail on the flood of the tempests dark, With the calm within and the light around Which makes night day : And then, when the gloom is deep and stark, Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound ; My moon-like flight thou then may’st mark On high, far away. 3 T 5 JOHN KEATS Some say there is a precipice Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin O’er piles of snow and chasms of ice ’Mid Alpine mountains ; And that the languid storm pursuing That winged shape, for ever flies Round those hoar branches, aye renewing Its aery fountains. Some say, when nights are dry and clear, And the death-dews sleep on the morass, Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller, Which make night day ; And a silver shape, like his early love, doth pass Up-borne by her wild and glittering hair, And when he awakes on the fragrant grass, He finds night day. JOHN KEATS 1795-1821 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI * O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering ? The sedge has withered 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. 316 JOHN KEATS ‘ I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.’ * I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful — a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. * I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. 4 1 set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, 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, 11 1 love thee true.” * She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore : And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. ‘ And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide l The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill’s side. 3i7 JOHN KEATS * I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all : They cried — “ La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall ! ” ‘ I saw theii starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill’s side. ‘ And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.’ ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER Much have I travelled 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-browed 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 Looked on each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 318 JOHN KEATS TO SLEEP O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting with careful fingers and benign Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine ; O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, close, In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities ; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes ; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul. THE GENTLE SOUTH After dark vapours have oppressed our plains For a long dreary season, comes a day Born of the gentle South, and clears away From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. The anxious month, relieved from its pains, Takes as a long-lost sight the feel of May, The eyelids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. The calmest thoughts come round us — as of leaves Budding ; fruit ripening in stillness ; autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves ; Sweet Sappho’s cheek ; a sleeping infant’s breath ; The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs ; A woodland rivulet ; a poet’s death. 3i9 JOHN KEATS 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, Pillowed 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. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 320 JOHN KEATS O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provengal song, and sunburnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South, F ull of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple- stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade 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 I 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, Clustered 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 321 JOHN KEATS I cannot tell what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast-fading violets covered 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, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not bom for death, immortal Bird 1 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 com ; The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 322 JOHN KEATS Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self I 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? ODE ON A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flower}* 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 endeared, 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 ! 323 JOHN KEATS Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; And happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new ; More happy love 1 more happy, happy love ! For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting, and for ever young ; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, 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 1 Fair attitude 1 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 sayest, ‘ Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 324 JOHN KEATS ODE 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 mossed 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’erbrimmed 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-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble- plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn x 2 325 JOHN KEATS Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 1 ledge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft ; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. ODE TO PSYCHE 0 Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that my secrets should be sung Even into thine own soft-conched ear : Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see The winged Psyche with awakened eyes ? 1 wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, And on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures couched side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet scarce espied : 'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass, Their arms embraced, and their pinions too ; Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : The winged boy I knew ; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? His Psyche true ! 326 JOHN KEATS O latest-born and loveliest vision far Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy ! Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-regioned star, Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky : Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, Nor altar heaped 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-mouthed prophet dreaming. 0 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, 1 see and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours ! Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming ; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane In some untrodden region of my mind, Where branched thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind ; Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; 327 JOHN KEATS And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep ; And in the midst of this wide quietness A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds, and shells, 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 1 ODE TO MELANCHOLY No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed 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 a salt sand-wave ; 328 HARTLEY COLERIDGE Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips. Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grapes against his palate fine ; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung. HARTLEY COLERIDGE 1796-1849 SHE IS NOT FAIR 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. 3 2 9 Edinburgh : T. and A. CONSTABLE Printers to His Majesty UNIFORM WITH THE PRESENT VOLUME. In i6mo., cloth, gilt top, 2s. net each ; leather, gilt top, 3s. net each. THE POCKET R. L. S. : Being Favourite Passages from the Works of ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. THE POCKET RICHARD JEFFERIES: Being Passages chosen from the Nature Writings of JEFFERIES by Alfred H. Hyatt. THE POCKET GEORGE MACDONALD: Being a Choice cf Passages from the Various Works of GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D., made by Alfred H. Hyatt. 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