BRITISH POEMS llOM "CANTERBURY TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL" Book__ Goipght)^". COFVRICHT DEPOSm BRITISH POEMS FROM "canterbury TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL" BRITISH POEMS ROM ''CANTERBURY TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL' EDITED BY PERCY ADAMS HUTCHISON, Ph.D. FORMERLY INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1912 S-* -&\^ Copyright, 1912, by CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS gCl.A319427 TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER PREFACE It has been my endeavor in preparing this anthology to pre- sent, as adequatel}' as might be possible within the limits of a handy volume, the best in Great Britain's non-dramatic poetry from Chaucer to Kipling, and this without exaggerating or min- imizing the importance of any poet or period. The unusual resources of the Harvard library, in point of first editions, reprints, and definitive editings, have made it possible for me to obtain always an authoritative text, and in not a few instances to correct errors. As I have chosen to keep the pages free from foot-notes (except for glosses on words not found in modern English dictionaries) I have not, as a rule, indicated the source of a text. The too common practice of printing isolated stanzas as if they were complete poems is one from which I have refrained. Nor have I sought to improve a poet's work by excising weak lines or stanzas. If a poem is not printed in its entirety, the fact is noted. The only poem from which any integral part has been omitted without apprising the reader of the fact is The Prio- resses Tale of Chaucer, which has been shorn of a final stanza expressive of a race-hatred fortunately now abated and better forgotten. For excerpts, a title descriptive of the subject-matter of the extract has been provided, and at the close is given the title of the poem from which the extract is drawn, and also the location of the part within the whole. In a few cases only, when a poem would require more space than could be afforded it, I have allowed myself to make an abridgment. To distinguish abridgments from excerpts, I have preserved to them the title of the original, and printed at the end, "From the poem of the same title." An exception is the excerpt-abridgment from A Mirror FOR Magistrates. It has made for uniformity' to designate sonnets from se- quences by the word "Sonnets" merely, and when the sequence vii viii PREFACE possessed a title to indicate it after the last sonnet. Unless for adequate cause, modern spellings have been adopted; and, ex- cept for reasons that will be obvious, poets follow chronological order of birth rather than of production. The selections under each poet have been arranged chronologically with occasional exceptions (when such exceptions would not be of moment) if a slight change of sequence would produce a more pleasing arrangement of the pages. I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to Professors George Lyman Kittredge, William Allan Neilson, and Barrett Wendell, of Harvard University, for the interest they have taken in the book, and for valuable suggestions: To Professor George Herbert Palmer, also of Harvard, not only for the interest he has shown, but also for the generous way in which at all times he has given me access to his wide collection of rare editions: To Professor Henry MacCracken, of Yale University, for the text of a recently discovered poem by John Lydgate: To Miss Lydia Adams Richardson, of the Rock Ridge School, for assistance in preparing the manuscript for the press: To Mr. Rudyard Kipling and to Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company for permission to reprint The Last Chantey: And to Mr. Rudyard Kipling for permission to reprint Re- cessional. P. A. Hutchison. Cambridge, Mass., June, 1912. CONTENTS FAGB Geoffrey Chaucer (1340P-1400) From the Canterbury Tales: The Pilgrims 1 The Prioresses Tale 7 Balade De Bon Conseyl ......... c 13 John Lydgate (1370P-1451?) The Child Jesus to Mary the Rose 14 Robert Henryson (1425?-?) TheBludySerk 15 William Dunbar (1460.^-1520?) To a Ladye 19 John Skelton (1460?-1529) To Mistress Margaret Hussey 20 English and Scottish Popul.\r Ball.\ds Sir Patrick Spens 21 The Douglas Tragedy » 22 The Death and Burial of Robin Hood 25 The Hunting of the Cheviot 27 The Daemon Lover 36 Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) The Lover to His Mistress 39 To His Unkind Mistress 39 The Lover Complaineth 40 The Lover Like to a Ship Tossed on the Sea .... 42 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517?-1547) Spring 42 The Means to Attain Happy Life . . . . . . . 43 George Gascoigne (1525?-1577) The Arraignment of a Lover 43 ix X CONTENTS PAGE Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst (1536-1608) From the Induction to a Mirror for Magistrates: The Goddess of Sorrow Showeth the Poet Hell . 45 Nicholas Breton (1545P-1626?) PhyUida and Corydon 48 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552P-1618) His Pilgrimage 49 Verses ^1 Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586) Sonnets from Astrophel and Stella : With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! 51 Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 51 Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, . . 52 No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; 52 Philomela 53 Dorus to Pamela 54 Sonnet : Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; . 54 Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) Prothalamion 55 Sonnets from Amoretti: More than most faire, full of the living fire . . 60 Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde, . 60 Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it, ... 60 From the Faerie Queene: Lucifera Rideth forth from the House of Pride . 61 The Pageant of Mutabilitie who Maintaineth she Ruleth all Things ". 70 Mutability Subject to Eternity 75 John Lyly (1554 ?-1 606) Apelles' Song 76 Thomas Lodge (1558?-1625) Rosalynd's Madrigal 76 CONTENTS xi PAGE George Peele (1558P-1597?) Duet 77 George Chapman (1o59?-1634) Of Man , 78 Robert Greene (1560P-1592) Sephestia's Song 78 Robert Southwell (1561?-159o) The Burning Babe 79 Samuel Daniel (1562-1619) From Sonnets to Delia: Sleep o . . 80 Michael Drayton (1563-1631) From the sonnet-sequence Idea: Love's Farewell 81 Ballad of Agincourt o 81 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593) The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 85 From Hero and Leander: Description of Hero 86 Richard Barnfield (1574-1627) An Ode 87 William Shakspere [1564-1616) From Venus and Adonis: Venus Bewaileth the Death of Adonis . . . , 89 Lyrics from the Plays: Silvia 93 Under the Greenwood Tree 93 Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind 94 O Mistress Mine 95 Lament 95 Take, O, Take Those Lips Away 96 Hark! Hark! the Lark! 96 Dirge 96 CONTENTS Where the Bee Sucks ...» o ... . A Sea Dirge » Sonnets : Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? . . When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes When to the sessions of sweet silent thought . When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless That time of year thou mayst in me behold How like a winter hath my absence been . Let me not to the marriage of true minds . Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Thomas Nashe (15C7-1601) Spring Thomas Campion (1o67?-1619) Cherry-Ripe When to Her Lute Corinna Sings A Renunciation The Man of Life Upright . . . Sic Transit Gloria Mundi . . . PAGE 97 98 98 98 99 99 100 100 100 101 101 102 102 103 103 104 105 105 106 Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639) The Character of a Happy Life Sir John Davies (1569-1626) From Nosce Teipsum: True Knowledge of the Soul ...... Thomas Dekker (1570?-1641) Song 107 Rustic Song 107 Ben Jonson (1573P-1637) Song to Celia 109 Hymn to Diana 109 The Triumph of Charis 110 Echo's Lament of Narcissus Ill Song Ill An Hvmn to God the Father 112 CONTENTS xiii PAGE John Donne (1573-1631) Song 113 The Dream 114 Love's Deity . 115 The Funeral 116 The Will 116 A Hymn to God the Father 118 Forget 119 Death 119 John Fletcher (1579-16^25) Song to Bacchus 120 Weep No More 120 Aspatia's Song 121 Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) Lines on the Tombs in Westminster 121 Giles Fletcher (1585?-1623) From Christ's Triumph After Death: Nature Awaiteth the Triumph of Christ . . . 122 John Webster (1580P-1625?) Dirge 124 Three Anonymous Lyrics I. O waly, waly up the bank, 124 11. My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, . 125 HI. Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting . . 126 William Drummond (1585-1649) Summons to Love 126 Human Folly 127 Saint John Baptist 128 George Wither (1588-1667) The Lover's Resolution 128 William Browne (1591-1643) Man 129 On a Rope-Maker Hanged .130 On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke 130 xiv CONTENTS PAGE Robert Herrick (1591-1674) Cherry-Ripe 131 How Roses Came Red 131 Sweet Disorder 131 Upon Julia's Clothes 132 To the Virgins to Make Much of Time 132 To Daffodils 133 A Night Piece , . 133 A Thanksgiving to God for His House 134 Corinna's Going A-Majang 136 Upon Prew His Maid 138 Francis Quarles (1592-1644) An Ecstasy 138 George Herbert (1593-1633) Virtue 139 The Collar 139 The Quip 140 The Pulley 141 Divine Love 142 Love's Answer 143 James Shirley (1596-1666) The Glories of Our Blood and State , 143 Thomas Carew (1598P-1639?) Song 144 Ingrateful Beauty Threatened 145 An Epitaph 146 William Habington (1605-1654) To Roses in the Bosom of Castara 146 Sir William Davenant (1606-1668) Song 147 Abraham Cowley (1618-1667) Drinking 147 The Wish 148 On the Death of Mr. William Hervey 149 CONTENTS XV PAGE Sir John Denham (1615-1669) From Cooper's Hill: The River Thames . 151 Edmund Waller (1606-1687) To Phyllis 152 On a Girdle 153 Go, Lovely Rose 153 Sir John Suckling (1609-1642) A Refusal of Martyrdom 154 The Constant Lover 155 Why So Pale and Wan 156 William Cartwright (1611-1643) On a Virtuous Young Gentlewoman that Died Sud- denly 156 Richard Crashaw (1613?-1649) The Flaming Heart upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa 157 Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) To Lucasta on Going to the Wars 158 To Lucasta on Going Beyond Seas 158 To Althea from Prison 159 Henry Vaughan (1622-1695) The Retreat 160 Departed Friends 161 The World 163 John Milton (1608-1674) L'Allegro 165 II Penseroso 169 Lycidas 173 On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 179 On His Blindness 179 On His Deceased Wife 180 From Paradise Lost: The Fallen Hosts in Hell 180 xvi CONTENTS PAGE Andrew Marvell (1621-1G78) Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda 186 The Garden 187 Sir Charles Sedley (lf)39?-1701) ToCelia 189 John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (16-17-1680) Constancy 190 On Charles II 190 John Dryden (1631-1700) A Song for St. Cecilia's Day 191 Alexander's Feast; or, the Power of Music .... 193 Milton 198 William Congreve (1670-1729) Amoret 198 Lady AVinchilsea (1661-1720) To the Nightingale 199 Matthew Prior (1664-1721) To a Child of Quality Five Years Old 200 Cupid Mistaken 201 The Dying Adrian to His Soul 201 Epigrams : I. I Sent for RatcliflFe 202 II. For His Own Tomb-stone 202 Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) The Beasts' Confession 202 Ambrose Philips (167o?-1749) To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in Her Mother's Arms . 208 Alexander Pope (1688-1744) Solitude 209 From an Essay on Criticism: True Wit 210 From an Essay on Man: Epistle I 213 CONTENTS xvii PAGE John Gay (1685-1732) The Hare With Many Friends 221 James Thomson (1700-1748) From the Castle of Indolence: The Castle of Indolence 223 From the Seasons: Hymn 225 John Dyer (1700-1758) GrongarHill 228 Edward Young (1681-17G5) From Night Thoughts : Man 232 William Shenstone (171l!-1763) The Dying Kid 235 From the Schoolmistress: The Schoolmistress 236 William Collins (1721-1759) Ode Written in 1746 238 Dirge 238 Ode to Evening 239 Ode to Liberty 241 Thomas Gray (1716-1771) On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes 245 Ode on the Spring 246 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard .... 248 The Bard \ ..252 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) Song 256 The Deserted Village 257 Jane Elliot (1727-1805) The Flowers of the Forest 268 Thomas Warton (1728-1790) From the Grave of King Arthur: Death of King Arthur 269 xviii CONTENTS I PAGE William Cowper (1731-1800) Epitaph on a Hare 270 From the Task: Evening in Winter 272 ; To Mary 274 On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture .... 275 Loss of the Royal George 278 Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770) Mynstrelles Songe 280 J George Crabbe (1754-1832) ! From the Village: . Village Life 281 ; Robert Burns (1759-1796) Bonie Lesley 285 | Ae Fond Kiss 286 j My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose 287 j The Banks o' Doon ' 287 j Scots, Wha Hae 288 ! TamGlen 289 : Auld Lang Syne ..290 \ Highland Mary 291 < To a Mouse 292 \ John Anderson, My Jo 294 i O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 294 j Is There for Honest Poverty 295 j William Blake (1757-1827) ' To the Muses 296 ] Love's Secret 297 Ah, Sunflower 297 Auguries of Innocence 297 The Lamb 298 | The Tiger 298 ; William Wordsworth (1770-1850) , Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey . 299 ! She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways 303 i A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 304 ! CONTENTS xix PAGE To the Cuckoo 304 The SoHtary Reaper 305 I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud 306 She Was a Phantom of DcH-ht 307 Elegiac Stanzas 308 The World Is Too Much With Us 310 Composed Upon Westminster Bridge 311 It Is a Beauteous Evening 311 London 1802 312 Ode to Duty 312 Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood . . . / 314 Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) Kubla Khan 320 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 321 The Knight's Tomb 342 Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832) Bonny Dundee 342 From Marmion: The Fight on Flodden Field 344 Robert Southey (1774-1843) The Battle of Blenheim 346 Charles Lamb (1775-1834) The Old Familiar Faces 348 Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864) Rose Aylmer 349 Dirce 349 The Death of Artemidora 350 Tolanthe 350 On Lucretia Borgia's Hair .351 Iphigeneia and Agamemnon 351 On His Seventy-fifth Birthday 352 Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) Ye Mariners of England 353 XX CONTENTS PAGE Thomas Moore (1779-1852) Pro Patria Mori 354 George Noel Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) Maid of Athens, Ere We Part 355 When We Two Parted 356 She Walks in Beauty 357 Sonnet on Chillon 357 Stanzas for Music 358 From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: On the Field of Waterloo 358 From Don Juan : The Isles of Greece 361 Don Juan Soliloquizes 364 Charles Wolfe (1791-1823) The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna .... 367 John Keats (1795-1821) On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer .... 368 Ode 368 When I Have Fears 369 The Eve of Saint Agnes 370 Ode on a Grecian Urn 380 Ode to a Nightingale 382 La Belle Dame Sans Merci 384 Bright Star 386 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) Music, When Soft Voices Die 386 Ozymandias 387 To a Skylark 387 The Cloud .390 Ode to the West Wind 393 To Night 395 Lines to an Indian Air 396 Adonais 397 Dirge ...» 411 Thomas Hood (1798-1815) Fair Ines 412 CONTENTS xxi PAGE Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) The Lady of Shalott 413 The Lotos-Eaters 418 Ulysses 423 Tears, Idle Tears 425 Break, Break, Break 426 Morte D'Arthur 426 From In Memoriam A. H. H.: Strong Son of God, immortal Love 433 Calm is the morn without a sound 435 O, yet we trust that somehow good 435 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire 437 Thy voice is on the rolling air 438 O living will that shall endure 438 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington . . . 439 Flower in the Crannied Wall 446 Crossing the Bar 447 Edward Fitzgerald (1809-1883) From the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam: The Loquacious Vessels 447 Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861) Sonnets from the Portuguese: Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand . . 449 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange . . . 449 How do I love thee.^ Let me count the ways . 449 Robert Browning (1812-1889) Two Songs: I. Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes . . . 450 11. The year's at the spring 451 Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 451 My Last Duchess 452 Meeting at Night .453 The Last Ride Together 454 A Toccata of Galuppi's 457 Abt Vogler 459 Rabbi Ben Ezra 463 xxii CONTENTS PAGE Prospice 469 Epilogue 470 Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861) Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth 471 Qui Laborat, Orat 471 Where Lies the Land? 472 Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) The Sands of Dee 473 Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) Requiescat 474 The Future 474 The Forsaken Merman 477 Dover Beach 481 . Thyrsis 482 Worldly Place 489 Sidney Dobell (1824-1874) England to America 489 Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) The Blessed Damozel 490 Sonnets from the House of Life: Lovesight 494 Inclusiveness 494 True Woman 495 Known in Vain 495 Body's Beauty 496 Retro Me Sathana 496 A Superscription 497 Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909) Shakspere 497 When the Hounds of Spring 498 A Forsaken Garden 499 Love at Sea 502 Hymn to Proserpine 503 CONTENTS xxiii PAGE Coventry Patmore (1825-1896) The Revelation 508 The Spirit's Epochs 508 George Meredith (1828-1909) Lucifer in Starlight 509 Love's Death 509 Love in the Valley 510 Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) Song 516 Up-hill . 516 William Morris (1834-1896) The Gilliflower of Gold 517 The Haystack in the Floods 519 Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) The Land of Counterpane 524 My Wife 524 Requiem 525 RuDYARD Kipling (1865-) The Last Chantey 525 Recessional 528 Index of Authors 529 Index of First Lines 531 BRITISH POEMS FROM "CANTERBURY TALES" TO "RECESSIONAL" GEOFFREY CHAUCER [1340P-1400] THE PILGRIMS Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote^ The droghte of Marche hath perced" to the roote. And bathed every veyne in swich^ lieour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth Inspired hath in every holt^ and heeth The tendre croppes,'' and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, And smale fowles maken melodye, That slepen al the night with open ye, (So priketh hem nature in hir corages ) : Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, (And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,) To feme halwes, couthe' in sondry londes; And specially, from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende. The holy blisful martir for to seke. That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. Bifel that, in that sesoun on a day. In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage. At night was come in-to that hostelrye Wel^ nyne and twenty in a compaignye, Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, - pierced. ^ such. ^ wood. ^ young shoots. ^ hearts. '' known. * full. BRITISH POEMS That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde; The chambres and the stables weren wyde. And wel we weren esed atte beste. And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, So hadde I spoken with hem everichon, That I was of hir felawshipe anon, And made forward erly for to ryse, To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse. But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space, Er that I ferther in this tale pace, Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, ' To telle yow al the condicioun ' Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, ; And whiche they weren, and of what degree; ! And eek in what array that they were inne: : And at a knight than wol I first biginne. A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man. That fro the tyme that he first bigan I To ryden out, he loved chivalrye, ' Trouthe and honour, fredom^ and curteisye. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,^^ 1 And thereto^ ^ hadde he riden (no man ferre^^) | As wel in Cristendom as hethenesse, And evere honoured for his worthinesse. i At Alisaundre he was, whan it was wonne; j Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne^^ Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce, No Cristen man so ofte of his degree. In Gernade at the sege eek hadde he be Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, Whan they were wonne; and in the Crete See At many a noble aryve hadde he be. At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, And foughten for our feith at Tramissene liberality. '"war. "besides. '^farther. '* sat at the head of the table. GEOFFREY CHAUCER In llstes thryes, and ay slayn his foo. This ilke worthy knight hadde been also Somtyme with the lord of Palatye, Ageyn another hethen in Turkye: And everemore he hadde a sovereyn prys. And though that he were worthy, he was wys. And of his port as meek as is a mayde. He nevere yet no vileinye^^ ne sayde In al his lyf, un-to no maner wight. He was a verray parfit gentil knight. But for to tellen yow of his array, His hors were gode, but he was nat gay; Of fustian he wered a gipoun Al bismotered with his habergeoun, For he was late y-come from his viage And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hir smyling was ful simple and coy; Hir gretteste ooth was but by seynt Loy; And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel she song the service divyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly. After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe. That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. In curteisye was set ful moche hir lest. Hir over lippe wyped she so clene. That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, " reputation. '^ discvourtesy. '^ i- e., she did not swear at all. 17 delight. 1* particle. ^^ reached. fe BRITISH POEMS And sikerly^^ she was of greet disport,^* And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port. And peyned hir to countrefete chere^^ Of court, and been estatlich of manere. And to ben holden digne^^ of reverence. But, for to speken of hir conscience, She was so charitable and so pitous. She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel breed. But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed. Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hir wimpel pinched^^ was; Hir nose tretys;^'* hir eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed. It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene;"'' And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene. On which ther was first write a crowned A, And after. Amor vincit omnia. A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also. That un-to logik hadde longe y-go.^' As lene was his hors as is a rake. And he was nat right fat, I undertake; But loked holwe, and there-to soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy;^^ For he had geten him yet no benefyce, Ne was so worldly' for to have offyce. For him was levere have at his beddes heed Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed 2° certainly. 21 jjjgtj spirits, 22 jqqI^ pains to imitate courtly manaera. " worthy. 24 plaited kerchief. 25 ^gH formed. ^ a string of beads every eleventh one of which was green. ^ devoted himself. 28 short coat. GEOFFREY CHAUCER Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Then robes riche, or fithele,"^ or gay sautrye,^^ But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his frendes hente. On bookes and on lerninge he it spente, And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him where-with to scoleye. Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede. And that was seyd in forme and reverence. And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Sowninge in^^ moral vertu was his speche; And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. A good Wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, But she was som-del deef , and that was scathe. Of cloth-making she hadde swiche an haunt,^^ She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. In al the parisshe wyf ne was ther noon That to the off ring bifore hir sholde goon; And if ther dide, certeyn, so wrooth was she. That she was out of alle charitee. Hir coverchiefs ful fyne were of ground ;^^ I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound That on a Sonday were upon hir heed. Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, Ful streite y-tej^d, and shoos ful moiste and newe. Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe. She was a worthy womman al hir Ij've, Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde fyve, AVithouten other compaignye in youthe; But thereof nedeth nat to speke as nouthe.^* And thryes hadde she been at Jerusalem; She hadde passed many a straunge streem; At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, In Galice at seint lame, and at Coloigne. 29 fiddle. 30 psaltery. ^i tending to. ^' ski 22 texture. ^4 at present. BRITISH POEMS She coude muchc of wandring by the weye. Gat-tothed^^ was she, soothly for to seye. Up-on an amblere csily she sat, Y-wimpled wel, and on hir heed an hat As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, And on hir feet a paire of spores sharpe. In felaweschip wel coude she laughe and carpe.^^ Of remedies of love she knew per-chaunce, For she coude of that art the olde daunce.^^ A good man was ther of religioun, And was a povre Persoun^^ of a toun ; But riche he was of holy thoght and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversitee ful pacient; And swich he was y-preved ofte sythes.^® Ful looth were him to cursen^" for his tythes. But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, Un-to his povre parisshens aboute Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. He coude in litel thing han sufEsaunce. Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder. But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder. In siknes nor in meschief to visj^te The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte,^ Up-on his feet, and in his hand a staf. This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf. That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte; Out of the gospel he tho^^ wordes caughte; And this figure he added eek ther-to. That if gold ruste, what shal yren do? For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste. 'gap-toothed. ^^ talked. ^Hhe whole game. ^8 parson. ^^ often proved. " excommunicate. ^^ great and small. ■*' those. *^ ignorant. GEOFFREY CHAUCER And shame it is, if a preest take keep,^^ A [dirty] shepherde and a clene sheep. Wei oghte a preest ensample for to yive, By his clennesse, how that his sheep shold live. He sette nat his benefice to hyre, And leet his sheep encombred in the myre. And ran to London, un-to seynt Poules, To seken him a chaunterie for soules, Or with a bretherhed to been withholde; But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde, So that the wolf ne made it nat miscarie; He was a shepherde and no mercenarie. And though he holy were, and vertuous, He was to sinful man nat despitous/^ Ne of his speche daungerous^^ ne digne,^' But in teching discreet and benigne. To drawen folk to heven by fairnesse By good ensample, this was his bisynesse: But it were any persone obstinat. What so he were, of heigh or lowe estat. Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nones. A bettre preest, I trowe that nowher non is. He wayted after no pompe and reverence, Ne maked him a spyced** conscience. But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taughte, but first he folwed it him-selve. [From The Pbologde to the Cantebbuby Tales.] THE PRIORESSES TALE Ther was in Asie, in a gret citee, Amonges Cristen folk a lewerye, Sustened by a lord of that contree. For foule usure, and lucre of vilanye. Hateful to Crist, and to his compagnye: And thurgh the strete men mighten ride or wende For it was free, and open at eyther ende. ** heed ^* contemptuous. ?^ overbearing. ^^ haughty. ^* over fine. BRITISH POEMS , A litel scole of Cristen folk ther stood ; Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were \ Children an heep, y-comen of Cristen blood, | That lerned in that scole yeer by 3'ere, ' Swiche manere doctrine as men used there: j This is to seyn, to singen and to rede, As smale children doon in hir childhede. i Among thise children was a widwes sone, A litel clergeon, seven yeer of age, That day by day to scole was his wone, I And eek also, wheras he saugh th'image i Of Cristes moder, had he in usage. As him was taught, to knele adoun, and seye, His Ave Marie, as he goth by the weye. > Thus hath this widwe hir litel sone y-taught ' Our blisful Lady, Cristes moder dere, I To worship ay, and he forgat it naught: { For sely childe wol alday sone lere. i But ay, whan I remembre on this matere, Seint Nicholas stant ever in my presence, • For he so yong to Crist did reverence. This litel child his litel book lerninge, j As he sate in the scole at his primer, ; He ''Alma redemptoris " herde singe, ' As children lerned hir antiphoner: And, as he dorste, he drough him ner and ner, And herkned ay the wordes and the note, j Til he the firste vers coude al by rote. | I Noght wiste he what this latin was to saye, j For he so yong and tendre was of age; | But on a day his felaw gan he preye { Texpounden him this song in his langage, i Or telle him why this song was in usage: ' This preyde he him to construe and declare, i Ful ofte tyme upon his knees bare. GEOFFREY CHAUCER His felaw, which that elder was than he, Aiiswerde him thus: "This song, I have herd seye, Was maked of our blisful Lady fre, Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye To ben our help, and socour whan we deye. I can no more expound in this matere: I lerne song, I can but smal grammere." "And is this song maked in reverence Of Cristes moder? " said this Innocent. "Now certes I wol do my diligence To conne it all or Cristemasse be went, Though that I for my primer shal be shent,^ And shall be beten thryes in an houre, I wol it conne, our Ladie for to honoure." His felaw taughte him homward prively Fro day to day, til he coude it by rote. And than he song it wel and boldely Fro word to word according with the note: Twyes a day it passed thurgh his throte. To scoleward and homeward whan he wente On Cristes moder set was his entente. As I have seyd, thurghout the lewerye This litel child, as he cam to and fro, Ful merily than wold he singe, and crye "0 Alma redemptoris" ever-mo: The swetnes hath his herte perced so Of Cristes moder, that to hire to preye He cannot stint of singing by the weye. Our firste foo, the serpent Sathanas, That hath in lewes herte his waspes nest. Up swal and seid, "O Ebraik peple, alas! Is this to yow a thing that is honest. That swich a boy shal walken as him lest In your despyt, and singe of swich sentence. Which is agayn your lawes reverence.^ " • scolded. 10 BRITISH POEMS Fro thennes forth the lewes han conspyred This Innocent out of this world to chace: An homicyde there-to han they hyred, That in an aley had a privee place, And as the child gan forthby for to pace, This cursed lew him hent,^ and heeld him faste And kitte his throte, and in a pit him caste. I say that in a wardrobe they him threwe, Wher as thise lewes purgen hir entraille. O cursed folk, of Herodes alle newe, What may your yvil entente j^ou availle? Mordre wol out, certein it wol not faille. And namely ther th' honour of God shal sprede: The blood out cryeth on your cursed dede. "O martyr, souded in virginitec! Now mayst thou singen, and folwen ever in on The White Lamb celestial," quod she, *' Of which the gret Evangelist, Seint John In Pathmos wrote, which sayth that they that goon Beforn this Lamb, and singe a song al newe, That never fleshly woman they ne knewe." This poure widwe awaiteth al that night After hir litel childe, and he cam noght: For which, as sone as it was dayes light. With face pale of drede and bisy thoght. She hath at scole and elleswher him soght. Til finally she gan so fer espye That he last seyn was in the lewerye. With modres pitee in hir brest enclosed She gooth, as she were half out of hir mynde. To every place wher she hath supposed By lyklihede hir litel child to fynde: And ever on Cristes moder meke and kynde She crj^de, and at the laste thus she wroughte. Among the cursed lewes she him soughte. 2 seized. GEOFFREY CHAUCER 11 She freyneth and she prej^eth pitously To every lew that dwelte in thilke place, To telle hir, if hir child wente ought for-by. They seyde, "Nay"; but lesu, of his grace, Yaf in hir thought, inwith a litel space, That in that place after hir sone she cryde, Wher he was casten in a pit besyde. O grete God, that parformest thy laude By mouth of Innocentz, lo heer thy myght! This gemme of chastitee, this Emeraude, And eek of martirdom the Rubie bright, Ther he with throte y-korven lay upryght. He "Alma redemptoris " gan to singe So loude, that all the place gan to ringe. The Cristen folk that thurgh the strete wente, In coomen, for to wondre upon this thing: And hastily they for the Provost sente. He cam anon withouten tarying. And herieth^ Crist, that is of heven king. And eek his moder, honour of mankynd. And after that the lewes let he bynde. This child with pitous lamentacioun Up-taken was, singing his song alway: And with honour and gret processioun. They carien him unto the next abbay. His moder swowning by the bere lay; Unnethe might the peple that was there This newe Rachel bringe fro his bere. With torment and with shamful deth eche on This Provost doth thise lewes for to sterve. That of this morder wiste, and that anon; He nolde no swiche cursednesse observe: Yvil shal he have, that yvil wol deserve. Therfor with wilde hors he dide hem drawe. And after that he heng hem by the lawe. 2 praise. 12 BRITISH POEMS Upon his here ay lyth this Innocent Biforn the chief auter whyl masse laste. And after that, the abbot with his covent Han sped hem for to burien him ful faste; And whan they holy water on him caste, Yet spak this child, whan spreynd was holy water^ And sang — "0 Alma redeinptoris mater!'' This abbot, which that was an holy man. As monkes been, or elles oughten to be, This yonge child to conjure he bigan. And seyd; "O dere child, I halse thee In vertue of the holy Trinitee, Tel me what is thy cause for to singe, Sith that thy throte is cut, to my seminge? " " My throte is cut unto my nekke-boon," Seyd this child, "and, as by wey of kynde, I sholde have deyed, ye, longe tyme agoon: But lesu Crist, as ye in bookes fynde, Wil that his glorie laste, and be in mynde, And, for the worship of his moder dere, Yet may I singe '0 Alma ' loude and clere. "This welle of mercy, Cristes moder swete, I loved alwey, as after my conninge; And whan that I my lyf sholde forlete. To me she cam, and bad me for to singe This antem veraily in my deyinge, As ye han herd, and, whan that I had songe. Me thoughte she leyde a grain upon my tonge. " Wherfor I singe, and singe I mote certeyn In honour of that blisful mayden free, Til fro my tonge of- taken is the greyn; And after that thus seyde she to me, * My litel child, than wol I fetchen thee Whan that the greyn is fro thy tonge y-take: \ Be nat agaste, I wol thee nat forsake.' " GEOFFREY CHAUCER 13 This holy monk, this abbot, him mene I, His tonge out-caughte, and toke away the greyn, And he yaf up the gost ful softely. And whan this abbot had this wonder seyn, His salte teres trikled doun as reyn. And gruf he fell al plat upon the grounde. And stille he lay, as he had ben y-bounde. The covent eek lay on the pavement Weping, and herying Cristes moder dere. And after that they rise, and forth ben went. And toke awey this martir fro his bere. And in a tombe of marble-stones clere Enclosen they his litel body swete; Ther he is now, God leve us for to mete. BALADE DE BON CONSEYL Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse, Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal; For hord hath hate, and clymbing tikelnesse,^ Prees^ hath envye, and wele blent overal; Savour no more than thee bihove shal; Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;* And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede."* Tempest^ thee noght al croked to redresse, In trust of hir that turneth as a bal;^ Gret reste stant'^ in litel besinesse. And eek be war^ to sporne^^ ageyn an al; Strive noght, as doth the crokke^^ with the wal. Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede; And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. ' insecurity. ' the crowd. ^ prosperity blinds everywhere, * advise. ^ doubt. ^ disturb. " i. e., fortune. ^ stands, resides. ^ cautious. '° kick. 11 awl. i^ crock, earthen pot. U BRITISH POEMS That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse/^ The wrastHiig for this worlde axeth a fal. Her iiis noii horn, her nis but wildernesse : Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stall Know thy contree; lok up, thank God of al; Hold the hye-wey, and lat thy gost^^ thee lede! And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. ENVOY Therfore, thou vache,^'' leve thyn old wrecchednesse; Unto the worlde leve^*^ now to be thral; Crye Him mercy that of His hy goodnesse Made thee of noght, and in especial Draw unto Him, and p^'ay in general For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede; And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede. Explicit Le hon counseill de G. Chaucer JOHN LYDGATE [1370P-1-151?] THE CHILD JESUS TO MARY THE ROSE My Fader above, beholdyng thy mekenesse. As dewe on rosis doth his bawme sprede, Sendith his Gost, most soverayne of clennesse. Into thy breste, A! Rose of Wommanhede! Whan I for man was borne in my manhede — For which, with rosis of hevenly influence I me rejoyse to pley in thy presence. Benygne Moder, who first dide inclose The blessed budde that sprang out of Jesse, Thow of Juda the verray perfit Rose, Chose of my Fader for thyn humylite Without fadyng, most clennest to bere me — For w^hich with roses of chast innocence I me rejoyse to pley in thy presence. 13 willing obedience. ^* spirit. ^^ cow. '® ROBERT HENRYSON O Moder! Moder! of mercy most habounde, Fayrest moder that ever was alyve, Though I for man have many a bloody wounde, Among theym alle there be rosis fyve, Agayne whos mercy fiendis may nat stryve; — Mankynde to save, best rosis of defence, Whan they me pray for helpe in thy presence. ROBERT HEXRYSOX [1425?—?] THE BLUDY SERK This hindir yeir I hard be tald, Thair was a worthy King; Dukis, Erhs, and Barronis bald. He had at his bidding. The Lord was anceane, and aid. And sexty yeiris cowth ring; He had a Dochter, fair to fald/ A lusty lady ying." Off all fairheid scho^ bur^ the flour; And eik hir faderis air;^ OflF lusty laitis,*' and he^ honour; Meik, bot and^ debonair. Scho wynnit^ in a bigly bour. On fold wes non so fair; Princis luvit hir par amour. In cuntreis our all quhair. Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King A fowll Gyane^^ of ane; Stollin he hes the Lady ying, Away with hir is gane; 1 "to fald ": on earth. 2 young. ^ she. * bore. ^hdr. 6 " lusty laitis": pleasant demeanour. ' high. * " bot and": but also. yet. ^ dwelt. 1" I. e., everywhere. " giant. 16 BRITISH POEMS And kest hir in his dungering, Quhair licht scho micht se nane: Hungir and cauld, and grit thristing, Scho fand in to hir waine. " He wes the laithliest on to luk That on the grund mycht gang: His naiUs wes lyk ane helhs cruk, Thairwith fyve quarteris lang. Thair wes nane that he our-tuk, In rycht or yit in wrang, Bot all in schondir^^ he thame schuke; The Gyane wes so Strang. He held the Lady day and nycht. Within his deip dungeoun; He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht For gold nor yit ransoun, Bot gife^^ the King mycht get a Knycht, To fecht with his persoun. To fecht with him, bot day and nycht, Quhill ane were dungin doun. The King gart seik baith fer and neir, Beth be se and land, Off ony Knycht gife he micht heir, Wald fecht with that Gyand. A worthy Prince, that had no peir, Hes tane the deid on hand, For the luve of the Lady cleir; And held full trew cunnand.^^ That Prince come prowdly to the toun, Of that Gyane to heir; And fawcht with him, his awin persoun, And tuke him presoneir; Indwelling. i^ gyujep i^ " Bot gif e ": unless. ^^ covenant. ROBERT HENRYSON 17 And kest him in his awin dungeoun, Allane withouttin feir, With hungir, cauld, and confusioun, As full Weill worthy weir. Syne brak the boiir, had hame the Bricht,^^ Unto hir Fadir deir. Saw evill wondit was the Knycht, That he behuvit^'' to de. Unlufum was his likame^^ dicht, His sark was all bludy; In all the warld was thair a wicht So peteouss for to se! The Lady murnj t, and maid grit mone, With all hir mekle micht: "I luvit nevir lufe, bot one, That dulfully now is dicht! God sen my lyfe wer fra me tone, Or I had sene yone ficht; Or ellis in begging evir to gone Furth with yone curtass Knycht." He said, "Fair Lady now mone I De,^^ trestly^° ye me trow: Tak ye mj' sark that is bludy. And hing it forrow yow. First think on it, and syne on me, Quhen men cumis yow to wow."^^ The lady said, "Be'-^ Mary fre, Thairto I make a vow." Quhen that scho lukit to the serk, Scho thocht on the persoun: And prayit for him with all hir harte. That lowsd hir of bandoun:-^ " bright, fair: i. e., the Lad}\ " must. '^ body. '' die. 2" truly. 2^ woo. -" by. ^^ bondage. 18 BRITISH POEMS Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk^'* In that deip dungeoun: And evir quhill scho wes in quert,^^ That wass hir a lessoun. So Weill the Lady luvit the Knycht, That no man wald scho tak. So suld we do our God of micht That did all for us mak; Quhilk fullely to deid wes dicht. For sinfuU manis saik. Sa suld we do, both day and nycht. With prayaris to him mak. MORALITAS This King is lyk the Trinitie Baith in hevin and heir. The^^ Manis saule to the Lady: The Gyane to Lucefeir. The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre. And coft^^ our synnis deir: The pit to hell, with panis fell; The^^ syn to the woweir.^^ The Lady was wowd, but scho said "Nay" With men that wald hir wed; Sa suld we wrytlr^ all syn away. That in our breist is bred. I pray to Jesu Chryst verrey For us his blud that bled. To be our help on Domysday, Quhair lawis ar straitly led. The saule^^ is Godis dochtir deir. And eik his handewerk, That was betrasit with Lucifeir, Quha sittis in hell, full merk. 2'' dark. ^ joyful. ^6 "The" is superfluous. ^7 bought. 28 wooer. 29 remove. ^^ soul. WILLIAM DUNBAR 19 Borrowit^^ with Chrystis angell cleir, Hend^'^ men! will ye nocht herk? For his lufe that bocht us deir, Think on the Bludy Serk! WILLIAM DUNBAR [1460P-1520?] TO A LAD YE SwET rois of vertew and of gentilness, Delytsum lily of everie liistyness. Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear, And everie vertew that is [esteemed] deer. Except onlie that ye ar mercy less. Into your garth this day I did persew; There saw I flowris that fresche wer of hew; Baith quhyte and reid most lusty wer to seyne. And halesome herbis upon stalkis grene; Yet leaf nor flowr fynd could I nane of rew. I dout that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne. Has slain this gentil herbe, that I of mene, Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine That I wald mak to plant his root againe — So confortand his levis unto me bene. 31 redeemed. ^2 courteous. 20 BRITISH POEMS JOHN SKELTON [1460P-1529] TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY MiRRY Margaret, As mydsomer flowre; Jentill as fawcoun Or hawke of the towere: With solace and gladnes, Moche mirthe and no madness, All good and no badness, So joyously. So maydenly. So womanly. Her demenyng In every thynge. Far, far passynge That I can endyght. Or suffyce to w rj^ghte, Of mirry Margarete, As mydsomer flowre, Jentyll as fawcoun Or hawke of the towre: As pacient and as styll. And as full of good wyll As faire Isaphill; Colyaunder, Swete pomaunder, Goode cassaunder; Stedfast of thought, Wele made, wele wrought; Far may be sought. Erst that ye can fynde So corteise, so kynde, As mirry Margaret, This mydsomer floure, Jentyll as fawcoun Or hawke of the towre. [From A Gablande of Laohell. POPULAR BALLADS 21 ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH POPULAR BALLADS SIR PATRICK SPENS The king sits in Dumferling toune, Drinking the blude-reid wine: "O whar will I get guid sailor. To sail this schip of mine?" Up and spak an eldern knicht, Sat at the kings richt kne : "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor. That sails upon the se." The king has written a braid letter, And signd it wi his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, Was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick red, A loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red. The teir blinded his ee. "O wha is this has don this deid, This ill deid don to me. To send me out this time o' the yeir, To sail upon the se! "Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, Our guid schip sails the morne:" **0 say na sae, my master deir. For I feir a deadlie storme. "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi the auld moone in hir arme, And I feir, I feir, my deir master. That we will cum to harme." 22 BRITISH POEMS ^ O our Scots nobles wer richt laith i To weet their cork-heild schoone; Bot lang owre a' the play wer pla^^d, Thair hats they swam aboone. O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi thair fans into their hand, Or eir thej" se Sir Patrick Spence Cum sailing to the land. O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi thair gold kems in their hair, Waiting for thair ain deir lords. For they'll se thame na mair. Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, It's fiftie fadom deip. And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, Wi the Scots lords at his feit. THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine Was married to a lord under night. "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons. And put on your armour so bright. And take better care of your youngest sister. For your eldest's awa the last night." He's mounted her on a milk-white steed. And himself on a dapple grey. With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rode away. POPULAR BALLADS 23 Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see. And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold. Come riding over the lea. "Light down, light down. Lady Margret," he said. And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father, I mak a stand." She held his steed in her milk-white hand. And never shed one tear. Until that she saw her seven brethren fa, And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; True lovers I can get man}" a ane. But a father I can never get mair." O she's ta'en out her handkerchief. It was o' the holland sae fine. And aye she dighted^ her father's bloody wounds, That were redder than the wine. "0 chuse, O chuse. Lady Margret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?" "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, "For ye have left me no other guide." He's lifted her on a milk-white steed. And himself on a dapple grey. With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. they rade on, and on they rade. And a' by the light of the moon. Until they came to yon wan water. And there they lighted down. ' wiped. 24 BRITISH POEMS They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood. And sair she gan to fear. "Hold up, hold up. Lord William," she saj's "For I fear that you are slain!" "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak. That shines in the water sae plain." O they rade on, and on they rade. And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, And there they lighted down. "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in! — Get up, get up, lady mother," he says "For this night my fair ladye I've win. "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "O mak it braid and deep! And lay Lady Margret close at my back, And the sounder I will sleep." Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, Lady Margret lang ere day — And all true lovers that go thegither. May they have mair luck than they! Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire; Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose. And out o' the knight's a brier. And they twa met, and they twa plat,^ And fain they wad be near; And a' the warld might ken right weel, They were twa lovers dear. 2 twined. POPULAR BALLADS 25 But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough! For he pull'd up the bonny brier, And flang't in St. Mary's loch. THE DEATH AND BUMAL OF ROBIN HOOD When Robin Hood and Little John Down, a down, a down, a down. Went oer yon bank of broom, Said Robin Hood bold to Little John, "We have shot for many a pound." Hey down, a down, a down. "But I am not able to shoot one shot more. My broad arrows will not flee; But I have a cousin lives down below. Please God, she will bleed me." Now Robin he is to fair Kirkly gone. As fast as he can win; But before he came there, as we do hear. He was taken very ill. And when he came to fair Kirkly-hall, He knockd all at the ring. But none was so ready as his cousin herself For to let bold Robin in. "Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, "And drink some beer with me.^^" "No, I will neither eat nor drink. Till I am bleeded by thee." "Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, "Which you did never see. And if you please to walk therein, You blooded by me shall be." 26 BRITISH POEMS She took him by the lily-white hand, And led him to a private room, And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, While one drop of blood would run down. She blooded him in a vein of the arm. And locked him up in the room; Then did he bleed all the live-long day, Until the next day at noon. He then bethought him of a casement there, Thinking for to get down; But was so weak he could not leap. He could not get him down. He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, Which hung low down to his knee; He set his horn unto his mouth. And blew out weak blasts three. Then Little John, when hearing him. As he sat under a tree, "I fear my master is now near dead, He blows so wearily." Then Little John to fair Kirkly is gone. As fast as he can dree; But when he came to Kirkly-hall, He broke locks two or three: Until he came bold Robin to see. Then he fell on his knee; "A boon, a boon," cries Little John, "Master, I beg of thee." "What is that boon," said Robin Hood, "Little John, thou begs of me?" "It is to burn fair Kirkly-hall, And all their nunnerj'." POPULAR BALLADS 27 "Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, "That boon I'll not grant thee; I never hurt woman in all my life, Nor men in woman's company. "I never hurt fair maid in all my time. Nor at mine end shall it be; But give me my bent bow in my hand. And a broad arrow I'll let flee. And where this arrow is taken up. There shall my grave digg'd be. "Lay me a green sod under my head, And another at my feet; And lay my bent bow by my side, Which was my music sweet; And make my grave of gravel and green. Which is most right and meet. ** Let me have length and breadth enough. With a green sod under my head; That they may say, when I am dead, Here lies bold Robin Hood." These words they readily granted him, Which did bold Robin please: And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Within the fair Kirklevs. THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT The Perse owt off Northombarlonde, and avowe to God mayd he That he wold hunte in the mowntayns off Chyviat within days thre, In the magger^ of doughte Dogles, and all that ever with him be. 1 spite. 28 BRITISH POEMS The fattiste hartes in all Cheviat he sayd he wold kyll, and cary them away: "Be my feth," sayd the dougheti Doglas agayn, "I wyll lef^ that hontyng yf that I may." Then the Perse owt ofiF Banborowe cam, with him a myghtee meany,^ With fifteen hondrith archarcs bold off blood and bone; the'' wear chosen owt of shyars thre. This begane on a Monday at morn, in Cheviat the hillys so he;'' The chylde may rue that ys unborn, it wos the more pitte. The dryvars thorowe the woodes went, for to reas the dear; Bomen byckarte^ uppone the bent' with ther browd aros cleare. Then the wyld^ thorowe the woodes went, on every syde shear ;^ Greahondes thorowe the grevis^^ glent,^^ for to kyll thear dear. This begane in Chyviat the hyls abone, yerly on a Monnyn-day; Be that it drewe to the oware off none, a hondrith fat hartes ded ther lay. The^^ blewe a mort uppone the bent, the^2 semblyde on sydis shear; To the quyrry then the Perse went, to se the bryttlynge^^ off the deare. He sayd, "It was the Duglas promys, this day to met me hear; But I wyste he wolde faylle, verament;" a great oth the Perse swear. 2 prevent. ^ company. * they. '" high. ^ attacked. ^ field. * deer. ^ several. "* groves. i' glided. ^- they. '^ cutting up. POPULAR BALLADS 29 At the laste a squyar off Northomberlonde lokyde at his hand full ny; He was war a the doughetie Doglas commynge, with him a myghtte meany. Both with spear, bylle, and brande, yt was a myghtti sight to se; Hardy ar men, both off hart nor hande, wear not in Cristiante. The wear twenti hondrith spear-men good, withoute any feale; The wear borne along be the watter a Twyde, yth^^ bowndes of Tividale. "Leave of the brytlyng of the dear," he sayd, "and to your boys^^ lock ye tayk good hede; For never sithe ye wear on your mothars borne had ye never so mickle nede." The dougheti Dogglas on a stede, he rode alle his men beforne; His armor glytteryde as dyd a glede;^^ a boldar barne was never born. "Tell me whos men ye ar," he says, "or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays, in the spyt of myn and of me." The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, yt was the good lord Perse: "We wyll not tell the whoys men we ar," he says, "nor whos men that we be; But we wyll hounte hear in this chays, in the spyt of thyne and of the. "The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat, we have kyld, and cast to carry them away. "Be my troth," sayd the doughete Dogglas agayn, "therfor the ton^^ of us shall de this day." ^* with. 1^ bows. ^^ glowing coal. ^^ one. 30 BRITISH POEMS Then sayd the doughte Doglas unto the lord Perse: "To kyll alle these giltles men, alas, it wear great pittie ! "But, Perse, thowe art a lord of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contre; Let all our men uppone a parti stande, and do the battell off the and of me." "Nowe Cristes cors on his crowne," sayd the lord Perse, "who-so-ever ther-to says nay; Be my troth, doughtte Doglas," he says, "thow shalt never se that day, "Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, nor for no man of a woman born. But, and fortune be my chance, I dar met him on^^ man for on." Then bespayke a squyar off Northombarlonde, Richard Wytharyngton was his nam: "It shall never be told in Sothe- Ynglonde," he says, "to Kyng Herry the Fourth for sham. "I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande: I wylle never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, and stande my selffe and loocke on, But whylle I may my weppone welde, I wylle not fayle both hart and hande." That day, that day, that dredfull day! the first fit here I fynde; And youe wyll here any mor a the hountyng a the Chyviat, yet ys ther mor behynde. POPULAR BALLADS 31 The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, ther hartes wer good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, seven skore spear-men the sloughe.^^ Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, a captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, for he wrought horn both woo and wouche.'^^ The Dogglas partyd his ost in thre, lyk a cheffe chef ten off pryde; With suar^^ spears off myghtte tre, the cum in on every syde: Thrughe our Yngglyshe archery gave many a wounde fulle wyde; Many a doughete the garde^'- to dy, which ganyde them no pryde. The Ynglyshe men let ther boys be, and pulde owt brandes that wer brighte; It was a hevy syght to se bryght swordes on basnites lyght. Thorowe ryche male and myneyeple,'^ many sterne the strocke done streght; Many a freyke^^ that was fulle fre, ther undar foot dyd lyght. At last the Duglas and the Perse met, lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tylle the both swat, with swordes that wear of fyn myllan. Thes worthe freckys for to fyght, ther-to the wear fulle fayne. Tylle the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente as ever dyd heal or rayn. 19 slew. 20 harm. ^i trusty. - made. 23 gauntlets. ^ man. 32 BRITISH POEMS "Yelde the. Perse," sayde the Doglas, "and i feth I shalle the brynge Wher thowe shalte have a yerls wagis of Jamy our Skottish kynge. **Thou shalte have thy ransom fre, I hight"^ the hear this thmge; For the manfuUyste man yet art thowe that ever I conqueryd in filde fighttynge." "Na3%" sayd the lord Perse, "I tolde it the beforne, That I wolde never yeldyde be to no man of a woman born." With that ther cam an arrowe hastely, forthe off a myghtte wanef^ Hit hathe strekene the yerle Duglas in at the brest-bane. Thorowe lyvar and longes bathe the sharpe arrowe ys gane. That never after in all his lyffe-days he spayke mo wordes but ane: That was, "Fyghte ye, my myrry men, whyllys ye may, for my lyff-days !jen gan." The Perse leanyde on his brande, and sawe the Duglas de; He tooke the dede mane by the hande, and sayd, "Wo ys me for the! "To have savyde thy lyffe, I wolde have party de with my landes for years thre. For a better man, of hart nare of hande, was nat in all the north contre." ^ promise. ^6 flight. POPULAR BALLADS 33 Off all that se a Skottishe knyght, was callyd Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry ; He sawe the Duglas to the deth was dyght, he spendyd^^ a spear, a trusti tre. He rod uppone a corsiare throughe a hondrith archery: He never stynttyde, nar never blane,^^ tylle he cam to the good lord Perse. He set uppone the lorde Perse a dynte that was full soare; With a suar spear of a myghtte tre clean thorow the body he the Perse ber, A the tothar syde that a man myght se a large cloth-yard and mare: Towe bettar captayns wear nat in Cristiante then that day slan wear ther. An archar off Northomberlonde say^^ slean was the lord Perse; He bar a bende bowe in his hand, was made off trusti tre. An arow, that a cloth-yarde was lang, to the harde stele halyde^^ he; A dynt that was both sad and soar he sat^^ on Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry. The dynt 3't was both sad and sar, that he of Monggomberrj' sete; The swane-fethars that his arrowe bar with his hart-blood the wear wete. Ther was never a freake wone foot wolde fle, but still in stour dyd stand, Heawyng on yche othar, whylle the niyghte dre,^^ with many a balfull brande. 2^ grasped. 28 stopped. ^9 saw. ^^ drew. ^^ set upon. '^ endure. BRITISH POEMS This battell begane in Chyviat an owar before the none, And when even-songe bell was rang, the battell was nat half done. The tocke ... ^^ on ethar hande be the lyght off the mone; Many hade no strenght for to stande, in Chyviat the hilly s abon. Of fifteen hondrith archars of Ynglonde went away but seven ti and thre; Of twenti hondrith spear-men of Skotlonde, but even five and fifti. But all wear slayne Cheviat within; the hade no strengthe to stand on hy; The chylde may rue that ys unborne, it was the mor pitte. Thear was slayne, withe the lord Perse, Sir Johan of Agerstone, Ser Rogar, the hinde^* Hartly, Ser Wyllyam, the bolde Hearone. Ser Jorg, the worthe Loumle, a knyghte of great renowen, Ser Raff, the ryche Rugbe, with dyntes wear beaten dowene. For Wetharryngton my harte was wo, that ever he slayne should be; For when both his leggis wear hewyne in to, yet he knyled and fought on hys kny. Ther was slayne, with the dougheti Duglas, Ser Hewe the Monggombyrry, Ser Dany Lwdale, that worthe was, his sistars son was he. 33 break in the text. ^4 courteous. POPULAR BALLADS 35 Ser Charls a Murre in that place, that never a foot wolde fle; Ser Hewe Maxvvelle, a lorde he was, with the Doglas dyd he dey. So on the morrowe the mayde them by ears off birch and hasell so grey; Many wedous, with wepying tears, cam to fache ther makys"^^ away. Tivydale may carpe off care, Northombarlond may mayk great mon, For towe such captayns as slayne wear thear, on the March-parti shall never be non. Word ys commen to Eddenburrowe, to Jamy the Skottische kynge, That dougheti Duglas, lyff- tenant of the Marches, he lay slean Chyviot within. His handdes dyd he weal and wryng, he sayd, "Alas, and woe ys me! Such an othar captayn Skotland within," he sayd, "ye-feth shuld never be." Worde ys commyn to lovly Londone, till the fourth Harry our kynge, That lord Perse, leyff-tenante of the Marchis, he lay slayne Chyviat within. "God have merci on his solle," sayde Kyng Harry, "good Lord, yf thy will it be! I have a hondrith captayns in Ynglonde," he sayd, "as good as ever was he: But, Perse, and I brook my lyffe, thy deth well quyte shall be." 36 mates. 36 BRITISH POEMS As our noble kynge mayd his avowe, lyke a noble prince of renowen. For the deth of the lord Perse he dyde the battell of Hombyll-down ; Wher syx and thritte Skottishe knyghtes on a day wear beaten down: Glendale glytteryde on ther armor bryght, over castille, towar, and town. This was the hontynge off the Cheviat, that tear^*^ began this spurn ;^^ Old men that knowen the grownde well yenoughe call it the battell of Otterburn. At Otterburn begane this spurne uppone a Monnyndaj'; Ther was the dough te Doglas slean, the Perse never went away. Ther was never a tym on the Marche-partes sen the Doglas and the Perse met, But yt ys mervele and the rede blude ronne not, as the reane^^ doys in the stret. Ihesue Crist our balys bete,^^ and to the blys us brynge! Thus was the hountynge of the Chivyat: God sent us alle good endyng! THE DAEMON LOVER "O WHERE have you been, my long, long love, This long seven years and mair.'^" "O I'm come to seek my former vows Ye granted me before." ^' fight. 3* rain. ^^ abate. POPULAR BALLADS 37 "O hold your tongue of your former vows, For they will breed sad strife; hold your tongue of your former vows, For I am become a wife." He turnd him right and round about. And the tear blinded his ee: "I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground, If it had not been for thee. "I might hae had a king's daughter. Far, far beyond the sea; 1 might have had a king's daughter. Had it not been for love o thee." "If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yersel ye had to blame; Ye might have taken the king's daughter, For ye kend that I was nane. "If I was to leave my husband dear. And my two babes also, O what have you to take me to. If with you I should go?" "I hae seven ships upon the sea — The eighth brought me to land — With four-and-twenty bold mariners. And music on every hand." She has taken up her two little babes, Kissd them baith cheek and chin: *'0 fair ye weel, my ain two babes. For I'll never see you again." She set her foot upon the ship. No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o the taffetie. And the masts o the beaten gold. 38 BRITISH POEMS ] She had not sayld a league, a league, A league but barely three. When dismal grew his countenance, And drumlie grew his ee. They had not sayld a league, a league, A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot. And she wept right bitterlie. "O hold your tongue of your weeping," says he, "Of your weeping now let me be; I will shew you how the lilies grow On the banks of Italy." "0 what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills. That the sun shines sweetly on?" "O yon are the hills of heaven," he said, "Where you will never win." *'0 whaten a mountain is yon," she said, "All so dreary wi frost and snow.^" "O yon is the mountain of hell," he cried, "Where you and I will go." He strack the tap-mast wi his hand. The fore-mast wi his knee, And he brake that gallant ship in twain. And sank her in the sea. SIR THOMAS WYATT 39 SIR THOMAS WYATT [1503-1542] THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS Forget not yet the tried intent Of such a truth as I have meant; My great travail so gladly spent, Forget not yet! Forget not yet when first began The weary life ye know, since whan The suit, the service, none tell can; Forget not yet! Forget not yet the great assays, The cruel wrong, the scornful ways. The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet! Forget not! O, forget not this. How long ago hath been, and is. The mind that never meant amiss — Forget not yet! Forget not then thine own approved. The which so long hath thee so loved, Whose steadfast faith yet never moved: Forget not this! TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay, say nay, for shame! To save thee from the blame Of all my grief and grame. And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! 40 BRITISH POEMS And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath loved thee so long In wealth and woe among: And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus, That hath given thee my heart Never for to depart Neither for pain nor smart: And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! And wilt thou leave me thus. And have no more pity Of him that loveth thee? Alas, thy cruelty! And wilt thou leave me thus? Say nay! say nay! THE LOVER COMPLAINETH My lute, awake! perform the last Labour that thou and I shall waste; And end that I have now begun: And when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. As to be heard wJiere ear is none; As lead to grave in marble stone; My song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually SIR THOMAS WYATT 41 As she my suit and affection: So that I am past remedy; Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom unkind thou hast them won: Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, That makst but game on earnest pain; Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain; Although my lute and I have done. May chance, thee lie wither'd and old In winter nights, that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told: Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon: Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute, this is the last Labour that thou and I shall waste; And ended is that we begun: Now is this song both sung and past: My lute, be still, for I have done. 42 BRITISH POEMS THE LOVER LIKE TO A SHIP TOSSED ON THE SEA My galley charged with forgetfulness Thorough sharp seas, in winter nights doth pass, 'Tween rock and rock; and eke my foe, alas. That is my lord, steereth with cruelness; And every hour, a thought in readiness, As though that death were light in such a case. An endless wind doth tear the sail apace Of forced sighs, and trusty fearfulness. A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain Hath done the wearied cords great hinderance. Wreathed with error, and with ignorance. The stars be hid that led me to this pain; Drowned is reason that should be my comfort, And I remain, despairing of the port. HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY [1517.^-1547] SPRING THE LOVER ONLY IS SORROWFUL The soote^ season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale. The nightingale with feathers new she sings; The turtle to her make^ hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs: The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he slings; The fishes flete^ with new repaired scale; The adder all her slough away she slings; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale; The busy bee her honey now she mings; Winter is worn, that was the flowers' bale. And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs! ' sweet. 2 mate. ^ float. * mixes. GEORGE GASCOIGNE 43 THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE Martial, the things that do attain The happy life be these, I find: The riches left, not got with pain; The fruitful ground, the quiet mind; The equal friend, no grudge, no strife; No charge of rule nor governance; Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance. The mean^ diet, no delicate fare; True wisdom joined with simpleness; The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress; The faithful wife, without debate; Such sleeps as may beguile the night: Contented with thine own estate, Ne wish for death, ne fear his might. GEORGE GASCOIGNE [1525?-Io77] THE ARRAIGNMENT OF A LOVER At Beauty's bar as I did stand, When false Suspect accused me, "George," quoth the Judge, "hold up thy hand. Thou art arraigned of flattery: Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried: Whose judgment here wilt thou abide?" "My Lord," quoth I, "this Lady here, Whom I esteem above the rest, Doth know my guilt if any were: Wherefore her doom shall please me best. Let her be Judge and Juror both. To try me, guiltless, by mine oath!" ' moderate. 44 BRITISH POEMS Quoth Beauty, "No, it fitteth not A prince herself to judge the cause: Will is our Justice, well you wot. Appointed to discuss our laws: If you will guiltless seem to go, God and your country quit you so.'* Then Craft the crier called a quest. Of whom was Falsehood foremost fere, A pack of pickthanks were the rest. Which came false witness for to bear; The jury such, the judge unjust: Sentence was said I should be trussed. Jealous the jailer bound me fast. To hear the verdict of the bill, "George," quoth the Judge, "now thou art cast. Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill, x\nd there be hanged all but the head, God rest thy soul when thou art dead.'* Down fell I then upon my knee. All flat before Dame Beauty's face. And cried, "Good Lady, pardon me. Which here appeal unto your grace. You know if I have been untrue. It was in too much praising you. "And though this Judge do make such haste To shed with shame my guiltless blood. Yet let your pity first be placed To save the man that meant you good. So shall you show yourself a Queen, And I may be your servant seen." Quoth Beauty, "Well: because I guess. What thou dost mean henceforth to be. Although thy faults deserve no less Than Justice here hath judged thee. THOMAS SACKVILLE 45 Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife And be true prisoner all thy life ?" "Yea mddam," quoth I, "that I shall, Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties." "Why then," quoth she, "come when I call, I ask no better warrantise." Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall. At her command when she doth call. THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST [1536-1608] THE GODDESS OF SORROW SHOWETH THE POET HELL An hideous hole all vast, withouten shape. Of endless depth, o'erwhelmed with ragged stone. With ugly mouth, and grisly jaws doth gape. And to our sight confounds itself in one: Here entered we, and yeding^ forth, anon An horrible loathly lake we might discern. As black as pitch, that cleped is Avern: A deadly gulf, where naught but rubbish grows. With foul black swelth in thickened lumps that lies, Which up in th' air such stinking vapors throws. That over there may fly no fowl but dies Choked with the pestilent savours that arise: Hither we come; whence forth we still did pace. In dreadful fear amid the dreadful place: And first, within the porch and jaws of Hell, Sat deep Remorse of Conscience, all besprent With tears; and to herself oft would she tell Her wretchedness, and cursing never stent To sob and sigh; but ever thus lament, 1 going. 46 BRITISH POEMS With thoughtful care, as she that, all in vain, Would wear, and waste continually in pain. Her eyes unsteadfast, rolling here and there. Whirled on each place, as place that vengeance brought, So was her mind continually in fear. Tossed and tormented with the tedious thought Of those detested crimes which she had wrought; With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky, Wishing for death, and yet she could not die. And next, within the entry of this lake. Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire. Devising means how she may vengeance take, Never in rest, till she have her desire: But frets within so far forth with the fire Of wreaking flames, that now determines she To die by death, or venged by death to be. When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence Had showed herself, as next in order set, With trembling limbs we softly parted thence, Till in our eyes another sight we met: When from my heart a sigh forthwith I fet. Ruing, alas! upon the woeful plight Of Misery, that next appeared in sight. His face was lean, and somedeal pined away, And eke his hands consumed to the bone, But what his body was, I cannot say. For on his carcass raiment had he none. Save clouts and patches, pieced one by one; With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast, His chief defence against the winter's blast. His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree. Unless sometimes some crumbs fell to his share, Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he, THOMAS SACKVILLE 47 As on the which full daint'ly would he fare: His drink, the running stream; his cup, the bare Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground: To this poor life was Misery ybound. Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, With tender ruth on him, and on his fears. In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; And, by and by, another shape appears. Of greedy Care, still brushing up the breres,^ His knuckles knobbed,' his flesh deep dented in, With tawed ^ hands, and hard ytanned skin. The morrow gray no sooner hath begun To spread his light, even peeping in our eyes. When he is up, and to his work yrun: But let the night's black misty mantles rise, And with foul dark never so much disguise The fair, bright day, yet ceaseth he no while, But has his candles to prolong his toil. Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad, With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued; In his right hand a naked sword he had. That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued; And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Famine and fire he held, and therewithal He razed towns, and threw down towers and all: Cities he sacked; and realms that whilom flowered In honor, glory, and rule, above the best. He overwhelmed, and all their fame devoured. Consumed, destroyed, wasted, and never ceased. Till he their wealth, their name, and all, oppressed: His face fore-hewed with wounds, and by his side There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide. [From the Induction to A Mirrok for Magisthates. - briars. ^ hardened. ^ roughened. 48 BRITISH POEMS NICHOLAS BRETON [1545P-1626?] PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, Forth I walked by the wood-side. When as May was in her pride: There I spied all alone Phyllida and Corydon. Much ado there was, God wot! He would love and she would not. She said, never man was true; He said, none was false to you. He said, he had loved her long; She said, love should have no wrong, Corydon would kiss her then; She said, maids must kiss no men. Till they did for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth: Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath. Yea and nay, and faith and troth. Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse. Love which had been long deluded. Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phyllida, with garlands gay. Was made the Lady of the May. SIR WALTER RALEIGH 49 SIR WALTER RALEIGH [1552P-1618] HIS PILGRIMAGE Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon. My scrip of joy, immortal diet. My bottle of salvation. My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven. Over the silver mountains. Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; But after, it will thirst no more. Then, by that happy blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. That have cast off their rags of clay. And walk apparelled fresh like me. I'll take them first To quench their thirst And taste of nectar suckets, 4t those clear wells Where sweetness dwells. Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality. 50 BRITISH POEMS Then the blessed paths we'll travel, Strowed with rubies thick as gravel; Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to heaven's bribeless hall. Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser bought or sold. No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the king's Attorney, Who pleads for all without degrees. And He hath angels, but no fees. And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, Against our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads His death, and then we live — Be Thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Un blotted lawyer, true proceeder! Thou givest salvation even for alms; Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea. That, since my flesh must die so soon. And want a head to dine next noon. Just at the stroke, when my veins start and spread. Set on my soul an everlasting head! Then am I ready, like a palmer fit. To tread those blest paths which before I writ. Of death and judgment, heaven and hell. Who oft doth think, must needs die well. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 51 VERSES FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT WESTMINSTER Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have. And pays us but with earth and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have 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! SIR PHILIP SIDNEY [1554-1586] SONNETS With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies! How silently, and with how wan a face! What, may it be that even in heavenly place That busy archer his sharp arrows tries! Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case, I read it in thy looks; thy languisht grace. To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. Then, even 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? Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace. The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th' indifferent judge between the high and low; 52 BRITISH POEMS With shield of proof shield me from out the prease^ Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: 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 to noise and blind to light, A rosy garland and a weary head: And if these things, as being thine in right. Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be. And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet. Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet More oft than to a chamber-melody. Now, blessed you bear onward blessed me To her, where I my heart, safe-left, shall meet; My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully. Be you still fair, honoured by public heed; By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot; Nor blam'd for blood, nor sham'd for sinful deed; And that you know I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss, — Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss. No more, my Dear, no more these counsels try; give my passions leave to run their race! Let Fortune lay on me her worst disgrace; Let folk o'ercharg'd with brain against me cry; Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye; Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; Let all the earth with scorn account my case, — But do not will me from mj^ Love to fly. 1 do not envy Aristotle's wit. Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame; 1 press. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 53 Nor aught do care though some above me sit; Nor hope nor wish another course to fame, But that which once may win thy cruel heart: Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. [From AsTKOPHEL and Stella. 1 PHILOMELA The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, (While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth) Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing. Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O take some gladness. That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike complains her will was broken. But I, who, daily craving. Cannot have to content me. Have more cause to lament me. Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair, etc. 54 BRITISH POEMS DORUS TO PAMELA My sheep are thoughts, which I both guide and serve; Their pasture is fair hills of fruitless love; On barren sweets they feed, and feeding starve. I wail their lot, but will not other prove. My sheephook is wan Hope, which all upholds; My weeds Desire, cut out in endless folds; What wool my sheep shall bear, whilst thus they live. In you it is, you must the judgment give. [From Arcadia | SONNET Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be; Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light, That doth both shine, and give us sight to see. O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth draws out to death, And think how ill becometh him to slide. Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath. Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see: Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me! EDMUND SPENSER EDMUND SPENSER [1552-1599] PROTHALAMION Calivie was the day, and through the trembling ayre Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that hghtly did delay Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre: When I, whom sullein care, Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay In princes court, and expectation vayne Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away. Like empty shaddowes, did aflict my brayne, Walkt forth to ease my payne Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes; Whose rutty bancke, the which his river hemmes. Was paynted all with variable flowers. And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes. Fit to decke maydens bowres. And crowne their paramours. Against the brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. There, in a meadow, by the rivers side, A flocke of nymphes I chaunced to espy. All lovely daughters of the flood thereby. With goodly greenish locks all loose untyde. As each had bene a bryde: And each one had a little wicker basket. Made of fine twigs entrayled curiously. In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket; And with fine fingers cropt full feateously The tender stalkes on hye. Of every sort, which in that meadow grew, They gathered some; the violet pallid blew, The little dazie, that at evening closes, Tb^ virgin lillie, and the primrose trew, 56 BRITISH POEMS With store of vermeil roses, To decke their bridegromes posies Against the brydale day, wliich was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. With that I saw two swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the lee; Two fairer birds I yet did never see: The snow which doth the top of Pindus strew Did never whiter shew, Nor Jove himselfe, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear: Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. Yet not so white as these, nor nothing nearer So purely white they were. That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seemd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre. And marre their beauties bright, That shone as heavens light. Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Eftsoones the nymphes, which now had flowers their fill. Ran all in haste to see that silver brood, As they came floating on the christal flood; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still. Their wondring eyes to fill. Them seemd they never saw a sight so fayre, Of fowles so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the skie draw Venus silver teeme; For sure they did not seeme To be begot of any earthly seede, But rather angels or of angels breede: Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say. In sweetest season, when each flower and weede EDMUND SPENSER 57 The earth did fresh aray; So fresh they seemd as day, Even as their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honour of the field, That to the sense did fragrant odours yield, All which upon those goodly birds they threw, And all the waves did strew, That like old Peneus waters they did seeme. When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore, Scattred with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme. That they appeare, through lillies plenteous store. Like a brydes chamber flore. Two of those nymphes, meane while, two garlands bound Of freshest flowres which in that mead they found, The which presenting all in trim arra}". Their snowie foreheads there withall they crownd, Whil'st one did sing this lay, Prepar'd against that day. Against their brydale day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. "Ye gentle birdes, the worlds faire ornament. And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower Doth leade unto your lovers blissfull bower, Joy may you have and gentle hearts content Of your loves couplement: And let faire Venus, that is Queene of Love, With her heart-quelling sonne upon you smile. Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile For ever to assoile. Let endlesse peace your steadfast hearts accord. And blessed plentie wait upon your bord; And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, That fruitfull issue may to you afford, Which may your foes confound. And make your joyes redound. 58 BRITISH POEMS Upon your brydale day, which is not long; Sweete Themmes, runne sofUie, till I end my song.' So ended she; and all the rest around To her redoubled that, her undersong, Which said, their bridale daye should not be long. And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birdes did passe along, Adowne the lee, that to them murmurde low. As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, Yeat did bj'' signes his glad affection show. Making his streame run slow. And all the foule which in his flood did dwell Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell The rest so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser starres. So they, enranged well. Did on those two attend. And their best service lend. Against their wedding day, which was not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. At length they all to mery London came. To mery London, my most kj^ndly nurse, That to me gave this lifes first native sourse: Though from another place I take my name, An house of auncient fame. There when they came whereas those bricky towers The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde, Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers, There whylome wont the Templar Knights to byde. Till they decayd through pride: Next whereunto there standes a stately place, Where oft I gained giftes and goodly grace Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell. Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case: But ah! here fits now well Olde woes, but joyes to tell. Against the brydale daye, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. EDMUND SPENSER 59 Yet therein, now doth lodge a noble peer, Great Englands glory and the worlds wide wonder. Whose dreadful name late through all Spaine did thunder, And Hercules two pillars standing neere Did make to quake and feare. Faire branch of honour, flower of chevalrie. That fillest England with thy triumphs fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victorie. And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name That promiseth the same: That through thy prowesse and victorious arms Thy country may be freed from forraigne harms; And great Elisaes glorious name may ring Through al the world, filled with thy wide alarmes, \\ hich some brave Muse may sing To ages following: Upon the brydale daye, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. From those high towers this noble lord issuing. Like radiant Hesper when his golden hayre In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fayre. Descended to the rivers open viewing, With a great traine ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to bee scene Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature. Beseeming well the bower of anie queene. With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature. Fit for so goodly stature: That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight. Which decke the bauldricke of the heavens bright. They two, forth pacing to the rivers side. Received those two fair brydes, their loves delight. Which, at th' appointed tyde. Each one did make his bryde. Against their brydale day, which is not long: Sweete Themmes, runne softly, till I end my song. 60 BRITISH POEMS SONNETS More then most faire, full of the living fire Kindled above unto the Maker neere: No eies, but joyes, in which al powers conspire, That to the world naught else be counted deare: Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest Shoot out his darts to base affections wound; But angels come, to lead fraile mindes to rest In chast desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within. You stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, You calme the storme that passion did begin, Strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak. Dark is the world where your light shined never; Well is he borne that may behold you ever. Lyke as a ship, that through the ocean wyde, By conduct of some star, doth make her way; Whenas a storme hath dimd her trusty guyde. Out of her course doth wander far astray; So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray Me to direct, with cloudes is overcast, Doe wander now, in darknesse and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me plast. Yet hope I well, that when this storme is past. My Helice, the lodestar of my lyfe. Will shine again, and looke on me at last. With lovely light to cleare my cloudy grief, Till then I wander carefull, comfortlesse, In secret sorow, and sad pensivenesse. Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it, For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see: But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit And vertuous Mind, is much more praysd of me. For all the rest, how ever fayre it be. Shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew: EDMUND SPENSER 61 But onely that is permanent, and free From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew. That is true Beautie: that doth argue you To be divine, and borne of heavenly seed, Derived from that fayre spirit from whom al true And perfect beauty did at first proceed. He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made; All other fayre, lyke flowers, untymely fade. [From Amobetti.] LUCIFERA RIDETH FORTH FROM THE HOUSE OF PRIDE A STATELY pallace built of squared bricke, Which cunningly was without morter laid. Whose wals were high, but nothing strong, nor thick. And golden foile all over them displaid. That purest skye with brightnesse they dismaid: High lifted up were many loftie towres. And goodly galleries farre over laid. Full of faire windowes and delightful bowres; And on the top a diall told the timely howres. It was a goodly heape for to behould, And spake the praises of the workmans witt; But full great pittie, that so faire a mould Did on so weake foundation ever sitt: For on a sandie hill, that still did flitt And fall away, it mounted was full hie. That every breath of heaven shaked itt: And all the hinder parts, that few could spie. Were ruinous and old, but painted cunningly. Arrived there, they passed in forth right; For still to all the gates stood open wide: Yet charge of them w^as to a porter hight Cald Malvenii; who entrance none denide: Thence to the hall, which was on every side \ 62 BRITISH POEMS | I With rich array and costly arras dight: ^ Infinite sorts of people did abide, | There waiting long to win the wished sight j Of her that was the Lady of that pallace bright. \ By them they passe, all gazing on them round, | And to the Presence mount; whose glorious vew i Their frayle amazed senses did confound: In living princes court none ever knew > Such endlesse richesse, and so sumptuous shew; ! Ne Persia selfe, the nourse of pompous pride, Like ever saw. And there a noble crew \ Of 'lordes and ladies stood on every side, ' Which with their presence faire the place much beautifide High above all a cloth of state was spred. And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day. On which there sate most brave embellished With royall robes and gorgeous array, ' A mayden Queene, that shone as Titans ray, » In glistring gold, and peerelesse pretious stone; Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne, i As envying her selfe, that too exceeding shone: i Exceeding shone, like Phoebus fayrest cliilde, That did presume his fathers firie wayne. And flaming mouthes of steedes unwonted wilde Through highest heaven with weaker hand to rayne; ! Proud of such glory and advancement vayne, ; While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen, He leaves the welkin way most beaten playne, I And, rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen. With fire not made to burne, but fayrely for to shyne. So proud she shyned in her princely state, j Looking to heaven; (for earth she did disdayne) ^ And sitting high; (for lowlj^ she did hate) j Lo, underneath her scornefull feete was layne ' EDMUND SPENSER 63 A dreadful! Dragon with an hideous trayne, And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright. Wherein her face she often vewed fayne. And in her selfe-lov'd semblance tooke delight; For she was wondrous faire, as any living wight. Of grieslj^ Pluto she the daughter was, And sad Proserpina, the queene of hell; Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth to pas That parentage, with pride so did she swell; And thundring Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell. And wield the world, she claymed for her syre. Or if that any else did Jove excell: For to the highest she did still aspyre. Or if ought higher were than that, did it desyre. And proud Lucifera men did her call. That made her selfe a queene, and crownd to be; Yet rightfuU kingdome she had none at all, Ne heritage of native soveraintie. But did usurpe with wrong and tyrannie Upon the sceptre, which she now did hold: Ne ruld her realmes with lawes, but pollicie. And strong advizement of six wisards old, That with their counsels bad her kingdome did uphold. Soone as the Elfin Knight in presence came, And false Duessa, seeming lady fayre, A gentle husher, Vanitie by name. Made rowme, and passage for them did prepaire: So goodly brought them to the lowest stayre Of her high throne, where they on humble knee Making obeyssaunce, did the cause declare. Why they were come, her royall state to see. To prove the wide report of her great majestee. With loftie eyes, halfe loth to looke so lowe, She thanked them in her disdainefuU wise; Ne other grace vouchsafed them to showe 64 BRITISH POEMS Of princesse worthy, scarse them bad arise. Her lordes and ladies all this while devise Themselves to setten forth to straungers sight: Some frounce their curled haire in courtly guise, Some prancke their ruffes, and others trimly dight Their gay attire: each others greater pride does spight. Goodly they all that knight do entertayne, Right glad with him to have increast their crew: But to Duess each one himselfe did payne All kindnesse and faire courtesie to shew; For in that court whylome her well they knew: Yet the stout Faerie mongst the middest crowd Thought all their glorie vayne in knightly vew. And that great Princesse too exceeding prowd. That to strange knight no better countenance allowd. Suddein upriseth from her stately place The royall Dame, and for her coche doth call: All hurtlen forth, and she with princely pace, As faire Aurora in her purple pall Out of the east the dawning day doth call: So forth she comes: her brightnesse brode doth blaze; The heapes of people thronging in the hall Do ride each other, upon her to gaze: Her glorious glitter and light doth all mens eyes amaze. So forth she comes, and to her coche does clyme. Adorned all with gold, and girlonds gay, That seemed as fresh as Flora in her prime. And strove to match, in royall rich array, Great Junoes golden chaire, the which they say The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride To Joves high house through heavens bras-paved way Drawne of faire pecocks, that excell in pride, And full of Argus eyes their tayles dispredden wide. But this was drawne of six unequall beasts. On which her six sage Counsellours did ryde, EDMUND SPENSER 65 Taught to obay their bestiall beheasts, With like conditions to their kinds applyde: Of which the first, that all the rest did guyde, Was sluggish Idlenesse, the nourse of sin; Upon a s'outhfuU asse he chose to ryde, Arayd in habit blacke, and amis thin/ Like to an holy monck, the service to begin. And in his hand his portesse^ still he bare, That much was worne, but therein little redd, For of devotion he had little care, Still drownd in sleepe, and most of his dayes dedd; Scarse could he once uphold his heavie hed. To looken whether it were night or day: May seeme the wayne was very evill led, When such an one had guiding of the way. That knew not whether right he went, or else astray. From worldly cares himselfe he di^ esloyne. And greatly shunned manly exercise; From every worke he chalenged essoyne,^ For contemplation sake: yet otherwise. His life he led in lawlesse riotise; By which he grew to grievous malady; For in his lustlesse limbs, through evill guise, A shaking fever raignd continually: Such one was Idlenesse, first of this company. And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony, Deformed creature, on a filthie swyne; His belly was up-blowne with luxury. And eke with fatnesse swollen were his eyne; And like a crane his necke was long and fyne, With which he swallowed up excessive feast. For want whereof poore people oft did pyne; And all the way, most like a brutish beast. He spued up his gorge, that all did him deteast. very thin. ^ breviary, ^ lieep aloof. * excuse. 66 BRITISH POEMS In greene vine leaves he was right fitly clad; For other clothes he could not weare for heat; And on his head an yvie girland had, From under which fast trickled downe the sweat: Still as he rode, he somewhat still did eat. And in his hand did beare a bouzing can, Of which he supt so oft, tliat on his seat His dronken corse he scarse upholden can: In shape and life more like a monster, than a man. Unfit he was for any worldly thing, And eke unliable once to stirre or go, Not meet to be of counsell to a king, Whose mind in meat and drinke was drowned so. That from his frend he seldome knew his fo: Full of diseases was his carcas blew. And a dry dropsie through his flesh did flow Which by misdiet daily greater grew: Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. And next to him rode lustfuU Lechery, Upon a bearded goat, whose rugged haire. And whally eyes (the signe of gelosy) Was like the person selfe whom he did beare. Who rough, and blacke, and filthy did appeare: Unseemely man to please faire ladies eye; Yet he of ladies oft was loved deare, When fairer faces were bid standen by: O who does know the bent of womens fantasy? In a greene gowne he clothed was full faire, Which underneath did hide his filthinesse. And in his hand a burning hart he bare, Full of vaine follies, and new fanglenesse, For he was false, and fraught with ficklenesse; And learned had to love with secret lookes; And well could daunce, and sing with ruefulnesse. And fortunes tell, and read in loving bookes. And thousand other wayes, to bait his fleshly hookes. EDMUND SPENSER 67 Inconstant man, that loved all he saw, And lusted after all that he did love; Ne would his looser life be tide to law, But joyd weak wemens hearts to tempt, and prove. If from their loyall loves he might them move; Which lewdnesse fild him with reprochfuU paine Of that foule evill, which all men reprove, That rotts the marrow and consumes the braine: Such one was Lechery, the third of all this traine. And greedy Avarice by him did ride, Uppon a camell loaden all with gold; Two iron coffers hong on either side. With precious metall full as they might hold; And in his lap an heape of coine he told; For of his wicked pelfe his God he made. And unto hell him selfe for money sold; Accursed usurie was all his trade, And right and wrong ylike in equall ballaunce waide. His life was nigh unto deaths doore yplaste. And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes, he ware, Ne scarse good morsell all his life did taste. But both from backe and belly still did spare. To fill his bags, and richesse to compare; Yet chylde ne kinsman living had he none To leave them to; but thorough daily care To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne. He led a wretched life, unto him selfe unknowne. Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffise, Whose greedy lust did lacke in greatest store. Whose need had end, but no end covetise. Whose wealth was want, whose plenty made him pore. Who had enough, yett wished ever more; A vile disease, and eke in foote and hand A grievous gout tormented him full sore. That well he could not touch, nor go, nor stand: Such one was Avarice, the fourth of this faire band. 68 BRITISH POEMS And next to him malicious Envie rode. Upon a ravenous wolfe, and still did chaw Betvveene his cankred teeth a venemous tode. That all the poison ran about his chaw; But inwardly he chawed his owne maw At neighbours wealth, that made him ever sad; (For death it was when any good he saw, And wept, that cause of weeping none he had) ; But when he heard of harnie, he wexed wondrous glad. All in a kirtle of discolourd say^ He clothed was, y pain ted full of eyes; And in his bosome secretly there lay An hatefull snake, the which he taile uptj^es In many folds, and mortall sting implyes. Still as he rode, he gnasht his teeth, to see Those heapes of gold with griple^' Covetyse; And grudged at the great felicitie Of proud Lucifera, and his owne companie. He hated all good workes and vertuous deeds. And him no lesse that any like did use. And who with gracious bread the hungry feeds His almes for want of faith he doth accuse; So every good to bad he doth abuse: And eke the verse of famous poets witt. He does backebite, and spightfuU poison spues From leprous mouth on all that ever writt: Such one vile Envie was, that fifte in row did sitt. And him beside rides fierce revenging Wrath, Upon a lion, loth for to be led; And in his hand a burning brond he hath, The which he brandisheth about his hed; His eyes did hurle forth sparkles fiery red, And stared sterne on all that him beheld; As ashes, pale of hew and seeming ded; ^ quality. ^ grasping. EDMUND SPENSER 69 And on his dagger still his hand he held. Trembling through hasty rage, when eholer in him sweld. His ruffin raiment all was staind with blood, Which he had spilt, and all to rags jTcnt, Through unadvized rashnesse woxen wood;^ For of his hands he had no governement, Ne cared for bloud in his avengement: But when the furious fitt was overpast, His cruell facts he often would repent; Yet, wilful! man, he never would forecast How many mischieves should ensue his heedlcsse hast. Full many mischief es follow cruell Wrath; Abhorred bloodshed and tumultuous strife. Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath. Bitter despight, with rancours rusty knife. And fretting grief e the enemy of life; All these, and many evils moe haunt ire. The swelling splene, and frenzy raging rife. The shaking palsey, and Saint Fraunces fire; Such one was Wrath, the last of this ungodly tire. And, after all, upon the wagon beame Rode Sathan, with a smarting whip in hand. With which he forward lasht the laesie teme, So oft as Slowth still in the mire did stand. Huge routs of people did about them band, Showting for joy; and still before their way A foggy mist had covered all the land; And underneath their feet, all scattered lay Dead sculs and bones of men, whose life had gone astray. (From Book I, Canto IV, The Faerie Queene.] » mad. 70 BRITISH POEMS f THE PAGEANT OF MUTABILITIE WHO MAIN- TAINETH SHE RULETH ALL THINGS So forth issew'd the seasons of the yeare: | First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowres > That freshly budded and new bloomes did beare ;; (In which a thousand birds had built their bowres, ,i That sweetly sung, to call forth paramours): ; And in his hand a javelin he did beare, | And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures) ! A gilt engraven morion he did weare; i That, as some did him love, so others did him feare. ; Then came the jolly Sommer, being dight ; In a thin silken cassock coloured greene, ' That was unlyned all, to be more light: ; And on his head a girlond well beseene He wore, from which, as he had chauffed been, j The sweat did drop; and in his hand he bore A bowe and shaftes, as he in forrest greene [ Had hunted late the libbard or the bore, | And now would bathe his limbes, with labor heated sore. i i Then came Autumne, all in yellow clad, I As though he joyed in his plentious store, j Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad ! That he had banisht hunger, which to-fore ; Had by the belly oft him pinched sore. \ Upon his head a wreath, that was enrold With eares of corne of every sort, he bore: And in his hand a sickle he did holde, i To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold. : Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize, I Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill, ' Whil'st on his hoary beard his breath did freese, ] And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill, ' As from a limbeck, did adown distill. i EDMUND SPENSER 71 In his right hand a tipped staffe he held. With which his feeble steps he stayed still: For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarse his loosed limbes he hable was to weld. These, marching softly, thus in order went, And after them the monthes all riding came: First, sturdy March, with brows full sternlj^ bent, And armed strongly, rode upon a ram. The same which over Hellespontus swam: Yet in his hand a spade he also hent. And in a bag all sorts of seeds ysame, Which on the earth he strowed as he went. And fild her womb with fruitfuU hope of nourishment. Next came fresh Aprill, full of lustyhed. And wanton as a kid whose home new buds: Upon a bull he rode, the same which led Europa floting through th' Argolick fluds: His homes were gilden all with golden studs. And garnished with garlonds goodly dight Of all the fairest flowres and freshest buds Which th' earth brings forth, and wet he seem'd in sight With waves, through which he waded for his loves delight. Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground, Deckt all with dainties of her seasons pryde, And throwing flowres out of her lap around: Upon two brethrens shoulders she did ride. The twinnes of Leda; which on eyther side Supported her like to their soveraine queene. Lord! how all creatures laught, when her they spide, And leapt and daunc't as they had ravisht beene! And Cupid selfe about her fluttred all in greene. And after her came jolly June, arrayd All in greene leaves, as he a player were; Yet in his time he wrought as well as playd. That by his plough-yrons mote right well appeare: 72 BRITISH POEMS Upon a crab he rode, that him did beare With crooked, crawhng steps an uncouth pase. And backward yode, as bargemen wont to fare Bending their force contrary to their face. Like that ungracious crew which faines demurest grace. Then came hot July boyhng Hke to fire, That all his garments he had cast away: Upon a lyon raging yet with ire He boldly rode, and made him to obay: It was the beast that whylome did forray The Nemsean forrest, till th' Amphytrionide Him slew, and with his hide did him array: Behinde his back a sithe, and by his side Under his belt he bore a sickle circling wide. The sixt was August, being rich arrayd In garment all of gold downe to the ground: Yet rode he not, but led a lovely mayd Forth by the lilly hand, the which was cround With eares of corne, and full her hand was found: That was the righteous virgin^ which of old Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound; But, after wrong was loved and justice solde. She left th' unrighteous world and was to heaven extold. Next him September marched eeke on foote; Yet was he heavy laden with the spoyle Of harvests riches, which he made his boot, And him enricht with bounty of the soyle: In his one hand, as fit for harvests toyle. He held a knife-hook; and in th' other hand A paire of waights, with which he did assoyle Both more and lesse, where it in doubt did stand, And equall gave to each as justice duly scannd. Then came October full of merry glee; For yet his noule" was totty^ of the must, 1 Astraea ^ noddle, head, brain. ^ tottering, unsteady. EDMUND SPENSER 73 Which he was treading in the wine-fats see, And of the joyous oyle, whose gently gust Made him so f rollick and so full of lust; Upon a dreadfull scorpion he did ride, The same which by Dianses doom unjust Slew great Orion: and eeke by his side He had his ploughing-share and coulter ready tyde. Next was November; he full grosse and fat. As fed with lard, and that right well might seeme; For he had been a fatting hogs of late. That yet his browes with sweat did reek and steem. And yet the season was full sharp and breem;* In planting eeke he took no small delight. Whereon he rode, not easie was to deeme; For it a dreadfull centaure was in sight. The seed of Saturne and faire Nais, Chiron hight. And after him came next the chill December: Yet he through merry feasting which he made. And great bonfires, did not the cold remember; His Saviours birth his mind so much did glad: Upon a shaggy-bearded goat he rade. The same wherewith Dan Jove in tender yeares, They say, was nourisht by th' Idsean mayd; And in his hand a broad deepe boawle he beares. Of which he freely drinks an health to all his peeres. Then came old January, wrapped well In many weeds to keep the cold away; Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell, And bio we his nayles to warme them if he may: For they were numbd with holding all the day An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood, And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray: Upon an huge great earth-pot steane^ he stood. From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane floud, * fierce, bitter. ^ large jar. 74 BRITISH POEMS And lastly came cold February, sitting In an old wagon, for he could not ride; Drawne of two fishes for the season fitting, Which through the flood before did softly slyde And swim away: yet had he by his side His plough and harnesse fit to till the ground, And tooles to prune the trees, before the pride Of hasting Prime did make them burgein round. So past the twelve months forth, and their dew places found. And after these there came the Day and Night, Riding together both with equall pase, Th' one on a palfrey blacke, the other white: But Night had cover'd her uncomely face With a blacke veile, and held in hand a mace. On top whereof the moon and stars were pight. And Sleep and Darknesse round about did trace: But Day did beare, upon his scepters hight. The goodly sun, encompast all with beames bright. Then came the Howres, faire daughters of high Jove ' And timely Night, the which were all endewd With wondrous beauty fit to kindly love; But they were virgins all, and love eschewd. That might forslack the charge to them fore-shewd By mighty Jove, who did them porters make Of heaven's gate (whence all the gods issued) W^hich they did dayly watch, and nightly wake By even turnes, ne ever did their charge forsake. And after all came Life, and lastly Death: Death with most grim and griesly visage scene. Yet is he nought but parting of the breath; Ne ought to see, but like a shade to weene, Unbodied, unsoul'd, unheard, unseene: But Life was like a faire young lusty boy. Such as they faine Dan Cupid to have beene, Full of delightfull health and lively joy, Deckt all with flowres, and wings of gold fit to employ. EDMUND SPENSER 75 When these were past, thus gan the Titanesse: "Lo! mighty mother, now be judge, and say Whether in all thy creatures more or lesse Change doth not raign and beare the greatest sway: For who sees not that Time on all doth pray? But times do change and move continually: So nothing here long standeth in one stay: Wherefore, this lowere world who can deny But to be subject still to Mutabilitie?'' [From Book VII, Canto VII, The Faerie Queene. MUTABILITY SUBJECT TO ETERNITY When I bethinke me on that speech whyl-eare Of Mutability, and well it way. Me seemes, that though she all unworthj^ were Of the heav'ns rule, yet, very sooth to say. In all things else she beares the greatest sway; Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle. And love of things so vaine, to cast away, Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle. Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle. Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd. Of that same time when no more change shall be. But stedfast rest of all things, firmely stayd Upon the pillours of Eternity, That is contrayr to Mutabilitie: For all that moveth doth in change delight: But thence-forth all shall rest eternally With him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight: O that great Sabbaoth-God graunt me that Sabaoths sight! 1 [Book VIII, The Faebie Queene.] ' Either the death of Spenser halted The Faerie Queene at this point, or the poet ?linquished his design. But as Book VIII — of which these two stanzas alone seem to e all that was written — is called "Unperfite," the first is the more probable. 76 BRITISH POEMS JOHN LYLY [1554?-! 606] APELLES' SONG Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses; Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bows and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows; Loses them too; then down he throws The coral of his lip, the rose Growing on's cheek (but none know^s how); With these, the crystal of his brow. And then the dimple of his chin; All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O Love, has she done this to thee.'^ What shall, alas! become of me? [From Alexander and Campaspe] THOMAS LODGE [1558.^-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 ej-es he makes his nest. His bed amidst my tender breast; My kisses are his daily feast. And yet he robs me of my rest: Ah! wanton, will ye? And if I sleep, then percheth he With pretty jflight, GEORGE PEELE 77 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? 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'll make you fast it, for your sin; I'll count your power not worth a pin: Alas! what hereby shall I win, If he gainsay me? What if I beat the wanton boy With many a rod? He will repay me with annoy, Because a god. Then sit thou safely on my knee. And let thy bower my bosom be; Lurk in mine eyes; I like of thee. O Cupid! so thou pity me, Spare not, but play thee. GEORGE PEELE [155S?-1597?] DUET (Enone. Fair and fair, and twice so fair. As fair as any may be; The fairest shepherd on our green, A love for any lady. 78 BRITISH POEMS Paris. Fair and fair, and twice so fair, As fair as any may be; Thy love is fair for thee alone, And for no other lady. (En. My love is fair, my love is gay, As fresh as bin the flowers in May: And of my love my roundelay. My merry, merry roundelay, Concludes with Cupid's curse — "They that do change old love for new. Pray gods they change for worse!" Ambo. Fair and fair, etc. [From The Arraignment of Paris.] GEORGE CHAPMAN [1559P-1634] OF MAN Man is so sovereign and divine a state. That not, contracted and elaborate. The world he bears about with him alone; But even the Maker makes his breast His throne. ROBERT GREENE [1560.^-1592] SEPHESTIA'S SONG 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 ROBERT SOUTHWELL 79 When he left his pretty boy. Last his sorrow, first his joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. Streaming tears that never stint. Like pearl drops from a flint, Fell by course from his eyes. That one another's place supplies; Thus he grieved in every part. Tears of blood fell from his heart. When he left his pretty boy. Father's sorrow, father's joy. Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. The wanton smiled, father wept, Mother cried, baby leapt; More he crow'd, more we cried. Nature could not sorrow hide: He must go, he must kiss Child and mother, baby 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. ROBERT SOUTHWELL [1561.^-1595] THE BURNING BABE As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow. Surprised I was with sudden heat which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A pretty babe all burning bright did in the air appear. Who, scorched with exceeding heat, such floods of tears did shed As though His floods should quench His flames with what His tears were fed; 80 BRITISH POEMS "Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats of fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I! My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns; Love is the fire and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns ; The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals; The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls; For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to the good, So will I melt into a bath, to wash them in my blood." With this He vanish'd out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away. And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-day. SAMUEL DANIEL [1562-1619] SLEEP Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my anguish, and restore the light; With dark-forgetting of my care, return! And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth: Let waking eyes suflSce to wail their scorn. Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires. To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars. To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain. /From Sonnets to Delia.) MICHAEL DRAYTON 81 MICHAEL DRAYTON [1563-1631] LOVE'S FAREWELL Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me! And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows! And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath. When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies. When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death. And Innocence is closing up his eyes — Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover! [From the sonnet-sequence Idea.] BALLAD OF AGINCOURT Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance. Nor now to prove our chance. Longer will tarry; But putting to the main. At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day. 82 BRITISH POEMS With those that stopp'd his way. Where the French general lay With ail his power. Which in his height of pride. King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the King sending. Which he neglects the while. As from a nation vile. Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, " Though they to one be ten. Be not amazed. Yet have we well begun; Battles so bravely won, Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. "And for myself," quoth he, " This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me. Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain. Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. *' Poitiers and Cressy tell. When most their pride did swell. Under our swords they fell: No less our skill is Than when our Grandsire great. Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopp'd the French Ulies.'* MICHAEL DRAYTON 83 The Duke of York so dread The eager vanward led: With the main, Henrj^ sped, Amongst his henchmen. Exeter had the rear, A braver man not there: O Lord, how hot they were. On the false Frenchmen! They now to fight are gone. Armour on armour shone. Drum now to drum did groan. To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make. The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake. Thunder to thunder. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham, Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces; When from a meadow by. Like a storm suddenly. The English archery Stuck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong. Arrows a cloth-yard long. That like to serpents stung. Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts. But playing manly parts. And like true English hearts. Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw. And forth their bilboes drew. And on the French they flew. Not one was tardy; 84 BRITISH POEMS Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went. Our men were hardy. This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it. And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. Gloucester, that duke so good. Next of the royal blood. For famous England stood. With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight. Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade, Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made. Still as they ran up; Suffolk his axe did ply, Beaumont and Willoughby, Bare them right doughtily Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray. Which fame did not delay To England to carry; O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen. Or England breed again Such a King Harry .^ CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 85 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE [1564-1593] THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys, groves, hills and fields. Woods or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 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. A belt of straw and ivy buds. With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and by my Love. 86 BRITISH POEMS DESCRIPTION OF HERO On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood, In view and opposite two cities stood, Sea-borderers, disjoined by Neptune's might; The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight. At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, Whom young Apollo courted for her hair. And offered as a dower his burning throne, Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon. The outside of her garments were of lawn. The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn; Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove, Where Venus in her naked glory strove To please the careless and disdainful eyes Of proud Adonis, that before her lies; Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain. Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain. Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath. From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath; Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves. Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives. Many would praise the sweet smell as she past. When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast; And there, for honey, bees have sought in vain. And, beat from thence, have lighted there again. About her neck hung chains of pebblestone, Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone. She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind. Or warm or cool them, for they took delight To play upon those hands, they were so white. Buskins of shells, all silvered, used she. And branched with blushing coral to the knee; Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold, Such as the world would wonder to behold: Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills. Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills. Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pined, And, looking in her face, was strooken blind. RICHARD BARNFIELD 87 But this is true; so like was one the other, As he imagined Hero was his mother; And oftentimes into her bosom flew, About her naked neck his bare arms threw. And htid his childish head upon her breast, And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest. So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun. As Nature w^ept,' thinking she was undone. Because she took more from her than she left, And of such wondrous beauty her bereft; Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack, Since Hero's time hath half the world been black. [From Hero and Leandeb.] RICHARD BARNFIELD [1574-1627] AN ODE As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made. Beasts did leap, and birds did sing. Trees did grow, and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan. Save the nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn. Leaned her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity: "Fie, fie, fie," now would she cry; "Teru, teru!" by and by; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs, so lively shown. Made me think upon mine own. Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain! None takes pity on thy pain: 88 BRITISH POEMS Senseless trees they cannot hear thee; Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: ^ King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapped in lead; > All thy fellow birds do sing, ! Careless of thy sorrowing. | Even so, poor bird, like thee, | None alive w411 pity me. j Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled. Thou and I were both beguiled. j Every one that flatters thee I Is no friend in misery. ! Words are easy, like the wind; j Faithful friends are hard to find: i Every man will be thy friend , Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But if store of crowns be scant. No man will supply thy want. ' If that one be prodigal, ] Bountiful they will him call, \ And with such-like flattermg, "Pity but he were a king;" If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; ; If to women he be bent, j They have at commandement: i But if Fortune once do frown. Then farewell his great renown; i They that fawned on him before | Use his company no more. i He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep; i If thou wake, he cannot sleep; I Thus of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know i Faithful friend from flattering foe. { WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 89 WILLIAM SHAKSPERE [1564-1616] \^NUS BEWAILETH THE DEATH OF ADONIS "My tongue cannot express my grief for one. And yet," quoth she, "behold two Adons dead! My sighs are blown aw^ay, my salt tears gone. Mine eyes are turned to fire, my heart to lead: Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. "Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colors fresh and trim; But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him. "Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature w^ear! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The sun doth scorn j^ou and the wind doth hiss you: But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air Lurked like tw^o thieves, to rob him of his fair. "And therefore would he put his bonnet on. Under whose brim the gaudy sun w'ould peep; The wind would blow it off, and, bemg gone. Play with his locks: then w^ould Adonis weep; And straight, in pity of his tender years. They both would strive who first should dry his tears. "To see his face the lion walked along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame and gently hear him; If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey And never fright the silly lamb that day. 90 BRITISH POEMS "When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills; When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. "But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar. Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave. Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave: If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath killed him so. "'Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain: He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear. Who did not whet his teeth at him again. But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin. "Had I been toothed like him, I must confess. With kissing him I should have killed him first; But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his; the more am I accurst." With this, she falleth in the place she stood. And stains her face with his congealed blood. She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale. As if they heard the woeful words she told; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes. Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies; Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excelled. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 91 And every beauty robbed of his effect: "Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my spite, That, thou being dead, the day should yet be Ught. "Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy: Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: It shall be waited on with jealousy. Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end, Ne'er settled equally, but high or low. That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. "It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud; Bud, and be blasted, in a breathing-while; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstrawed With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile: The strongest body shall it make most weak. Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. "It shall be sparing, and too full of riot. Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet. Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the j^oung old, the old become a child. "It shall suspect where is no cause of fear; It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful and too severe. And most deceiving when it seems most just; Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward; Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. "It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustions matter is to fire: Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, They that love best their loves shall not enjoy." 92 BRITISH POEMS By this, the boy that by her side lay killed Was melted like a vapor from her sight. And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled, A purple flower sprung up, chequered with white. Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath. And says, within her bosom it shall dwell. Since he himself is reft from her by death: She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. "Poor flower," quoth she, "this was thy father's guise — Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire — For every little grief to wet his eyes: To grow unto himself was his desire. And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. "Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest. My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night; There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower." IFrom Venu3 and Adonis.] WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 93 LYRICS FROM THE PLAYS SILVIA Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair. To help him of his blindness, And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. [From Two Gentlemen of Vebona.] UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither! come hither! come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun. 94 BRITISH POEMS Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets, Come hither! come hither! come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. [From As You Like It.] BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND Blow, blow, thou winter wind! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen. Because thou art not seen. Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky! That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot; Though thou the waters warp. Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! etc. [From A3 Yod Like It.] WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 95 O MISTRESS MINE O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear! your true-love's coming That can sing both high and low; Trip no further, pretty sweeting: Journeys end in lovers meeting Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty: Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. [From Twelfth Night.] LAMENT Come away, come away, Death, And in sad c^'press let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flow^er sweet On my black coflSn let there be strown; Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave To weep there. [From Twelfth Night.] 96 BRITISH POEMS TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn: But my kisses bring again, Bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain. Sealed in vain! [From Measure for Meabuee.] HARK! HARK! THE LARK! Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalieed flowers that lies; And winkmg Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is. My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise! [From Cymbeline.] DIRGE Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done. Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must. As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 97 Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave! [From Cymbeline.] WHERE THE BEE SUCKS Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch, when owls do cry: On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. Under the blossom that hangs on the bough! [From The Tempest.] BRITISH POEMS A SEA DIRGE Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them, — Ding-dong, bell. [From The Tempest ] SONNETS Shall I compare thee to a summer's day.' Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines. By chance or nature's changing course un trimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade. When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries And look upon myself and curse my fate — Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 99 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least — (Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising). Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate! For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe. And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances forgone. And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. All losses are restored and sorrows end. When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed. And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore. And the firm soil win of the watery main. Increasing store with loss and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state. Or state itself confounded to decay. Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate — That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 100 BRITISH POEMS Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days. When rocks impregnable are not so stout. Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack. Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might. That in black ink my love may still shine bright. That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away. Death's second self, that seals up all .in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. As the death-bed whereon it must expire. Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong. To love that well which thou must leave ere long. How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December's bareness every where! And yet this time removed was summer's time. The teeming autumn, big with rich increase. Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease: Yet this abundant issue seemed to me WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 101 But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute; Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near. Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth. Thrall to these rebel powers that thee array. Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay.^ Why so large cost, having so short a lease. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend .^ Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge.^ is this thy body's end.^ Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men. And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 102 BRITISH POEMS THOMAS NASHE [1567-1601] SPRING Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo ! The palm and may^ make country houses gay. Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day. And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet. Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit. In every street these tunes our ears do greet. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring! the sweet Spring! [From Summer's Last Will.] THOMAS CAMPION [1567P-1619] CHERRY-RIPE There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place. Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow": There cherries grow which none may buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do enclose Of orient pearl a double row, * flowers of the hawthorn. ? flower (verb). THOMAS CAMPION 103 Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds filled with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. Her eyes like angels watch them still; Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to come nigh Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. WHEN TO HER LUTE CORINNA SINGS When to her lute Corinna sings. Her voice revives the leaden strings, And doth in highest notes appear, As any challenged echo clear: But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs, the strings do break. And as her lute doth live or die, Led by her passion, so must I: For when of pleasure she doth sing. My thoughts enjoy a sudden spring. But if she doth of sorrow speak, E'en from my heart the strings do break. A RENUNCIATION Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white. For all those rosy ornaments in thee, — Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight. Nor fair, nor sweet — unless thou pity me! I will not soothe thy fancies; thou shalt prove That beauty is no beauty without love. 104 BRITISH POEMS Yet love not me, nor seek not to allure My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine: Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure, I'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine. Now show it, if thou be a woman right — Embrace and kiss and love me in despite! THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT The man of life upright. Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds, Or thought of vanity; The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent. Whom hopes cannot delude Nor sorrow discontent: That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence. He only can behold With unafTrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies. Thus scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings. He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things; Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage. SIR HENRY WOTTON 105 SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI Come, cheerful day, part of my life to me; For while thou view'st me with thy fading light Part of my life doth still depart with thee. And I still onward haste to my last night: Time's fatal wings do ever forward fly — So every day we live, a day we die. But O ye nights, ordained for barren rest, How are my days deprived of life in j^ou When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossest. By feigned death life sweetly to renew! Part of my life in that, you life deny: So every day we live, a day we die. SIR HENRY WOTTON [1568-1639] THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought. And simple truth his utmost skill; Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death. Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise. Nor vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise. Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 106 BRITISH POEMS Whose state can neither flatterers feed. Nor ruin make oppressors great; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend — This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all. SIR JOHN DAVIES [1569-1626] TRUE KNOWLEDGE OF THE SOUL Thou! that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours, So that she is by double title Thine! Thou only knowst her nature and her powers; Her subtle form Thou only canst define! To judge herself, she must herself transcend; As greater circles comprehend the less; But she wants power her own powers to extend; As fettered men cannot their strength express. But Thou, bright morning Star!^ Thou, rising Sun! Which, in these later times, hast brought to light Those mysteries that, since the world begun. Lay hid in darkness and eternal night — Thou, like the sun, dost with indifferent ray Into the palace and the cottage shine. And showst the soul, both to the clerk and lay. By the clear lamp of thy oracle Divine.'^ ' See Revelation xxii, 16. THOMAS DEKKER 107 This Lamp, through all the regions of my brain, Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace. As now, methinks, I do distinguish plain Each subtle line of her immortal face. [From NoscE Teipsdm.] THOMAS DEKKER [1570P-1641] SONG Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain. Saint Hugh be our good speed! Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain. Nor helps good hearts in need. Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl. And here, kind mate, to thee: Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul. And down it merrily. Down a down! hey down a down! Hey derry derry, down a down! Ho well done; to me let come! Ring, compass, gentle joy. Trowl the bowl, etc. (From The Shoemaker's Holiday.] RUSTIC SONG Haymakers, rakers, reapers, and mowers, Wait on your Summer-Queen! Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers, Daffodils strew the green! Sing, dance, and play, 'Tis holiday! 108 BRITISH POEMS The sun does bravely shine On our ears of corn. Rich as a pearl Comes every girl — This is mine, this is mine, this is mine! Let us die ere away they be borne. Bow to the sun, to our Queen, and that fair one Come to behold our sports: Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one, As those in princes' courts. These and we With country glee Will teach the woods to resound. And the hills with echoes hollow: Skipping lambs Their bleating dams 'Mongst kids shall trip it round — For joy thus our wenches we follow. Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly! Hounds, make a lusty cry! Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely, Then let your brave hawks fly! Horses amain. Over ridge, over plain, The dogs have the stag in chase, 'Tis a sport to content a king. So ho! ho! through the skies How the proud bird flies. And sousing, kills with a grace! Now the deer falls — hark! how they ring! [From The Son's Darling, by Dekker and Ford.] BEN JONSON 109 BEN JONSON [1573P-1637]* SONG TO CELIA Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath. Not so much honouring thee. As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe. And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. Not of itself, but thee. HYMN TO DIANA Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair. Now the sun is laid to sleep. Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light. Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. "* See note on page 130. no BRITISH POEMS Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night. Goddess excellently bright! [From Cynthia's Revels.] THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove. And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight. That they still were to run by her side. Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? BEN JONSON 111 Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! ECHO'S LAMENT OF NARCISSUS Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears: Yet slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs: List to the heavy part the music bears. Woe weeps out her division, when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers. Fall grief in showers. Our beauties are not ours; O, I could still. Like melting snow upon some craggy hill. Drop, drop, drop, drop, Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil. [From Cynthia's Revels.] SONG Still to be neat, still to be drest. As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed. Though art's hid causes are not found. All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face. That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. [From Epicene; or, The Silent Woman.] 112 BRITISH POEMS AN HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER Hear me, O God! A broken heart Is my best part: Use still thy rod, That I may prove. Therein, Thy love. If thou hadst not Been stern to me. But left me free, I had forgot Myself and Thee. For, sin's so sweet, As minds ill-bent Rarely repent. Unless they meet Their punishment. Who more can crave Than Thou hast done.^^ Thou gav'st a Son To free a slave. First made of nought. With all since bought. Sin, death, and hell His glorious Name Quite overcame; Yet I rebel. And slight the same. But, I'll come in Before my loss Me farther toss; As sure to win Under his cross. JOHN DONNE 113 JOHN DONNE [1573-1631] SONG Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all times past are, Or who cleft the devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights. Things invisible go see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No w^here Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one let me know. Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not; I would not go. Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she / Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. 114 BRITISH POEMS THE DREAM Dear love, for nothing less than thee ! Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme | For reason, much too strong for fantasy. | Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet j My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it. i Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice ] To make dreams truths, and fables histories; i Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best ' Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest. j I As lightning, or a taper's light, i Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; Yet I thought thee— \ For thou lov'st truth — an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart. And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, | When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when j Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, j I must confess it could not choose but be j Profane to think thee anything but thee. i Coming and staying show'd thee, thee; ! But rising makes me doubt that now j Thou art not thou ; . j That love is weak where fear's as strong as he: j 'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, | If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have. ] Perchance as torches, which must ready be. Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me. Thou cam'st to kindle, go'st to come: then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die. | JOHN DONNE 115 LOVE'S DEITY I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost Who died before the God of Love was born. I cannot think that he who then loved most Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. But since this God produced a destiny; And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be; I must love her that loves not me. Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, Nor he in his young godhead practiced it. But when an even flame two hearts did touch. His office was indulgently to fit Actives to passives. Correspondency Only his subject was; it cannot be Love till I love her who loves me. But every modern god will not extend His vast prerogative as far as Jove. To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, All is the purlieu of the God of Love. O! were we waken'd by this tyranny To ungod this child again, it could not be I should love her who loves not me. Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, As though I felt the worst that Love could do? Love may make me leave loving, or might try A deeper plague, to make her love me too; Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see. Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, If she whom I love, should love me. 116 BRITISH POEMS THE FUNERAL Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch. For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone. Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain. Can better do't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain. As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die. Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me. For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If mto other hands these reliques came. As 'twas humility T'afford to it all that a soul can do. So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you. THE WILL Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Great Love, some legacies. Here I bequeath Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see; If they be blind, then Love, I give them thee: My tongue to Fame: to ambassadors mine ears: To women, or the sea, my tears. JOHN DONNE 117 Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live: Mine ingenuity and openness To Jesuits: to buffoons my pensiveness: My silence to any who abroad hath been: My money to a Capuchin. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me To love there, where no love receiv'd can be. Only to give to such as have an incapacity. My faith I give to Roman Catholics: All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam: my best civility And courtship, to an university: My modesty I give to shoulders bare: My patience let gamesters share. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity, Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. I give my reputation to those Which were my friends; my industry to foes: To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness: My sickness to physicians, or excess: To Nature, all that I in rhyme have writ: And to my company my wit. Thou, Love, by making me adore Her, who begot this love in me before, Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I did but restore. To him for whom the passing bell next tolls I give my physic books: my written rolls Of moral counsels I to bedlam give: My brazen medals, unto them which live 118 BRITISH POEMS In want of bread: to them whicli pass among All foreigners, my English tongue. Thou, Love, by making me love one Who thinks her friendship a fit portion For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. Therefore I'll give no more; but I'll undo The world by dj'ing, because love dies too. Then all your beauties will be no more worth Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth: And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sun-dial on a grave. Thou Love, taughtest me, by making me Love her, who doth neglect both me and thee. To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three. A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun. Which was my sin, though it were done before.'' Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore.^ When Thou hast done. Thou hast not done; For I have more. Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door.'* Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score.' When Thou hast done. Thou hast not done; For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore; And, having done that. Thou hast done; I fear no more. JOHN DONNE 119 FORGET If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on else-immortal us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damned, alas! why should I be? Why should intent or reason, born in me. Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous? And, mercy being easy and glorious To God, in his stern wrath why threatens He? — But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee? O God, O! of Thine only worthy blood, And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drown in it my sin's black memory. That Thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy if Thou wilt forget. DEATH Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death: nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go — Rest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally. And Death shall be no more. Death, thou shalt die! 120 BRITISH POEMS JOHN FLETCHER [1579-1625] SONG TO BACCHUS God Ly^us, ever young. Ever honoured, ever sung; Stained with blood of lusty grapes. In a thousand lusty shapes. Dance upon the mazer's brim, In the crimson liquor swim; From thy plenteous hand divine Let a river run with wine; God of youth, let this day here Enter neither care nor fear! [From Valentian.] WEEP NO MORE Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan; Sorrow calls no time that's gone; Violets plucked the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again; Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see; Joys as winged dreams fly fast. Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no mo. [From The Queen of Cobinth.1 FRANCIS BEAUMONT 121 ASPATIA'S SONG Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear; Say, I died true. My love was false, but I was firm From my hour of birth. Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth! (From The Maid's Tragedy.] FRANCIS BEAUMONT [1584-1616] LINES ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER Mortality, behold and fear! What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within this heap of stones; Here they lie had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands; Where from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest royal'st seed That the earth did e'er suck in, Since the first man died for sin; Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died." Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state. Buried in dust, once dead by fate. 122 BRITISH POEMS \ I i GILES FLETCHER [1585P-1623] j ! NATURE AWAITETH THE TRIUMPH OF CHRIST Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire. And stick'st thy habit full of dasies red? Seems that thou doest to some high thought aspire, ' And some new-found-out Bridegroom mean'st to wed: Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled — ; So never let the spiteful canker waste you! \ So never let the heav'ns with light'ning blast you! ; Why go you now so trimly drest, or whither haste you? ' Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide ] So often wanders from his nearest way, j As though some other way thy stream would slide, ' And fain salute the place where something lay? And you, sweet Birds, that, shaded from the ray, i Sit carolling, and piping grief away, i The while the lambs do hear you dance and play — i Tell me, sweet Birds, what is it you so fain would saj^^ | I And thou, fair Spouse of Earth, that every year I Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride, ! How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near? , Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spy'd, | That in one place, for joy, thou canst not bide! \ And you dead swallows, that so lively now ; Through the flit air you winged passage row, i How could new life into your frozen ashes flow? Ye Primroses and purple Violets — '. Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, ^ And woo men's hands to rend you from your seats. As though you would somewhere be carried, } With fresh perfumes, and velvets garnished? | I GILES FLETCHER 123 But, ah! I need not ask — 'tis surely so! You all would to your Saviour's triumph go, There would ye all await, and humble homage do. There should the Earth herself (with garlands new. And lovely flow'rs embellished) adore: Such roses never in her garland grew; Such lilies never in her breast she wore; Like beauty never yet did shine before: There should the sun another Sun behold. From whence himself borrows his locks of gold That kindle heav'n and Earth with beauties manifold. There might the Violet and Primrose sweet ^ Beams of more lively and more lovely grace. Arising from their beds of incense meet; There should the Swallow see new life embrace Dead ashes, and the grave unheal his face To let the living from his bowels creep. Unable longer his own dead to keep: There heav'n and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep: Their Lord! before, by other judg'd to die; Now judge of all himself: before, forsaken Of all the world, that from his aid did fly; Now, by the Saints into their armies taken: Before, for an unworthy man mistaken; Now, worthy to be God confest; before. With blasphemies by all the basest lore; Now, worshipped by Angels that him low adore. [From Christ's Triumph After Death.] 1 exhale. 124 BRITISH POEMS JOHN WEBSTER [1580P-1625?] DIRGE Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren. Since o'er shady groves they hover And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again. [From The White Devil.] THREE ANONYMOUS LYRICS WALY, waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae. And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! 1 leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly ^ me. O waly waly, but love be bonny A little time while it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my liead.'^ Or wherefore should I kame my hair-f^ For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair. * slight. ANONYMOUS 125 Now Arthur-seat" sail be my bed; The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me: Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree? gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie. 'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me crj'. But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town We were a comely sight to see; My Love was clad in the black velvet, .And I mysell in cramasie.^ But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win; 1 had lockt my heart in a case of gowd And pinn'd it with a siller pin. And, O! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysell were dead and gane. And the green grass growing over me! II My Love in her attire doth shew her wit, It doth so well become her: For every season she hath dressings fit. For winter, spring, and summer. No beauty she doth miss When all her robes are on: But Beauty's self she- is When all her robes are gone. 2 Arthur's Seat is a hill near Edinburgh: oa one of its slopes is Saint Anton's well 3 crimson. 126 BRITISH POEMS m Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting: For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses. WILLIAM DRUMMOND [1585-1649] SUMMONS TO LOVE Phcebus, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red: Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed That she may thy career with roses spread: The nightingales thy coming each-where sing: Make an eternal Spring! Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou wast wont before, And emperor-like decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. — This is that happy morn. That day, long-wished day Of all my life so dark, (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates my hopes betray). Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. WILLIAM DRUMMOND 127 Fair King, who all preserves, But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye winds would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre. Your furious chiding stay; Let Zephyr only breathe. And with her tresses play. — The winds all silent are, And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue. The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue; Here is the pleasant place — And nothing wanting is, save She, alas! HUMAN FOLLY Of this fair volume which we World do name If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare: Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame, His providence extending everywhere, His justice which proud rebels doth not spare. In every page, no period of the same. But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold. Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best, On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold; Or if by chance we staj^ our minds on aught, It is some picture on the margin wrought. 128 BRITISH POEMS SAINT JOHN BAPTIST The last and greatest herald of Heaven's King Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild. Among that savage brood the woods forth bring. Which he more harmless found than man, and mild. His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parcji'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn. Repent, repent, and from old errors turn! " Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent. Rung from their flinty caves, " Repent! Repent! " GEORGE WITHER [1588-1667] THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION Shall I, wasting in despair. Die, because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day. Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me. What care I how fair she be? Should my seely heart be pined, 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle dove, or pelican, If she be not so to me. What care I how kind she be? WILLIAM BROWNE 129 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best. If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool, and die? He that bears a noble mind, If not outward helps he find. Thinks what, with them, he would do. That, without them, dares her woo. And unless that mind I see. What care I though great she be? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair! If she love me (this believe!) I will die, ere she shall grieve! If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn, and let her go! For if she be not for me. What care I for whom she be? WILLIAM BROWNE [1591-1643] MAN Like to a silkworm of one year. Or like a wronged lover's tear. Or on the waves a rudder's dint. Or like the sparkles of a flint. Or like to little cakes perfumed. Or fireworks made to be consumed — 130 BRITISH POEMS Even such is man, and all that trust In weak and animated dust. The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed; The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead; The cake is burnt; the firework done; And man as these as quickly gone. ON A ROPE-MAKER HANGED Here lies a man much wronged in his hopes, Who got his wealth backwards by making of ropes: It was his hard chance in his fortunes to falter For he lived by the ropes, and died by the halter. ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE' Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse: Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learned and good as she. Time shall throw a dart at thee. Marble piles let no man raise To her name: for after days Some kind woman, born as she, Reading this, like Niobe Shall turn marble, and become Both her mourner and her tomb. •For upward of a century this epitaph has been ascribed to Ben Jonson. Its authorship was eventually established when it was found in a MS. in Trinity College, Dublin, signed with Browne's name. The second, and vastly inferior sextain, is possibly by another hand, that of the (then) Earl of Pembroke. ROBERT HERRICK 131 ROBERT HERRICK [1591-1674] CHERRY-RIPE Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry. Full and fair ones, come and buy! If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer, "There, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle, AYhose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow." HOW ROSES CAME RED Roses at first were white, Till they could not agree Whether my Sapho's breast Or they more white should be. But being vanquished quite, A blush their cheeks bespread; Since which, believe the rest. The roses first came red. SWEET DISORDER A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction — An erring lace, which here and there Enthrals the crimson stomacher — A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly — A winning wave, deserving note. In the tempestuous petticoat — 132 BRITISH POEMS A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civihty — Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES Whenas in silks my Julia goes Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me! TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. The higher he's a-getting The sooner will his race be run. And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first. When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time; And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, ^ You may for ever tarry. ROBERT HERRICK 133 TO DAFFODILS Fair Daffodils! we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. A NIGHT PIECE Her eyes the glowworm lend thee. The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also. Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee. Nor snake or slowworm bite thee; But on, on thy way. Not making a stay. Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 134 BRITISH POEMS Let not the dark thee cumber; I What though the moon does shimber? The stars of the night i Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear, without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee. Thus, thus to come unto me; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell, A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof, Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep ^ Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour so my hall And kitchen's small; A Httle buttery, and therein A little bin. Which keeps my little loaf of bread LTnchipp'd, unflead; Some little sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire. ROBERT HERRICK 135 Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress. Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth. And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink. Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plentj'-dropping hand That soils my land, And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine. All these, and better. Thou dost send Me, to this end. That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign. As wholly thine. But the acceptance, that must be. My Christ, by Thee. 136 BRITISH POEMS CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east Above an hour since: yet you not dressed; Nay! not so much as out of bed.^ When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin. Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green. And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept. Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this An ark, a tabernacle is. ROBERT HERRICK 137 Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see 't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for Ma}- And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maymg. There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white- thorn laden, home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth. And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying. Come, let us go while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain. Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade. All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying. Come, my Corinna, come let's go a-Maying. 138 BRITISH POEMS UPON PREW HIS MAID j In this little urn is laid Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid. From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet. FRANCIS QUARLES [1592-1644] AN ECSTASY E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams. And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks. Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, Where in a greater current they conjoin: So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. E'en so we met; and after long pursuit. E'en so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit. For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine; So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. If all those glittering monarchs, that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball. Should tender in exchange their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine. GEORGE HERBERT 139 GEORGE HERBERT [1593-1633] VIRTUE Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. THE COLLAR I STRUCK the board, and cry'd "No more! I will abroad. What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store.^ Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore. What I have lost, with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine * abundance. 140 BRITISH POEMS Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it? No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart! but there is fruit. And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures. Leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage; Thy rope of sands Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw. And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! Take heed! I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there. Tie up thy fears. He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load." But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, "Child." And I reply'd, "My Lord." THE QUIP The merry World did on a day With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together where I lay. And all in sport to jeer at me. First, Beauty crept into a rose; Which when I pluckt not, "Sir," said she, "Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?" But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. GEORGE HERBERT 141 Then Money came, and chinking still, "What tune is this, poor man?" said he: "I heard in Music you had skiU." But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came brave Glory puffing by In silks that whistled, who but he! He scarce allow'd me half an eye. But Thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. Then came quick Wit and Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration. But Thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Yet when the hour of Thy design To answer these fine things shall come. Speak not at large: say, " I am Thine; " And then they have their answer home. THE PULLEY When God at first made man. Having a glass of Blessings standing by; "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span." So Strength first made a way; Then Beauty flow'd; then Wisdom, Honour, Pleasure. When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, Rest in the bottom lay. "For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me. And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature; So both should losers be. 142 BRITISH POEMS **Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness; Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast." DIVINE LOVE Thou art too hard for me in Love. There is no dealing with Thee in that art. That is Thy masterpiece, I see. When I contrive and plot to prove Something that may be conquest on my part, Thou still, O Lord, outstrippest me. Sometimes, whenas I wash, I say, — And shrodely^ as I think,^Lord, wash my soul, More spotted than my flesh can be! But then there comes into my way Thy ancient baptism, which when I was foul And knew it not, yet cleansed me. I took a time when Thou didst sleep. Great waves of trouble combating my breast: I thought it brave to praise Thee then. Yet then I found that Thou didst creep Into my heart with joy, giving more rest Than flesh did lend Thee back again. Let me but once the conquest have Upon the matter, 'twill Thy conquest prove. If Thou subdue mortality. Thou dost no more than doth the grave; Whereas if I o'ercome Thee and Thy love. Hell, death, and devil come short of me. shrewdly. JAMES SHIRLEY 143 LOVE'S ANSWER Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back. Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lack'd anything. "A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here:" Love said, "You shall be he." "I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee!" Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I.'^" "Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat. JAMES SHIRLEY [1596-1666] THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down. And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 144 BRITISH POEMS j Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: ■ But their strong nerves at last must yield; I They tame but one another still: i Early or late \ They stoop to fate, i And must give up their murmuring breath ^ When they, pale captives, creep to death. ] The garlands wither on your brow; ■ Then boast no more \^our mighty deeds; j Upon Death's purple altar now | See where the victor-victim bleeds: \ Your heads must come ' To the cold tomb; ; Only the actions of the just | Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. i (From The Contention of Ajax and llLTSSEa.) j THOMAS CAREW [1598P-1639?] SONG Ask me no more where Jove bestows. When June is past, the fading rose. For in your beauty's orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day, For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past, For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note. THOMAS CAREW 145 Ask me no more where those stars light . That downwards fall in dead of night, For in your eyes th^ey sit, and there Fixed become as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest. For unto you at last she flies. And in your fragrant bosom dies. INGRATEFUL BEAUTY THREATENED Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 'Twas I that gave thee thy renown. Thou hadst in the forgotten crowd Of common beauties lived unknown. Had not my verse exhaled thy name. And with it imp'd the wings of Fame. That killing power is none of thine; I gave it to thy voice and eyes; Thy sweets, thy graces, all are mine; Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies; Then dart not from thy borrow'd sphere Lightning on him that fixt thee there. Tempt me with such affrights no more. Lest what I made I uncreate; Let fools thy mystic form adore, I know thee in thy mortal state. Wise poets, that wrapt Truth in tales. Knew her themselves through all her veils. 146 BRITISH POEMS AN EPITAPH This little vault, this narrow room. Of love and beauty is the tomb; The dawning beam, that 'gan to clear Our clouded sky, lies darken'd here; For ever set to us: by death Sent to enflame the world beneath. 'Twas but a bud, yet did contain More sweetness than shall spring again; A budding star, that might have grown Into a sun when it had blown. This hopeful beauty did create New life in love's declining state; But now his empire ends, and we From fire and wounding darts are free; His brand, his bow, let no man fear: The flames, the arrows, all lie here. WILLIAM HABINGTON [1605-1654] TO ROSES IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunn'ry of her breasts. For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests. Transplanted thus how bright ye grow. How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden cowslips so Are sweeter than i' th' open field. In those white cloisters live secure From the rude blasts of wanton breath. Each hour more innocent and pure. Till you shall wither into death. ABRAHAM COWLEY 147 Then that which living gave you room Your glorious sepulchre shall be: There wants no marble for a tomb, Whose breast has marble been to me. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT [1606-1668] SONG The lark now leaves his wat'ry nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings, He takes this window for the east. And to implore your light, he sings. Awake! Awake! the morn will never rise. Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star. The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake! Awake! break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn! ABRAHAM COWLEY [1618-1667] DRINKING The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The plants suck in the earth, and are W^ith constant drinking fresh and fair: The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up. So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup: The busy sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) 148 BRITISH POEMS Drinks up the sea, and when lie's done. The moon and stars drink up the sun: They drink and dance by their own Hght, They drink and revel all the night: Nothing in Nature 's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. —Fill up the bowl then! fill it high! Fill all the glasses there! for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why? [From Anacreontiques.] THE WISH Well then! I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree. The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd and buzz and murmurings, i Of this great hive, the city. J Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave | May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books; both true, 1 Both wise, and both deKghtful too! 1 And since love ne'er will from me flee, "i A Mistress moderately fair, I And good as guardian-angels are, j Only beloved and loving me. i O founts! O when in you shall I j Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? ] O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made \ The happy tenant of your shade? ^ Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood: ABRAHAM COWLEY 149 [Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,] * Where all the riches lie that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but echo flatter. The Gods, when they descend, hither From heaven did always choose their way: And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither. How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude. In deserts, solitude. I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see. Should hither throng to live like me. And so make a city here. ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY It was a dismal and a fearful night, — Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light. When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast. By something liker death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow. And on my soul hung the dull weight Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that.? Ah me! Too much I know! My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, This line, which modern editors print, does not appear in any of the earlier editions of Cowley. 150 BRITISH POEMS ; Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan? j O thou hast left me all alone! i Thy soul and body, when death's agony ! Besieged around thy noble heart, ; Did not with more reluctance part / Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, , Have ye not seen us walking every day? j Was there a tree about which did not know I The love betwixt us two? • Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade, j Or your sad branches thicker join. And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid. Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er Submitted to inform a body here; High as the place 'twas shortly in heaven to have. But low and humble as his grave; So high that all the virtues there did come As to their chiefest seat Conspicuous, and great; So low that for me too it made a room. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, As if for him knowledge had rather sought; Nor did more learning ever crowded lie In such a short mortality. Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ. Still did the notions throng About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Yet never did his God or friends forget. And when deep talk and wisdom came in view. Retired, and gave to them their due. SIR JOHN DENHAM 151 For the rich help of books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with notions written o'er, As if wise Nature had made that her book. With as much zeal, devotion, piety. He always lived, as other saints do die. Still with his soul severe account he kept. Weeping all debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the sun's labourious light. Which still in water sets at night. Unsullied with his journey of the day. [From the poem of the same title.] SIR JOHN DENHAM [1615-1669] THE RIVER THAMES My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays; Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons. By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet Eternity; Though with those streams he no resemblance hold. Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold, His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore. O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing. And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay. Like mothers which their infants overlay. Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave; No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil. But godlike his unwearied bounty flows, First loves to do, then loves the good he does; 152 BRITISH POEMS j Nor are his blessings to his hanks confined, \ But free and common as the sea or wind; When he to boast or to disperse liis stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, ! Visits the world, and in his flying towers. Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours, Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, Cities in deserts, woods in cities plants; So that to us no thing, no place is strange, ] While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. j O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme! Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, I Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. [From Cooper's Hill.] | EDMUND WALLER [1606-1687] TO PHYLLIS Phyllis! why should we delay Pleasures shorter than the day.^ Could we (which we never can) Stretch our lives beyond their span, Beauty like a shadow flies, And our youth before us dies. Or would youth and beauty stay. Love hath wings, and will away. Love hath swifter wings than Time; Change in love to heaven does climb. Gods, that never change their state, Varj^ oft their love and hate. Phyllis! to this truth we owe All the love betwixt us two. Let not you and I inquire What has been our past desire; On what shepherds you have smiled. Or what nymphs I have beguiled; EDMUND WALLER 153 Leave it to the planets too, What we shall hereafter do; For the joys we now may prove. Take advice of present love. ON A GIRDLE That which her slender waist confined. Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer; My joy, my grief, my hope, my love. Did all within this circle move. A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair; Give me but what this ribband bound. Take all the rest the sun goes round. GO, LOVELY ROSE Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me. That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young. And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide. Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; 154 BRITISH POEMS Bid her come forth! Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die: that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share, They are so wondrous sweet and fair. SIR JOHN SUCKLING [1609-1642] A REFUSAL OF MARTYRDOM O FOR some honest lover's ghost. Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below! I strangely long to know Whether the nobler chaplets wear, Those that their mistress' scorn did bear Or those that were used kindly. For whatsoe'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there, I fear, be found That to the being crown'd T' have loved alone will not suffice. Unless we also have been wise And have our loves enjoy'd. What posture can we think him in That, here unloved, again Departs, and 's thither gone Where each sits by his own.'^ Or how can that Elysium be Where I my mistress still must see Circled in other's arms? SIR JOHN SUCKLING For there the judges all are just, And Sophronisba must Be his whom she held dear. Not his who loved her here. The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus. Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble martyrs here: And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), ye kinder gods. Give me the woman here! THE CONSTANT LOVER Out upon it! I have loved Three whole days together! And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays. Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she. And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. 156 BRITISH POEMS WHY SO PALE AND WAN Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prythee, why so pale? Will, if looking well ean't move her. Looking ill prevail? Prythee, why so pale? Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prythee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't? Prythee, why so mute? Quit, quit, for shame! This will not move; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love. Nothing can make her: The D— 1 take her! (From Aglauba.] WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT [1611-1643] ON A VIRTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN THAT DIED SUDDENLY When the old flaming Prophet climb'd the sky, Who, at one glimpse, did vanish, and not die. He made more preface to a death than this: So far from sick, she did not breathe amiss. She, who to Heaven more heaven doth annex. Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, Accounted nothing death but t' be repriev'd. And died as free from sickness as she lived. Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven. She only saw her time and stept to Heaven, Where Seraphim view all her glories o'er As one return'd, that had been there before. RICHARD CRASHAW 157 For while she did this lower world adorn, Her body seem'd rather assumed than born: So rarefied, advanced, so pure and whole, That body might have been another's soul; And equally a miracle it were, That she could die, or that she could live here. RICHARD CRASHAW [1613P-1649] THE FLAMING HEART UPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICAL SAINT TERESA Live in these conquering leaves: live all the same; And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame 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 a 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 carcase of a hard cold heart; Let all thy scatter'd 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! By all thy dower of lights and fires; By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day. And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire. By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; 158 BRITISH POEMS By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His; By all the Heav'n thou hast in Him (Fair sister of the Seraphim!); By all of Him we have in thee; Leave nothing of myself in me. Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may die! [From The Flaming Heart, etc.] 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. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore — I could not love thee. Dear, so much. Loved I not honour more. TO LUCASTA ON GOING BEYOND SEAS ! If to be absent were to be Away from thee; Or that when I am gone You or I were alone; Then, my Lucasta, might I crave Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave. RICHARD LOVELACE 159 But I'll not sigh one blast or gale To swell my sail, Or pay a tear to 'suage The foaming blue-god's rage; For whether he will let me pass Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. Though seas and land betwixt us both. Our faith and troth, Like separated souls, All time and space controls: Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknown, and greet as Angels greet. So then we do anticipate Our after-fate. And are alive i' the skies. If thus our lips and eyes Can speak like spirits unconfined In Heaven, their earthv bodies left behind. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON When love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fetter'd to her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know^ no such liberty. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crown'd, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free- 160 BRITISH POEMS Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such Hberty. When, Hke committed Hnnets, 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 Kjiow no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love — And in my soul am free. Angels alone, that soar above. Enjoy such liberty. HENRY VAUGHAN [1622-1695] 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; When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two, from my first love, And looking back — ^at that short space — Could see a glimpse of His bright face: When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, HENRY VAUGHAN IGl 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 sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense. But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back. And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain. Where first I left my glorious train; From whence th' enlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palm Trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love. But I by backward steps will move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. DEPARTED FRIENDS They are all gone into the world of Light, And I alone sit ling'ring here; Their very memory is fair and bright. And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove. Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest. After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory. Whose light doth trample on my days: My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. 1G2 BRITISH POEMS O holy Hope, and high Humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have show'd them me. To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just. Shining nowhere but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some 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. The captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up, gives room. She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass; Or else remove me hence unto that hill. Where I shall need no glass. HENRY VAUGHAN 163 THE WORLD I SAW Eternity the other night. Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years, Driv'n by the spheres Like a vast shadow moved; in which the world And all her train were hurled. The doting Lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights. Wit's sour delights. With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure. Yet his dear treasure. All scatter'd la3% while he his eyes did pour Upon a flower. The darksome Statesman, hung with weights and woe. Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so slow. He did not stay, nor go; Condemning thoughts — like sad eclipses — scowl Upon his soul. And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found, Work'd under ground. Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see That policy; Churches and altars fed him; perjuries Were gnats and flies; It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he Drank them as free. The fearful Miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, 1G4 BRITISH POEMS Yet would not place one piece alone, but lives In fear of thieves. Thousands there were as frantic as himself, And hugg'd each one his pelf; The downright Epicure placed heav'n in sense And scorn'd pretence; While others, slipt into a wide excess. Said little less; The weaker sort, slight trivial wares enslave. Who think them brave; And poor despised Truth sate counting by Their victory. Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing. And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring; But most would use no wing. O fools — said I — thus to prefer dark night Before true light! To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day Because it shews the way. The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God; A way where you might tread the sun, and be More bright than he! But as I did their madness so discuss One whisper'd thus, "This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide, But for His bride." JOHN MILTON 165 JOHN MILTON [1608-1674] 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 his jealous 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 ycleped 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 washt in dew 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 ye go On the light fantastic toe; 166 BRITISH POEMS 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 Hve with her, and Hve 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 sweetbriar, 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 list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbring Morn, From the side of some hoar hill. Through the high wood echoing shrill: 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 lantskip ^ round it measures: Russet lawns, ^ and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 1 landscape, 2 pastures JOHN MILTON 167 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 Cj^nosure 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. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, W^hen 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 sun-shine holyday. Till the live-long day-light fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. With stories told of many a feat. How fairy Mab the junkets eat: — She was pincht and pulled, she said; And he, by Friar's lantern led. Tells how the drudging 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 lubbar fend, 3 fiddles. 1G8 BRITISH POEMS And stretcht 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. There let Hj^men 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 Shakspere, 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 heapt Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear JOHN MILTON 169 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! 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! 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. 170 BRITISH POEMS Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, j All in a robe of darkest grain, j Flowing with majestic train, I And sable stole of cypress 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 i With a sad leaden downward cast j Thou fix them on the earth as fast. I And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, j Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 1 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 i Him that yon soars on golden wing, j Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, I The Cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, j 'Less Philomel will deign a song, j In her sweetest saddest plight, ! Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, ' While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er th' accustomed oak. — Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, ! Most musical, most melancholy! ] 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. Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way. JOHN MILTON 171 And oft, as if her bead 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 harm. 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 words or what vast regions hold Th' immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook; And of those Daemons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground. Whose power hath a true consent With planet or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred 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. 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. 172 BRITISH POEMS 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 turneys, 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 kerchieft 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, i Of pine, or monumental oak, ' Where the rude axe with heaved stroke j 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, j Hide me from Day's garish eye, 1 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. JOHN MILTON 173 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 th' 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 antic 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. 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 DROWNED IN THE IRISH CHANNEL 1637 Yet 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 174 BRITISH POEMS 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 be to my sable shroud! 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 ej'elids of the Morn, W^e 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 Damcetas 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'er-grown. And all their echoes, mourn. The willows, and the hazel copses green. Shall now no more be seen JOHN MILTON 175 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 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! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely, slighted. Shepherd's trade And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Weie it not better done, as others use. To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neisra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live labourious 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; 176 BRITISH POEMS As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." 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 .f^ 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 th' 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: — "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 reck'ning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! 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! JOHN MILTON 177 What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they hst, 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 inwardl}^ 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. Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. For so, to interpose a little ease. Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. 178 BRITISH POEMS 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; W^here, 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. And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, liycidas, 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. JOHN MILTON 179 ON THE LATE INIASSACRE IN PIEDMONT Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered Saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones. Forget not: in Thy book record their groans Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way. Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 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." 180 BRITISH POEMS ON HIS DECEASED WIFE Methougiit I saw my late espoused saint Brought to me like Alcestis 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 childbed 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! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. THE FALLEN HOSTS IN HELL All in a moment through the gloom were seen Ten thousand banners rise into the air. AVith orient colours waving: with them rose A forest huge of spears; and thronging helms Appeared, and serried shields in thick array Of depth immeasurable. Anon they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft recorders — such as raised To height of noblest temper heroes, old Arming to battle — and instead of rage Deliberate valour breathed, firm, and unmoved With dread of death to flight or foul retreat; Nor wanting power to mitigate and 'suage With solemn touches troubled thoughts, and chase Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they, Breathing united force, with fixed thought. Moved on in silence to soft pipes that charmed JOHN MILTON 181 Their painful steps o'er the burnt soil; and now Advanced in view they stand — a horrid front Of dreadful length and dazzling arms, in guise Of warriors old with ordered spear and shield. Awaiting what command their mighty Chief Had to impose. He through the armed files Darts his experienced eye, and soon traverse The whole battalion views — their order due. Their visages and stature as of gods: Their number last he sums. And now his heart Distends with pride, and, hardening in his strength. Glories: for never since created man Met such embodied force as, named with these, Could merit more than that small infantry Warred on by cranes — though all the giant brood Of Phlegra with the heroic race were joined That fought at Thebes and Ilium, on each side Mixed with auxiliar gods; and what resounds In fable or romance of Uther's son Begirt with British and Armoric knights; And all who since, baptized or infidel. Jousted in Aspramont, or Montalban, Damasco, or Marocco, or Trebizond, Or whom Biserta sent from Afric shore, When Charlemain with all his peerage fell By Fontarabbia. Thus far these beyond Compare of mortal prowess, yet observed Their dread Commander. He, above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent. Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost All its original brightness, nor appeared Less than Archangel ruined, and th' excess Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen Looks through the horizontal misty air Shorn of his beams, or, from behind the moon. In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shon Above them all th' Archangel: but his face 182 BRITISH POEMS Deep scars of thunder had entrenched, and care Sat on his faded cheek; hut under brows Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast Signs of remorse and passion, to behold The fellows of his crime, the followers rather (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned For ever now to have their lot in pain — Millions of Spirits for his fault amerced Of Heaven, and from eternal splendours flung For his revolt — yet faithful how they stood, Their glory withered; as when heaven's fire Hath scathed the forest oaks, or mountain pines. With singed top their stately growth, though bare. Stands on the blasted heath. He now prepared To speak; whereat their doubled ranks they bend From wing to wing, and half enclose him round With all his peers. Attention held them mute. Thrice he essayed, and tlu-ice, in spite of scorn. Tears such as angels weep, burst forth; at last Words, interwove with sighs, found out their way. "O myriads of immortal Spirits! O Powers Matchless, but with the Almighty! — and that strife AVas not inglorious, though th' event was dire, As this place testifies, and this dire change. Hateful to utter. But what power of mind. Foreseeing or presaging, from the depth Of knowledge, past or present, could have feared How such united force of gods, how such As stood like these, could ever know repulse.'^ For who can yet believe, though after loss, That all these puissant legions, whose exile Hath emptied Heaven, shall fail to reascend Self-raised, and re-possess their native seat.'^ For me, be witness all the host of Heaven, If counsels different, or dangers shunned By me, have lost our hopes. But he who reigns Monarch in Heaven till then as one secure Sat on his throne, upheld by old repute. JOHN MILTON 183 Consent or custom, and his regal state Put forth at full: but still his strength concealed Which tempted our attempt, and wrought our fall. Henceforth his might we know, and know our own, So as not either to provoke, or dread New war provoked: our better part remains To work in close design, by fraud or guile, What force effected not; that he no less At length from us may find, who overcomes By force, hath overcome but half his foe. Space may produce new Worlds; whereof so rife There went a fame in Heaven that He ere long Intended to create, and therein plant A generation, whom his choice regard Should favour equal to the Sons of Heaven. Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps Our first eruption — thither, or elsewhere; For this infernal pit shall never hold Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor th' Abyss Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts Full counsel must mature. Peace is despaired; For who can think submission.^ W^ar, then, war Open or understood, must be resolved." He spake; and, to confirm his words, outflew Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs Of mighty Cherubim; the sudden blaze Far round illumined Hell. Highly they raged Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms Clashed on their sounding shields the din of war, Hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven. There stood a hill not far, whose grisly top Belched fire and rolling smoke; the rest entire Shon with a glossy scurf, undoubted sign That in his womb was hid metallic ore. The work of sulphur. Thither, winged with speed, A numerous brigade hastened: as when bands Of pioneers, with spade and pickaxe armed, Forerun the royal camp, to trench a field. Or cast a rampart. Mammon led them on — 184 BRITISH POEMS Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell From Heaven; for even in Heaven his looks and thoughts Were always downward bent, admiring more The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold. Than aught, divine or holy, else enjoyed In vision beatific. (By him first Men also, and by his suggestion taught. Ransacked the Centre, and with impious hands Rifled the bowels of their mother Earth For treasures, better hid.) Soon had his crew Opened into the hill a spacious wound. And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best Deserve the precious bane. And here let those Who boast in mortal things, and wondering tell Of Babel, and the works of Memphian kings. Learn how their greatest monuments of fame. And strength and art, are easily outdone By Spirits reprobate, and in an hour What in an age, they, with incessant toil And hands innumerable, scarce perform. Nigh on the plain, in many cells prepared, That underneath had veins of liquid fire Sluiced from the lake, a second multitude With wondrous art founded the massy ore. Severing each kind, and scummed the bullion-dross. A third as soon had formed within the ground A various mold, and from the boiling cells. By strange conveyance, filled each hollow nook. As in an organ, from one blast of wind. To many a row of pipes the sound-board breathes. Anon, out of the earth a fabric huge Rose like an exhalation, with the sound Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet — Built like a temple, where pilasters round Were set, and Doric pillars overlaid With golden architrave; nor did there want Cornice or frieze, with bossy scupltures graven The roof was fretted gold. Not Babilon, JOHN MILTON 185 Nor great Alcairo, such magnificence Equaled in all their glories, to enshrine Belus or Serapis their gods, or seat Their kings, when Egypt with Assyria strove In wealth and luxury. Th' ascending pile Stood fixed her stately highth: and straight the doors, Opening their brazen folds, discover, wide Within, her ample spaces, o'er the smooth And level pavement; from the arched roof, Pendent by subtle magic, many a row Of starry lamps and blazing cressets, fed With naphtha and asphaltus, j'ielded light As from a sky. The hasty multitude Admiring entered; and the work some praise, And some the Architect. His hand was known In Heaven by many a towered structure high Where sceptred Angels held their residence. And sat as Princes, whom the supreme King Exalted to such power, and gave to rule, Each in his hierarchy, the Orders bright. Nor was his name unheard or unadored In ancient Greece; and in Ausonian land Men called him Mulciber; and how he fell From Heaven they fabled, thrown by angry Jove Sheer o'er the crystal battlements: from morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star. On Lemnos, th' iEgean isle. Thus they relate. Erring; for he with this rebeUious rout Fell long before; nor aught availed him now To have built in Heaven high towers; nor did he 'scape By all his engines, but was headlong sent With his industrious crew to build in Hell. [From Book I, Paradise Lost.] 186 BRITISH POEMS ANDREW MARVELL [1621-1678] : SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA Where the remote Bermudas ride j In th' ocean's bosom unespyVl, From a small boat that row'd along ' The list'ning winds received this song. "What should we do but sing His praise i That led us through the wat'ry maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? ; Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, ; That lift the deep upon their backs; \ He lands us on a grassy stage, • Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage: ' He gave us this eternal Spring Which here enamels everything, -: And sends the fowls to us in care ! On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright I Like golden lamps in a green night, j And does in the pomegranates close * Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: ] He makes the figs our mouths to meet I And throws the melons at our feet; '\ But apples, plants of such a price, | No tree could ever bear them twice. • With cedars chosen by His hand ■ From Lebanon He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) ; The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; ^ And in these rocks for us did frame I'i A temple where to sound His name. Oh! let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven's vault. ANDREW MARVELL 187 Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!" — Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime. With falling oars they kept the time. THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays. And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree. Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below. Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound. No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passions' heat Love hither makes his best retreat: 188 BRITISH POEMS 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! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass. Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less. Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. Casting the body's vest aside M.y 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 walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet. What other help could yet be meet! SIR CHARLES SEDLEY 189 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 gardner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers! SIR CHARLES SEDLEY [1639.^-1701] TO CELIA Not, Celia, that I juster am Or better than the rest; For I would change each hour, like them. Were not my heart at rest. But I am tied to very thee By every thought I have; Thy face I only care to see. Thy heart I only crave. All that in woman is adored In thy dear self I find — For the whole sex can but afford The handsome and the kind. Why then should I seek further store. And still make love anew.'^ When change itself can give no more, 'Tis easy to be true» 190 BRITISH POEMS JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER [1647-1680.] CONSTANCY I CANNOT change, as others do. Though you unjustly scorn, Since that poor swain that sighs for you. For you alone was born; No, Phillis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try. And to revenge my slighted love. Will still love on. and die. When killed with grief Amintas lies. And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise. The tears that vainly fall, That welcome hour that ends his smart. Will then begin your pain, For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain. ON CHARLES II Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Whose word no man relies on. Who never said a foolish thing. Nor ever did a wise one. JOHN DRYDEN 191 JOHN DRYDEN [1631-1700] A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, "Arise, ye more than dead! " Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry. In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began: From harmony to harmony Thro' all the compass of the notes it ran. The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell! When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around. And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. WTiat passion cannot Music raise and quell! The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries: "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!'* 192 BRITISH POEMS The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers , Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation. Fury, frantic indignation. Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh! what art can teach. What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race. And trees unrooted left their place Sequacious of the lyre: But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: When to her Organ vocal breath was given An Angel heard, and straight appear'd — Mistaking earth for heaven. GRAND CHORUS As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move. And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour. The trumpet shall be heard on high. The dead shall live, the living die. And Music shall untune the sky. JOHN DRYDEN 193 ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA's DAY, 1697 'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound; (So should desert in arms be crown'd.) The lovely Thais, by his side. Sate like a blooming Eastern bride. In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave. None but the brave. None but the brave deserves the fair. CHORUS Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave. None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky. And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, (Such is the power of mighty love) A dragon's fiery form belied the god: Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 194 BRITISH POEMS When he to fair Ol^^mpia press'd; And while he sought her snowy breast: Then, round her slender waist he curl'd. And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, "A present deity," they shout around; "A present deity," the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears. Assumes the god, Affects to nod. And seems to shake the spheres. Chorus: With ravished ears, etc. Ill The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Flush'd with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young. Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Chorus: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, etc. IV Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. JOHN DRYDEN 195 The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heaven and earth defied. Changed his hand, and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful Muse, Soft pity to infuse; He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate. And weltering in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed; On the bare earth exposed he lies. With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of chance below: And, now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. Chorus: Revolving in his alter'd soul, etc. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree; 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. " War," he sung, " is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning. Fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think it worth enjoying: 196 BRITISH POEMS Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee." The many rend the skies with loud applause: So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again; At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. Chorus: The prince, unable to conceal his pain, etc. VI Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder. And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark, the horrid sound Has raised up his head; As awaked from the dead, And, amazed, he stares around. "Revenge, revenge!" Timotheus cries; "See the Furies arise; See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes.f' Behold a ghastly band. Each a torch in his hand! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain. And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes. And glittering temples of their hostile gods." JOHN DRYDEN 197 The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way, To light him to his prey. And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Chorus: And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to de- stroy, etc. VII Thus, long ago. Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds. With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize. Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down. GRAND CHORUS At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. Enlarged the former narrow bounds. And added length to solemn sounds. With nature's mother wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize. Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down. 198 BRITISH POEMS MILTON Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd. The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no farther go; To make a third she join'd the former two. WILLIAM CONGREVE [1670-1729] AMORET Fair Amoret is gone astray; Pursue and seek her every lover; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air. Both studied, though both seem neglected; Careless she is with artful care. Affecting to seem unaffected. ^Yith skill her eyes dart every glance. Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect 'em; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct 'em. She likes herself, yet others hates For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises. LADY WINCHILSEA 199 LADY WINCHILSEA [1661-1720] TO THE NIGHTINGALE Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of Spring! This moment is thy time to sing, This moment I attend to praise. And set my numbers to thy lays; Free as thine shall be my song, As thy music, short or long; Poets, wild as thou, were born. Pleasing best when unconfined, When to please is least designed, Soothing but their cares to rest; Cares do still their thoughts molest. And still th' unhappy poet's breast Like thine, when best he sings, is placed against a thorn. She begins! Let all be still! Muse, thy promise now fulfil! Sweet, oh! sweet, still sweeter yet! Can thy words such accents fit? Canst thou syllables refine. Melt a sense that shall retain Still some spirit of the brain. Till with sounds like these it join? 'Twill not be! then change thy note, Let division shake thy throat! Hark! division now she tries. Yet as far the Muse outflies! Cease then, prithee, cease thy tune, Trifler, wilt thou sing till June? Till thy business all lies waste And the time of building's past? Thus we poets that have speech Unlike what thy forests teach. If a fluent vein be shown That's transcendent to our own, Criticise, reform or preach. Censuring what we cannot reach. 200 BRITISH POEMS MATTHEW PRIOR [1664-1721] TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD Lords, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band, That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters. Were summoned by her high command. To show their passions by their letters. My pen among the rest I took, Lest those bright e^ es that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obeyed. Nor quality, nor reputation. Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, And I may write till she can spell. For, while she makes her silk-worms beds With all the tender things I swear; W^hilst all the house my passion reads In papers round her baby's hair; She may receive and ow^n my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet. Then, too, alas! when she shall tear The lines some younger rival sends; She'll give me leave to write, I fear. And we shall still continue friends. For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love. When she begins to comprehend it. MATTHEW PRIOR 201 CUPID MISTAKEN As, after noon, one summer's day, Venus stood bathing in a river, Cupid a-shooting went that way, New-strung his bow, new-filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart: With all his might his bow he drew: Swuft to his beauteous parent's heart The too- well-guided arrow flew. I faint! I die! the goddess cried; cruel, could'st thou find none other To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide! Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother. Poor Cupid sobbing scarce could speak; Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye: Alas! how easy my mistake! 1 took you for your likeness, Chloe. THE DYING ADRIAN TO HIS SOUL Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing, Must we no longer live together? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing To take thy flight, thou know'st not whither? Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly, Lies all neglected, all forgot: And pensive, wavering, melancholy. Thou dread'st and hop'st, thou know'st not what. 202 BRITISH POEMS EPIGRAMS I SENT FOR RATCLIFFE I SENT for Ratcliffe; was so ill, That other doctors gave me over: He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill. And I was likely to recover. But when the wit began to wheeze. And wine had warm'd the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. n FOR HIS OWN TOMB-STONE To me 'twas given to die: to thee 'tis given To live: alas! one moment sets us even. Mark! how impartial is the will of Heaven! JONATHAN SWIFT [1667-1745] THE BEASTS' CONFESSION When beasts could speak, (the learned say They still can do so every day,) It seems they had religion then. As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out, (Which therefore made them more devout,) The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land JONATHAN SWIFT 203 Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: — " Good father, I must own with shame. That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last. Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbour wrong; Or ever went to seek my food. By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood." The Ass approaching next, confess'd. That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own. And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare. And might perhaps be too severe: But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame. Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for't. His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring. He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes. The Swine with contrite heart allow'd. His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice. But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbour ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; 'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease. The mimic Ape began his chatter. How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd. Who said, his gravity was feign'd: 204 BRITISH POEMS ! Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: ! He saw, and he was grieved to see't, ' His zeal was sometimes indiscreet: \ He found his virtues too severe ' For our corrupted times to bear; . Yet such a lewd licentious age j Might well excuse a stoic's rage. j The Goat advanced with decent pace, \ And first excused his youthful face; ■! Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd j ('Twas Nature's fault) without a beard. \ 'Tis true, he was not much inclined ■ To fondness for the female kind: Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect; j Not by his frigid constitution; j But through a pious resolution: For he had made a holy vow ; Of Chastity, as monlvs do now: j Which he resolved to keep for ever hence ; And strictly too, as doth his reverence. j Apply the tale, and you shall find, i How just it suits with human kind. I Some faults we own; but can you guess? j — Why, virtue 's carried to excess, [ Wherewith our vanity endows us, : Though neither foe nor friend allows us. j The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) ; He never squeezed a needy client; j And this he makes his constant rule, j For which his brethren call him fool; 1 His conscience always was so nice, ■; He freely gave the poor advice; '; By which he lost, he may afiirm, \ A hundred fees last Easter term; i While others of the learned robe, i Would break the patience of a Job. * No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; JONATHAN SWIFT 205 Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most. The cringmg knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case: Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd, because he could not flatter; He had not learn'd to turn his coat. Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it. Yet could not for his heart repent it. The Chaplain vows, he cannot fawn. Though it would raise him to the lawn: He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meagre looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes; But owns he had a stubborn spirit. That made him trust alone to merit; W^ould rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The Doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He cannot help it, for his heart. Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance; And, when his medicines do no good. Supports their minds with heavenly food: At wliich, however well intended. He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back. To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; 206 BRITISH POEMS And calls, without affecting airs. His household twice a-day to prayers. He shuns apothecaries' shops, And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire, To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name. Have often practised to their shame. The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too smcere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view. Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a thousand lies, 'Twas he defeated the excise. 'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion. That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in every station. To serve the king, and please the nation. Though hard to find in every case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot. But took memorials on the spot; His enemies, for want of charity, Said, he affected popularity: 'Tis true, the people understood. That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to court with fortune clear. Which now he runs out everj^ year; Must, at the rate that he goes on. Inevitably be undone: O! if his majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease. JONATHAN SWIFT 207 Would grant him license to retire, As it has long been his desire. By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound. He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations. To crowd the court with their relations: His country was his dearest mother. And every virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame, (For which he owns himself to blame,) He found the wisest man he could. Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views. When he has liberty to choose. The Sharper swore he hated play. Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost. By want of skill, he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats. Who had contrived a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die. And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk. I own the moral not exact. Besides, the tale is false, in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up. From fields Elysian, fabling iEsop, I would accuse him to his face. For libelling the four-foot race. Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers. While we, whom reason ought to sway. Mistake our talents every day. The Ass was never laiown so stupid To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap. There to be stroked, and fed with pap. 208 BRITISH POEMS As yEsop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles, But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature hipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind; For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men. AMBROSE PHILIPS [1675.^-1749] TO MISS CHARLOTTE PULTENEY, IN HER MOTHER'S ARMS Timely blossom, Infant fair, Fondling of a happy pair. Every morn and every night Their solicitous delight. Sleeping, waking, still at ease. Pleasing, without skill to please; Little gossip, blithe and hale, Tattling many a broken tale. Singing many a tuneless song. Lavish of a heedless tongue. Simple maiden, void of art, Babbling out the very heart. Yet abandoned to thy will. Yet imagining no ill, Yet too innocent to blush, Like the linnet in the bush. To the mother-linnet's note Moduling her slender throat, Chirping forth thy pretty joys, Wanton in the change of toys. Like the linnet green, in May, Flitting to each bloomy spray. ALEXANDER POPE 209 Wearied then, and glad of rest, Like the Hnnet in the nest. This thy present happy lot, This, in time, will be forgot; Other pleasures, other cares, Ever-busy Time prepares; And thou shalt in thy daughter see This picture, once, resembled thee. ALEXANDER POPE [1688-1744] SOLITUDE Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound. Content to breathe his native air In his own ground: Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread. Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade. In winter fire: Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind. Quiet by day: Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixt, sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 210 BRITISH POEMS j TRUE WIT Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be. In every work regard the writer's end. Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true. Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due; As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit, To avoid great errors, must the less commit: Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays, For not to know some trifles, is a praise. Most critics, fond of some subservient art. Still make the whole depend upon a part: They talk of principles, but notions prize, And all to one lov'd folly sacrifice. Once on a time. La Mancha's knight, they say, A certain bard encount'ring on the way, Discours'd in terms as just, with looks as sage, As e'er could Dennis of the Grecian stage; Concluding all were desperate sots and fools, Who durst depart from Aristotle's rules. Our author, happy in a judge so nice, Produc'd his play, and begg'd the knight's advice; Made him observe the subject, and the plot. The manners, passions, unities, what not.^ All which, exact to rule, were brought about. Were but a combat in the lists left out. "What! leave the combat out?" exclaims the knight; Yes, or we must renounce the Stagirite. "Not so, by Heaven" (he answers in a rage), "Knights, squires, and steeds, must enter on the stage." So vast a throng the stage can ne'er contain. "Then build a new, or act it in a plain." 'Thus critics, of less judgment than caprice. Curious not knowing, not exact but nice. Form short ideas; and offend in arts (As most in manners) by a love to parts. ALEXANDER POPE 211 Some to conceit alone their taste confine. And glitt'ring thoughts struck out at every Hne; Pleas'd with a work where nothing's just or fit; One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. Poets like painters, thus unskill'd to trace The naked nature and the living grace, With gold and jewels cover every part, And hide with ornaments their want of art. True wit is nature to advantage dress'd. What oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd; Something, whose truth convinc'd at sight we find. That gives us back the image of our mind. As shades more sweetly recommend the light, So modest plainness set off sprightly wit. For works may have more wit than does 'em good. As bodies perish thro' excess of blood. Others for language all their care express. And value books, as women men, for dress: Their praise is still, — " The style is excellent: " The sense, they humbly take upon content. Words are like leaves; and where they most abound. Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found; False eloquence, like the prismatic glass. Its gaudy colors spreads on every place; The face of nature we no more survey. All glares alike, without distinction gay: But true expression, like th' unchanging sun. Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon. It gilds all objects, but it alters none. Expression is the dress of thought, and still Appears more decent, as more suitable; A vile conceit in pompous words express'd. Is like a clown in regal purple dress'd: For different styles with different subjects sort, As several garbs with country, town, and court. Some by old words to fame have made pretense. Ancients in phrase, mere moderns in their sense; Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style. Amaze th' unlearn'd, and make the learned smile. 212 BRITISH POEMS Unlucky, as Fungoso in the play, These sparks with awkward vanity display What the fine gentleman wore yesterday; And but so mimic ancient wits at best As apes our grandsires in their doublets dress'd. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried. Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. But most by numbers judge a poet's song; And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright Muse, tho' thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear. Not mend their minds; as some to church repair. Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do join; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: While they ring round the same unvary'd chimes. With sure returns of still expected rhymes; Where'er you find "the cooling western breeze," In the next line, it "whispers through the trees;" If crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs cre'ep," The reader's threaten'd (not in vain) with "sleep;" Then, at the last and only couplet, fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song. That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigor, of a line. Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance. As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense. The sound must seem an echo to the sense: Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; ALEXANDER POPE 213 But when loud surges lash the sounding shores, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar: When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw. The line, too, labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain. Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' vary'd lays surprise. And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow. Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found. And the world's victor stood subdued by sound! The power of music all our hearts allow. And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. Avoid extremes; and shun the fault of such. Who still are pleas'd too little or too much. At every trifle scorn to take offense. That always shows great pride, or little sense; Those heads, as stomachs, are not sure the best. Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest. Yet let not each gay turn thy rapture move; For fools admire, but men of sense approve: As things seem large which we through mists descry, Dulness is ever apt to magnify. [From Part II of An Essay on Criticism.] AN ESSAY ON MAN Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan; A wild, where weeds and flow'rs promiscuous shoot; Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. 214 BRITISH POEMS Together let us beat this ample jBeld, Try what the open, what the covert yield! The latent tracts, the giddy heights, explore Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye nature's walks, shoot folly as it jflies. And catch the manners living as they rise: Laugh where we must, be candid where we can; But vindicate the ways of God to man. Say first, of God above, or man below. What can we reason, but from what we know? Of man, what see we but his station here. From which to reason, or to which refer? Thro' worlds unnumber'd tho' the God be known, 'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. He, who thro' vast immensity can pierce. See worlds on worlds compose one universe. Observe how system into system runs, What other planets circle other suns, What vary'd being peoples every star. May tell why heav'n has made us as we are. But of this frame the bearings and the ties. The strong connections, nice dependencies. Gradations just, has thy pervading soul Look'd thro'? or can a part contain the whole? Is the great chain, that draws all to agree. And drawn support, upheld by God, or thee? Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find. Why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind? First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess, Why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less? Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade? Or ask of yonder argent fields above. Why Jove's Satellites are less than Jove? Of systems possible, if 'tis confest That wisdom infinite must form the best, Where all must full or not coherent be, And all that rises, rise in due degree; Then, in the scale of reas'ning life, 'tis plain, There must be, somewhere, such a rank as man: ALEXANDER POPE 215 And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) Is only this, if God has plac'd him wrong? Respecting man whatever wrong we call. May, must be right, as relative to all. In human works, tho' labour'd on with pain, A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain; In God's, one single can its end produce; Yet serves to second too some other use. So man, who here seems principal alone, Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown. Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal; 'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. When the proud steed shall know why man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod. Is now a victim, and now ^Egypt's god: Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend His actions', passions', being's, use and end; Why doing, suff'ring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity. Then say not man's imperfect, heav'n in fault; Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought: His knowledge measur'd to his state and place; His time a moment, and a point his space. If to be perfect in a certain sphere. What matter, soon or late, or here or there .^ The blest to-day is as completely so. As who began a thousand years ago. Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state: From brutes what men, from men what spirits know: Or who could suffer being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food. And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n: Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 216 BRITISH POEMS ( ,j Atoms or systems into ruin hurrd, | And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher death, and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home. Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n. Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd. Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To Be, contents his natural desire. He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense, Weigh thy opinion against providence; Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such. Say, Here he gives too little, there too much: Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust. Yet cry. If man's unhappy, God's unjust; If man alone ingross not Heav'n's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes; Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods if angels fell. Aspiring to be angels men rebel: ALEXANDER POPE 217 And who but wishes to invert the laws Of order, sins against th' eternal cause. Ask for what end the heav'nly bodies shine, Earth for whose use? pride answers, "'Tis for mine: For me kind nature wakes her genial pow'r, Suckles each herb, and spreads out ev'ry flow'r; Annual for me, the grape, the rose renew The juice nectareous, and the balmj^ dew; For me, the mine a thousand treasures brings; For me, health gushes from a thousand springs; Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise; My foot-stool earth, my canopy the skies." But errs not nature from this gracious end, From burning suns when livid deaths descend, When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep.'' "No ('tis reply'd) the first almighty cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws; Th' exceptions few; some change since all began: And what created perfect?" — Why then man? If the great end be human happiness, Then nature deviates; and can man do less? As much that end a constant course requires Of show'rs and sun-shine, as of man's desires; As much eternal springs and cloudless skies. As men for ever temp'rate, calm, and wise. If plagues or earthquakes break not Heav'n's design. Why then a Borgia, or a Catiline? Who knows but he, whose hand the light'ning forms, Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms; Pours fierce ambition in a Caesar's mind. Or turns young Ammon loose to scourge mankind? From pride, from pride, our very reas'ning springs; Account for moral as for nat'ral things: Why charge we heav'n in those, in these acquit? In both, to reason right is to submit. Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, Were there all harmony, all virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind. That never passion discompos'd the mind. 218 BRITISH POEMS But all subsists by elemental strife; And passions are the elements of life. The gen'ral order, since the whole began, Is kept in nature, and is kept in man. What would this man? Now upward will he soar. And little less than angel, would be more; Now looking downward, just as griev'd appears To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. Made for his use all creatures if he call. Say what their use, had he the pow'rs of all; Nature to these, without profusion, kind. The proper organs, proper pow'rs assign'd; Each seeming want compensated of course, Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force; All in exact proportion to the state; Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. Each beast, each insect, happy in its own: Is Heav'n unkind to man, and man alone.? Shall he alone, whom rational we call Be pleas'd with nothing, if not blest with all? The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) Is not to act or think beyond mankind; No pow'rs of body, or of soul to share. But what his nature and his state can bear. Why has not man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, man is not a fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n? Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er. To smart and agonize at ev'ry pore? Or quick effluvia darting thro' the brain. Die of a rose in aromatic pain? If nature thunder'd in his op'ning ears. And stunn'd him with the music of the spheres, How would he wish that heav'n had left him still The whisp'ring zephyr, and the purling rill? Who finds not Providence all good and wise. Alike in what it gives, and what denies? Far as creation's ample range extends. The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends: ALEXANDER POPE 219 Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass: What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme. The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell, the headlong lioness between. And hound sagacious on the tainted green: Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood. To that which warbles through the vernal w^ood? The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: In the nice bee, what sense so subtly true From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew: How instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, Compar'd, half reas'ning elephant, with thine! 'Twixt that, and reason, what a nice barrier? For ever sep'rate, yet for ever near! Remembrance and reflection how ally'd; What thin partitions sense from thought divide? And middle natures, how they long to join. Yet never pass th' insuperable line! Without this just gradation, could they be Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? The pow'rs of all subdu'd by thee alone. Is not thy reason all these pow'rs in one? See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth. All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! how deep extend below! Vast chain of being! which from God began. Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see. No glass can reach; from Infinite to thee. From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours; Or in the full creation leave a void. Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroy'd: From Nature's chain whatever link you strike. Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. And, if each system in gradation roll Alike essential to th' amazing whole, 220 BRITISH POEMS The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let earth unbalanc'd from her orbit fly. Planets and suns run lawless thro' the sky; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod. And nature tremble to the throne of God. All this dread order break — for whom? for thee? Vile worm!— oh madness! pride! impiet^M What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspirVl to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'ral frame; Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing Mind of all ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul; That, chang'd thro' all, and yet in all the same. Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame. Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. Cease then, nor order imperfection name: Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee. Submit. In this, or any other sphere. Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear: Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r. Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. JOHN GAY 221 All nature is but art, unknown to thee; All chance, direction which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good. And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite. One truth is clear, "Whatever is, is right." [Epistle 1.] JOHN GAY [1685-1732] THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who, in a civil way. Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known bj^ all the bestial train. Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was, never to offend. And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn. To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn. Behind she hears the hunter's cries. And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound. And measures back her mazy round. Till, fainting in the public way. Half dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view ! * "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. 222 BRITISH POEMS You know my feet betray my flight; To friendship every burden's hght." The Horse repHed: "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted; reUef is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord. "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend. To take the freedom of a friend; Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow: And when a lady's in the case. You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remarked her pulse was high. Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed. To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age. In this important care engage .f^ Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence. Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart. But dearest friends, alas! must part! How shall we all lament: Adieu! For see, the hounds are just in view." JAMES THOMSON 223 JAMES THOMSON [1700-1748] THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE In lowly dale, fast by a river's side With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide. Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; And there a season at ween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say. No living wight could work, ne cared for play. Was nought around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest, From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green. Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets played. And hurled everywhere their waters sheen; That, as they bickered through the sunny glade. Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. Joined to the prattle of the purling rills. Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills. And vacant shepherds piping in the dale: And now and then sweet Philomel would wail. Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep. That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale; And still a coil the grasshopper did keep: Yet all the sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. Full in the passage of the vale, above, A sable, silent, solemn forest stood; Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move. As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood: 224^ BRITISH POEMS And up the hills, on either side, a wood Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out below, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was: Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer-sky. There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; But whate'er smackt of noyance, or unrest, Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest. A certain music, never known before. Here lulled the pensive, melancholy mind; Full easily obtained. Behoves no more. But sidelong to the gently- waving wind To lay the well-tuned instrument reclined; From which, with airy flying fingers light. Beyond each mortal touch the most refined. The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight: Whence, with just cause, the harp of ^Flolus it hight. Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran Soft-tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, And sobbing breezes sighed, and oft began (So worked the wizard) wintry storms to swell. As heaven and earth they would together mell: At doors and windows, threatening, seemed to call The demons of the tempest, growling fell. Yet the least entrance found they none at all; Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams. Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace; O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, JAMES THOMSON 225 That played, in waving lights, from place to place, And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array, So fleece with clouds, the pure ethereal space; Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. [From Canto I of the poem of the same title.] HYMN These, as they change. Almighty Father, these. Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide-flush the fields; the softening air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense, and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer-months. With light and heart refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year: And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined. And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing. Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore. And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round! what skill, what force Divine, Deepfelt, in these appear! a simple train. Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art. Such beauty and beneficence combined: Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze. 226 BRITISH POEMS Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring: Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves. With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join every living soul. Beneath the spacious temple of the skj^ In adoration join; and ardent raise One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes. Oh, talk of Him, in solitary glooms, Where o'er the rock the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. So roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers. In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun. exalts. Whose breath perfumes j^ou, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to him; Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart. As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams; Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! blest image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, JAMES THOMSON 227 From world to world, the vital ocean round. On nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world. While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound; the broad responsive low. Ye valleys, raise; for the Great Shepherd reigns. And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands, all awake; a boundless song Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles; At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft breaking clear. At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to Heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let the shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay. The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams. Or Winter rises in the blackening east — Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more. And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat. Should Fate command me to the furthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, 't is nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt. In the void waste as in the city full; 228 BRITISH POEMS And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. When even at last the solemn Hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerfully will obey; there with new powers, Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; From seeming evil still educing good. And better thence again, and better still. In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! Come, then, expressive silence, muse His praise. [Postlude to The Seasons JOHN DYER [1700-1758] GRONGAR HILL Silent Nymph, with curious eye! Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van. Beyond the noise of busy man; Painting fair the form of things, Wliile the yellow linnet sings; Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale; Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse; Now while Phoebus riding high Gives lustre to the land and sky! Grongar Hill invites my song. Draw the landskip bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade. For the modest Muses made. So oft I have, the evening still. At the fountain of a rill. JOHN DYER 229 Sate upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head; While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead, and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, 'Till Contemplation had her fill. About his chequered sides I wind. And leave his brooks and meads behind. And groves, and grottoes where I la^', And vistas shooting beams of day: Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal: The mountains round — unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height. Withdraw their summits from the skies. And lessen as the others rise: Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads; Still it widens, widens still. And sinks the newly-risen hill. Now I gain the mountain's brow. What a landskip lies below! No clouds, no vapours intervene. But the gay, the open scene Does the face of nature shew. In all the hues of heaven's bow! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the clifi^s arise, Proudly towering in the skies! Rushing from the woods, the spires Seem from hence ascending fires! Half his beams Apollo sheds On the yellow mountain-heads! Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, And glitters on the broken rocks! Below me trees unnumbered rise. Beautiful in various dyes: The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, The yellow beech, the sable yew. 230 BRITISH POEMS The slender fir, that taper grows, The sturdy oak with broad-spread boughs; And beyond the purple grove, Haunt of Phillis, queen of love! Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn On which a dark hill, steep and high, Holds and charms the wandering eye! Deep are his feet in Towy's flood. His sides are cloth'd with waving wood. And ancient towers crown his brow. That cast an aweful look below; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. And with her arms from falling keeps: So both a safety from the wind On mutual dependence find. 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode; 'Tis now th' apartment of the toad; And there the fox securely feeds; And there the poisonous adder breeds Conceal'd in ruins, moss and weeds; While, ever and anon, there falls Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. Yet time has seen, that hfts the low. And level lays the lofty brow. Has seen this broken pile compleat. Big with the vanity of state; But transient is the smile of fate! A little rule, a little sway, A sunbeam in a winter's day. Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave. And see the rivers how they run, Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun. Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep. Like human life to endless sleep! Thus is nature's vesture wrought. To instruct our wandering thought; JOHN DYER 231 Thus she dresses green and gay, To disperse our cares away. Ever charming, ever new. When will the landskip tire the view! The fountain's fall, the river's flow, The woody valleys, warm and low; The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky; The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. The naked rock, the shady bower; The town and village, dome and farm. Each gives each a double charm, As pearls upon an ^^thiop's arm. See, on the mountain's southern side. Where the prospect opens wide. Where the evening gilds the tide; How close and small the hedges lie! Wliat streaks of meadows cross the eye! A step methinks may pass the stream, So little distant dangers seem; So we mistake the future's face. Eyed thro' Hope's deluding glass; As yon summits soft and fair Clad in colours of the air. Which to those who journey near. Barren, brown, and rough appear; Still we tread the same coarse way; The present's still a cloudy day. O may I with myself agree. And never covet what I see: Content me with an humble shade. My passions tamed, my wishes laid; For while our wishes wildly roll. We banish quiet from the soul: 'Tis thus the busy beat the air; And misers gather wealth and care. Now, even now, my joys run high. As on the mountain-turf I lie; While the wanton Zephyr sings. And in the vale perfumes his wings; 232 BRITISH POEMS While the waters murmur deep; While the shepherd charms his sheep; While the birds unbounded fly, And with music fill the sky, Now, even now, my joys run high. Be full, ye courts, be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor. In vain ye search, she is not there; In vain ye search the domes of Care! Grass and flowers Quiet treads. On the meads, and mountain-heads. Along with Pleasure, close allied, Ever by each other's side: And often, by the murmuring rill. Hears the thrush, while all is still. Within the groves of Grongar Hill. EDWARD YOUNG [1681-1765] MAN How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He, who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes! From different natures marvellously mixt. Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the deity! A beam ethereal, sullied, and absorpt! Tho' sullied, and dishonour'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god! — I tremble at myself. And in myself am lost! at home a stranger. EDWARD YOUNG 233 Thought wanders up and down, surpris'd, aghast, And wond'ring at her own: how reason reels! O what a miracle to man is man. Triumphantly distress'd! what joy, what dread! Alternately transported, and alarm'd! What can preserve my life? or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't conjBne me there. 'Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof: While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spreads: What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields; or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods; or down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool; Or scal'd the cliff; or danc'd on hollow winds, With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? Her ceaseless flight, tho' devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence than the trodden clod; Active, aerial, tow'ring, unconfin'd, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal daj^ For human weal, heaven husbands all events; Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. Why then their love deplore that are not lost? Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around. In infidel distress? Are angels there? Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire? They live! they greatly live a life on earth Unkindled, unconceiv'd; and from an eye Of tenderness let heavenly pity fall On me, more justly number'd with the dead. This is the desert, this the solitude: How populous, how vital is the grave! This is creation's melancholy vault. The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom; The land of apparitions, empty shades! All, all on earth, is shadow, all beyond Is substance; the reverse is folly's creed; How solid all, where change shall be no more! 234 BRITISH POEMS This is the bud of being, the dim dawn. The twihght of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death alone can heave the massy bar. This gross impediment of clay remove. And make us embryos of existence free. From real life, but little more remote Is he, not yet a candidate for light. The future embryo, slumb'ring in his sire. Embryos we must be, till we burst the shell. Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life. The life of gods, O transport! and of man. Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts; Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon. Here pinions all his wishes; wing'd by heaven To fly at mfinite: and reach it there Where seraphs gather immortality. On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. What golden joys ambrosial clust'ring glow In his full beam, and ripen for the just, Where momentary ages are no more! Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire! And is it in the flight of threescore years To push eternity from human thought. And smother souls immortal in the dust? A soul immortal, spending all her fires, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness. Thrown into tumult, raptur'd, or alarm'd. At aught this scene can threaten or indulge. Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. [From Night I, Night Thodghts.J WILLIAM SHENSTONE 235 WILLIAM SHENSTONE [1714-1763] THE DYING KID A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye, To think 3'on playful kid must die; From crystal spring and flowery mead Must, in his prime of life, recede. Erewhile in sportive circles round She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; From rock to rock pursue his way. And on the fearful margin play. Pleased on his various freaks to dwell She saw him climb m}' rustic cell; Then eye my lawns with verdure bright. And seem all ravished at the sight. She tells with what delight he stood To trace his features in the flood; Then skipped aloof with quaint amaze And then drew near again to gaze. She tells me how with eager speed He flew to hear my vocal reed; And how with critic face profound, And steadfast ear devoured the sound. His every frolic light as air Deserves the gentle Delia's care; And tears bedew her tender eye. To think the playful kid must die. But knows my Delia, timely wise. How soon this blameless era flies .^ While violence and craft succeed. Unfair design, and ruthless deed! BRITISH POEMS Soon would the vine his wounds deplore. And yield her purple gifts no more; Oh soon, erased from every grove Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love. No more those bowers might Strephon see. Where first he fondly gazed on thee; No more those beds of flowerets find Which for thy charming brows he twined. Each wayward passion soon would tear His bosom, now so void of care. And when they left his ebbing vein What but insipid age remain.^ Then mourn not the decrees of Fate That gave his life so short a date; And I will join thy tenderest sighs To think that youth so swiftly flies. THE SCHOOLMISTRESS Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield: Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow, As is the harebell that adorns the field; And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, A.nd fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 'T was simple russet, but it was her own; 'T was her own country bred the flock so fair! 'T was her own labour did the fleece prepare; WILLIAM SHENSTONE 237 And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around. Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth. Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear; Ne would esteem him act as mought behove. Who should not honoured eld with these revere; For never title yet so mean could prove. But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed. The plodding pattern of the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impelled by need. Into her school, begirt with chickens, came; Such favour did her past deportment claim; And, if neglect had lavished on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same; For well she knew, and quaintly could expound. What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak. That in her garden sipped the silvery dew; Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak. But herbs for use and physick, not a few. Of grey renown, within those borders grew: The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of chearful hue: The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. [From the poem of the same title.I 238 BRITISH POEMS WILLIAM COLLINS [1721-1759] ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. Returns to deck their hallowed mould. She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey. To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there! DIRGE 1 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assembled here, And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen; No goblins lead their nightly crew: The female fays shall haunt the green. And dress thy grave with pearly dew! 1 Cf. Shakspere's Dirge, page 96. WILLIAM COLLINS 239 The redbreast oft, at evening hours. Shall kindly lend his little aid. With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds and beating rain. In tempests shake the sylvan cell; Or 'midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore; For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more. And mourned till pity's self be dead. ODE TO EVENING If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song. May hope, chaste Eve! to soothe thy modest ear Like thy own solemn springs. Thy springs and dying gales: O Nymph reserved! while now the bright-hair'd Sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts With brede ethereal wove O'erhang his wavy bed Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short, slu-ill shriek, flits by on leathern wing. Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum — Now teach me, Maid composed! To breathe some softened strain Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale. May not unseemly with its stillness suit. As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return. 240 BRITISH POEMS For when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in flowers the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still. The pensive Pleasures sweet. Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells. Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont^ And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air. Affrights thy shrinking train. And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed. Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own. And love thv fav'rite name! WILLIAM COLLINS 241 ODE TO LIBERTY Strophe Who shall awake the Spartan fife, And call in solemn sounds to life, The youths, whose locks divinely spreading, Like vernal hyacinths in sullen hue. At once the breath of fear and virtue shedding, Applauding freedom loved of old to view? What new Alcaeus, fancy-blest. Shall sing the sword, in myrtles drest. At wisdom's shrine awhile its flame concealing, (What place so fit to seal a deed renown'd?) Till she her brightest lightnings round revealing. It leaped in glory forth, and dealt her prompted wound! O goddess, in that feeling hour. When most its sounds would court thy ears, Let not my shell's misguided power E'er draw thy sad, thy mindful tears. No, freedom, no, I will not tell How Rome, before thy weeping face, With heaviest sound, a giant-statue, fell. Pushed by a wild and artless race From off its wide ambitious base. When time his northern sons of spoil awoke, And all the blended work of strength and grace, With many a rude repeated stroke. And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke. Efode Yet, even where'er the least appeared, Th' admiring world thy hand revered; Still 'midst the scattered states around. Some remnants of her strength were found; They saw, by what escaped the storm. How wondrous rose her perfect form; 242 BRITISH POEMS How in the great, the labour'd whole, Each mighty master pour'd his soul! For sunny Florence, seat of art. Beneath her vines preserved a part, Till they, whom science loved to name, (O who could fear it?) quench'd her flame. And lo, an humbler relic laid In jealous Pisa's olive shade! See small Marino joins the theme, Tho' least, not last in thy esteem: Strike, louder strike the ennobling strings To those, whose merchant sons were kings; To him, who, deck'd with pearly pride. In Adria weds his green-haired bride; Hail, port of glory, wealth, and pleasure. Ne'er let me change this Lydian measure: Nor e'er her former pride relate. To sad Liguria's bleeding state. Ah no! more pleased thy haunts I seek. On wild Helvetia's mountains bleak: (Where, when the favour'd of thy choice. The daring archer heard thy voice; Forth from his eyrie roused in dread, The ravening eagle northward fled;) Or dwell in willow'd meads more near, With those to whom thy stork is dear: Those whom the rod of Alva bruised. Whose crown a British queen refused! The magic works, thou feel'st the strains. One holier name alone remains; The perfect spell shall then avail. Hail, nymph, adored by Britain, hail! Antistropke Beyond the measure vast of thought. The works the wizard Time has wrought! The Gaul, 'tis held of antique story. Saw Britain linked to his now adverse strand. WILLIAM COLLINS 243 No sea between, nor cliff sublime and hoary, He passed with unwet feet thro' all our land. To the blown Baltic then, they say. The wild waves found another way, Where Orcas howls, his wolfish mountains rounding; Till all the banded west at once 'gan rise, A wide wild storm e'en nature's self confounding, Withering her giant sons with strange uncouth surprise. This pillared earth so firm and wide. By winds and inward labours torn, In thunders dread was pushed aside. And down the shouldering billows borne. And see, like gems, her laughing train. The little isles on every side, Mona, once hid from those who search the main, Where thousand elfin shapes abide. And Wight who checks the westering tide. For thee consenting heaven has each bestowed, A fair attendant on her sovereign pride: To thee this blest divorce she owed. For thou hast made her vales thy loved, thy last abode. Second Epode Then too, 'tis said, an hoary pile, 'Midst the green navel of our isle. Thy shrine in some religious wood, O soul-enforcing goddess, stood! There oft the painted native's feet Were wont thy form celestial meet: Tho' now with hopeless toil we trace Time's backward rolls, to find its place; Whether the fiery-tressed Dane, Or Roman's self, o'erturned the fane, Or in what heaven-left age it fell, 'Twere hard for modern song to tell. Yet still, if truth those beams infuse. Which guide at once, and charm the Muse, Beyond yon braided clouds that lie. Paving the light-embroidered sky. 244 BRITISH POEMS Amidst the bright paviHoned plains. The beauteous model still remains. There, happier than in islands blest. Or bowers by spring or Hebe drest, The chiefs who fill our Albion's story. In warlike weeds, retired in glory, Hear their consorted Druids sing Their triumphs to the immortal string. How may the poet now unfold What never tongue or numbers told.'^ How learn, delighted and amazed. What hands unknown that fabric raised? Even now before his favoured eyes. In Gothic pride, it seems to rise! Yet Grsecia's graceful orders join. Majestic through the mixed design: The secret builder knew to choose Each sphere-found gem of richest hues; Whate'er heaven's purer mould contains. When nearer suns emblaze its veins; There on the walls the patriot's sight May ever hang with fresh delight. And, graved with some prophetic rage, Read Albion's fame through every age. Ye forms divine, ye laureat band. That near her inmost altar stand! Now soothe her to her blissful train Blithe concord's social form to gain; Concord, whose myrtle wand can steep Even anger's bloodshot eyes in sleep; Before whose breathing bosom's balm Rage drops his steel, and storms grow calm: Her let our sires and matrons hoar W^elcome to Britain's ravaged shore; Our youths, enamoured of the fair. Play with the tangles of her hair. Till, in one loud applauding sound. The nations shout to her around, O how supremely art thou blest. Thou, ladv, thou shalt rule the west! THOMAS GRAY 245 THOMAS GRAY [1716-1771] ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES 'TwAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow. Demurest of the tabby kind The pensive Sehna, recHned, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair round face, the snowy beard. The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies. Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes- She saw, and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide. The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple, to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw With many an ardent wish She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize- What female heart can gold despise.' What Cat's averse to fish.? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent. Nor knew the gulf between — Malignant Fate sat by and smiled— The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in! 246 BRITISH POEMS Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to every watery God Some speedy aid to send: — No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard — A favourite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glisters, gold! ODE ON THE SPRING Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train appear. Disclose the long-expecting flowers. And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckow's note. The untaught harmony of spring: While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great! THOMAS GRAY 247 Still is the toiling hand of Care: The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring. And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some shew their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly. Shall end where they began. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro' life's little day, In fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: "Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy Joys no glittering female meets. No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolick, while 'tis May." 248 BRITISH POEMS ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. The plowman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from 3'onder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wandering near her secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, . The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! THOMAS GRAY 249 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powder, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault. If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise. Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust. Or Flattery sooth the dull cold ear of Death.? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage. And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little Tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 250 BRITISH POEMS Til' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And sliut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck't, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. THOMAS GRAY 251 For thee, who mindful of the unhonour'd Dead Dost in these Hnes their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may sa}^ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear. He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God. 252 BRITISH POEMS THE BARD' A PINDARIC ODE Strophe "RriN seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues. Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears. From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay. As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance; To arms ! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. Antistrophe On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. Robed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 1 Founded on the tradition that Edward I, having conquered Wales, ordered that the bards be put to death. THOMAS GRAY 253 Ejpode "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue. That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art. Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes. Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet. Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join. And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line: II Stro'phe "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night. When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berklej^'s roofs that ring. Shrieks of an agonizing King! She- Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs. That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs 254 BRITISH POEMS The scourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and SoHtude behind. i Antistrophe "Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable Warrior fled.^ Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising Morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. Epode " Fill high the sparkling bowl. The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long Years of havoc urge their destin'd course. And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame. With many a foul and midnight murther fed. Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame, And spare the meek Usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: THOMAS GRAY 255 The bristled Boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. Ill Strophe "'Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) ' Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn! In yon bright track, that fires the w^estern skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll.^ Visions of glory, spare my aching sight. Ye unborn Ages, crov/d not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Issue, hail! Antistrophe "Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a Form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air. What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin,^ hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings. Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings. 1 A noted Welsh bard of the 6th century. 256 BRITISH POEMS Epode "The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud. Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day.^ To-morrow he repairs the golden flood. And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: With joy I see The different doom our Fates assign. Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, To triumph, and to die, are mine." — He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. OLIVER GOLDSMITH [1728-1774] SONG When lovely woman stoops to folly. And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy.'^ What art can wash her guilt away.'' The only art her guilt to cover. To hide her shame from every eye. To give repentance to her lover. And wring his bosom, is — to die. OLIVER GOLDSMITH 257 THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain; Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain. Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. How often have I loitered o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm. The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. The never-failing brook, the busy mill. The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day. When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these. With sweet succession, taught even toil to please: These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed: These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn 258 BRITISH POEMS Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along the glades, a solitary guest. The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. Far. far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began. When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. Those calm desires that asked but little room. Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. OLIVER GOLDSMITH 259 Here, as I take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, manj^ a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband our life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill. Around my fire an evening group to draw. And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return — and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to flj^! For him no wretches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state. To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below; 260 BRITISH POEMS 1 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, | The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, i The playful children just let loose from school, ] The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, \ And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind; — ! These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, i No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing. That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: i She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, j To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, * To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train. The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, I And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, I The village preacher's modest mansion rose. \ A man he was to all the country dear, < And passing rich with forty pounds a year; ' Remote from towns he ran his godly race, ' Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; I Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, , By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize. More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train; He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain: The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sat by the fire, and talked the night away, i OLIVER GOLDSMITH 261 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call. He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed. The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace. His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed with endearing wile. And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. The village master taught his little school. 262 BRITISH POEMS A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew: 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. And even the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. For, even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired. Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place: The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor. The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. OLIVER GOLDSMITH 263 Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. The soul adopts, and owns their first born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and an happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains! This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 264 BRITISH POEMS Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his Hmbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies. For all the luxuries the world supplies; While thus the land adorned for pleasure all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorned and plain. Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail. She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. But verging to decline, its splendours rise. Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land The mournful peasant leads his humble band. And while he sinks, without one arm to save. The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride .^ If to some common's fenceless limits strayed. He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. And even the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped — what waits him there .^ To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; OLIVER GOLDSMITH 265 Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train: Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled. Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. When idly first, ambitious of the town. She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the loveliest train, — Do thy fair tribes participate her pain.? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed before The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray. And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing. But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they; 266 BRITISH POEMS While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. The breezy covert of the warbling grove. That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day. That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main. And shuddering still to face the distant deep. Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. The fond companion of his helpless years. Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. And blest the cot where every pleasure rose. And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear. Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy. Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done: OLIVER GOLDSMITH 267 Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried. On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy. As rocks resist the billows and the sky. BRITISH POEMS JANE ELLIOT [1727-1805] THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST A Lament for Flodden. I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day; But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning^; The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts^ in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning^ The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffing'', nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin""', and hies her away. In hairst^, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters^ are lyart,^ and runkled and gra}-; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching^ — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies^^ are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. a grass path through corn-fields for the use of cattle. ? sheep-pens. teasing ^ jesting. ^ paJI. 6 harvest. men who bind up the sheaves. ^ hoary. ^ coaxing. '" strapping lads. THOMAS WARTON 2G9 THOMAS WARTON [1728-1790] DEATH OF KING ARTHUR O'er Cornwall's cliffs the tempest roared. High the screaming sea-mew soared; On Tintagell's topmost tower Darksome fell the sleety shower; Round the rough castle shrilly sung The whirling blast, and wildly flung On each tall rampart's thundering side The surges of the tumbling tide: When Arthur ranged his red-cross ranks On conscious Camlan's crimsoned banks: By Mordred's faithless guile decreed Beneath a Saxon spear to bleed! Yet in vain a paynim foe Armed with fate the mighty blow; For when he fell an Elfin Queen All in secret, and unseen, O'er the fainting hero threw Her mantle of ambrosial blue; And bade her spirits bear him far. In Merlin's agate-axled car, To her green isle's enamelled steep Far in the navel of the deep. O'er his wounds she sprinkled dew From flowers that in Arabia grew: On a rich enchanted bed She pillowed his majestic head; O'er his brow, with whispers bland. Thrice she waved an opiate wand; And to soft music's airy sound. Her magic curtains closed around. There, renewed the vital spring, Again he reigns a mighty king; And many a fair and fragrant clime. Blooming in immortal prime. 270 BRITISH POEMS By gales of Eden ever fanned, Owns the monarch's high command: Thence to Britain shall return (If right prophetic rolls I learn), Borne on Victory's spreading plume, His ancient sceptre to resume; Once more, in old heroic pride, His barbed courser to bestride; His Knightly table to restore, And brave the tournaments of yore. [From The Grave of King Abthuh.] WILLIAM COWPER [1731-1800] EPITAPH ON A HARE Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow. Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo; Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined. Was still a wild Jack hare. Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead. With sand to scour his maw. WILLIAM COWPER 271 On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel, And, when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well. A Turkey carpet was his lawn. Whereon he loved to bound. To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around. His frisking was at evening hours. For then he lost his fear. But most before approaching showers. Or when a storm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal awa}^ Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play. I kept him for his humour's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache. And force me to a smile. But now beneath this walnut shade He finds his long last home. And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come. He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save. And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave. 272 BRITISH POEMS EVENING IN WINTER Oh, Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet-Hke ashes filled. Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds. - A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car indebted to no wheels. But urged by storms along the slippery way, — I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning East, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease. And gathering at short notice in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown the king of intimate delights. Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness. And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powdered, pert proficients in the art Of sounding an alarm, assault these doors Till the street rings; no stationary' steeds Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower. Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn. Unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs And curly tendrils, gracefully disposed. Follow the nimble finger of the fair; WILLIAM COWPER 273 A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct. And in the charming strife triumphant still; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry; the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, the customary rites Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal. Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note. Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors. And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoyed — spare feast! — a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull. Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or prescribes the sound of mirth; Nor do we madly, like an impious world. Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys. Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note; themes of a graver tone Exciting oft our gratitude and love. While we retrace with memory's pointing wand That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored. Fruits of omnipotent eternal love: — Oh, evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings, I reply. More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined and with nobler truths. That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. [From Book IV. The Task.] 274 BRITISH POEMS TO MARY The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store. For my sake restless heretofore. Now rust disused, and shine no more. My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind oflSce for me still. Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart. My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright. Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light. My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me. My Mary! WILLIAM COWPER 275 Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou provest. That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, My Mary! And still to love, though prest with ill. In wintry age to feel no chill. With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know. How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past. Thy worn-out heart will break at last. My Mary! ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE Oh, that those lips had language! Life has passed W^ith me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine— thy own sweet smile 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!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! 276 BRITISH POEMS Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone. But gladly, as the precept were her own: 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 gavest me, though unfelt, 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 th}^ 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 learned 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 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped. WILLIAM COWPER 277 '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 made. 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 cheek 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 brakes That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page. And still to be so to my latest age. Adds joy 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, and 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 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, 278 BRITISH POEMS 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 by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. Always from port withheld, always distressed — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost. 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, oh, 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: 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. LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE Toll for the Brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave Fast by their native shore! WILLIAM COWPER 279 Eight hundred of the brave Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought. His work of glory done. It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak. She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath. His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. — Weigh the vessel up Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tears that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder. And plough the distant main: But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more- 280 BRITISH POEMS THOMAS CHATTERTON [1752^1770] MYNSTRELLES SONGE O! SYNGE iintoe mie roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge^ ryyer bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Blacke hys cryne"'' as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode^ as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Gale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree: Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge. To the nyghte-mares as heie goe; See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie, Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Schalle the baren fleurs be layde, Nee one hallie Seyncte to save Al the celness of a mayde. ' running. 2 hair. ^ complexion. GEORGE CRABBE 281 Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente the brieres Rounde his halHe corse to gre, Ouphante fairie lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe & thorne, Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie; Lyfe & all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,^ Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. Thos the damselle spake, and dyed. Mie love ys dedde, etc. [From ^LLA.] GEORGE CRABBE [1754-1832] VILLAGE LIFE "As Truth will paint it, and as Bards will noty Here, wandering long, amid these frowning fields, I sought the simple life that Nature yields; Rapine and Wrong and Fear usurped her place, And a bold, artful, surly, savage race; Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe, The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe, Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high, On the tossed vessel bend their eager eye. Which to their coast directs its vent'rous way; Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, And wait for favouring winds to leave the land; While still for flight the ready wing is spread: So waited I the favouring hour, and fled; Fled from these shores where guilt and famine reign, And cried, "Ah! hapless they who still remain: ^ water-flags 282 BRITISH POEMS Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore; Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away; When the sad tenant weeps from door to door, And begs a poor protection from the poor"! But these are scenes where Nature's niggard hand Gave a spare portion to the famished land; Hers is the fault, if here mankind complain Of fruitless toil and labour spent in vain; But yet in other scenes more fair in view. When Plenty smiles — alas! she smiles for few — And those who taste not, yet behold her store. Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore — The wealth around them makes them doubly poor. Or will you deem them amply paid in health, Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth? Go, then! and see them rising with the sun. Through a long course of daily toil to run; See them beneath the Dog-star's raging heat. When the knees tremble and the temples beat; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labour past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age; Through fens and marshy moors their steps pursue. When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew; Then own that labour may as fatal be To these thy slaves, as thine excess to thee. Amid this tribe too oft a manly pride Strives in strong toil the fainting heart to hide; There may you see the youth of slender frame Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; Yet, urged along, and proudly loth to yield. He strives to join his fellows of the field; Till long-contending nature droops at last, Declining health rejects his poor repast. His cheerless spouse the coming danger sees. And mutual murmurs urge the slow disease. GEORGE CRABBE 283 Yet grant them health, 't is not for us to tell, Though the head droops not, that the heart is well; Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare, Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share! Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel, Nor mock the misery of a stinted meal; Homely, not wholesome, plain, not plenteous, such As you who praise, would never deign to touch. Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, Whom the smooth stream and smoother sonnet please; Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share. Go look within, and ask if peace be there; If peace be his, that drooping weary sire; Or theirs, that offspring round their feeble fire; Or hers, that matron pale, whose trembling hand Turns on the wretched hearth the expiring brand. Nor yet can Time itself obtain for these Life's latest comforts, due respect and ease; For yonder see that hoary swain, whose age Can with no cares except its own engage; Who, propped on that rude staff, looks up to see The bare arms broken from the withering tree. On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough, Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now. He once was chief in all the rustic trade; His steady hand the straightest furrow made; Full many a prize he won, and still is proud To find the triumphs of his youth allowed; A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes, He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs; For now he journeys to his grave in pain; The rich disdain him; nay, the poor disdain: Alternate masters now their slave command. Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand, And, when his age attempts its task in vain. With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain. Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep. His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep; Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow O'er his white locks and bury them in snow. 284 BRITISH POEMS When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn, He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn: — "Why do I live, when I desire to be At once from life and life's long labour free? Like leaves in spring, the young are blown away, Without the sorrows of a slow decay; I, like yon withered leaf, remain behind, Nipped by the frost, and shivering in the wind; There it abides till younger buds come on As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone; Then from the rising generation thrust. It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust. "These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see, Are others' gain, but killing cares to me; To me the children of my youth are lords, Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words: Wants of their own demand their care; and who Feels his own want and succours others too? A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go, None need my help, and none relieve my woe; Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid, And men forget the wretch they would not aid." Thus groan the old, till by disease oppressed. They taste a final woe, and then they rest Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor. Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play. And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; There children dwell who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed. Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears. And crippled age with more than childhood fears; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay. Here too the sick their final doom receive. Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve. Where the loud groans from some sad chamber flow. Mixed with the clamors of the crowd below; ROBERT BURNS 285 Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan. And the cold charities of man to man: Whose laws indeed for ruined age provide. And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from pride; But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny. Say, ye, oppressed by some fantastic woes. Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who press the downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease To name the nameless, ever-new, disease; Who with mock patience dire complaints endure Which real pain, and that alone, can cure; How would ye bear in real pain to lie. Despised, neglected, left alone to die? How would ye bear to draw your latest breath When all that's wretched paves the way for death? (From Book I, The Village.] ROBERT BURNS [1759-1796] BONIE LESLEY O, SAW ye bonie Lesley As she gaed o'er the Border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther! To see her is to love her, And love but her forever; For Nature made her what she is. And never made anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley — Thy subjects, we before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley, — The hearts o' men adore thee. 286 BRITISH POEMS The Deil he could na seaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee: He'd look into thy bonie face, And say: "I canna wrang thee!" The Powers aboon will tenf^ thee. Misfortune sha' na steer^ thee: Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely. That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There's nane agam sae bonie. AE FOND KISS Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, and then forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me. Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy: Naething could resist my Nancy! But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly. Had we never lov'd sae blmdly. Never met — or never parted — We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! 1 tend. > molest. ROBERT BURNS 287 Thine be ilka^ joy and treasure. Peace, Enjoyment, Love, and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, forever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee. Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. MY LUVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE O, MY luve is like a red, red rose. That's newly sprung in June. O, my luve is like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I, And I will luve thee still, my dear. Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun! I will luve thee still, my dear. While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve. And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. THE BANKS O' DOON Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae weary fu' o' care! ' every. 288 BRITISH POEMS Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons tliro' the flowering thorn! Thou minds me o' departed joys. Departed — never to return. Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon To see the rose and woodbine twine. And ilka bird sang o' its luve. And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree! And my fause luver staw^ my rose — But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. SCOTS, WHA HAE Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led. Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour: See the front o' battle lour. See approach proud Edward's power- Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave .'^ Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn, and flee! Wha for Scotland's King and Law Freedom's sword will strongly draw. Free-man stand or free-man fa'? Let him follow me! ' stole. ROBERT BURNS 289 By Oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do, or die! TAM GLEN My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie^, Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity; But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow In poortith" I might mak a fen' ^. What care I in riches to wallow. If I maunna marry Tam Glen? There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, "Guid-day to 3'ou," — brute! he comes ben^. He brags and he blaws o' his siller. But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave^ me, And bids me beware o' young men. They flatter, she says, to deceive me — But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten. But if it's ordained I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen? * sister. ^ poverty. * shift. * into the parlour. * deafen. 290 BRITISH POEMS Yestreen at the valentine's dealing. My heart to my mou gied a sten^: For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, "Tarn Glen!'* The last Halloween I was waukin^ My droukit^ sark-sleeve, as ye ken — His likeness cam up the house staukin. And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry! I'll gie ye my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. AULD LANG SYNE Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And auld lang syne! For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne! And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine. And we'll tak a cup of kindness yet For auld lang syne ! We twa hae run about the braes. And pu'd the gowans^ fine. But we've wander'd monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne. I leap. 2 watching. ' wet. * daisies. ROBERT BURNS 291 We twa hae paidl'd ^ i' the burn Frae morning sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne. And there's a hand, my trusty fiere^. And gie's a hand o' thine. And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,^ For auld lang syne. For auld, &c. HIGHLAND MARY Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There summer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary! How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie: For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again. We tore oursels asunder. 'paddled. 2 companion. 'draught. BRITISH POEMS But O, fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly; And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickerin brattleM I 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! I doubt na, whyles, 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 blessing wi' the lave^. And never miss't! • hurry. - hand-stick for clearing the plough. * an occasional ear of corn in twenty-four sheaves. * rest. ROBERT BURNS 293 Thy wee bit housle, too, in ruin! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big^ a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell^ an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. An' weary winter comin' fast. An' cozie here, beneath the blast. Thou thought to dwell. Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee monie 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 agley,^ An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain For promised joy. Still, thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! 1 build. 2 bitter. ' without. * holding. 6 endure. ^ hoar-frost. ' not alone. * awry. 294 BRITISH POEMS JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent ^; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo! John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo! O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST O, WERT thou in the cauld blast On yonder lea, on yonder lea. My plaid ie to the angry airt','-^ I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. Or did Misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield 3 should be my bosom. To share it a', to share it a'. Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a Paradise, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. ' smooth. ^ wind. ^ shelter. ROBERT BURNS 295 Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY A man's a man for a' that Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by— We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that. Our toils obscure, and a' that. The rank is but the guinea stamp. The man's the gowd for a' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine. Wear hoddin-greyS and a' that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine— A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that. Their tinsel show, and a' that. The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor. Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie^ ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that? Tho' hundreds worship at his word. He's but a cuif^ for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man o' independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that! coarse woollen cloth. ■ conceited fellow. ^ blockhead. 296 BRITISH POEMS But an honest man's aboon^ his might — Guid faith, he mauna fa'^ that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities and a' that, The pith o' sense and pride o' worth Are higher rank than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may (As come it will for a' that) That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth. Shall bear the gree^ and a' that! For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that. That man to man the world o'er Shall brithers be for a' that. WILLIAM BLAKE [1757-1827] 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 your ancient love That bards of old enjoyed in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few. above. ^ claim. ^ i. e., have the first place. WILLIAM BLAKE 297 LOVE'S SECRET Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind doth move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart. Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears :- Ah! she did depart. Soon after she was gone from me A traveller came by. Silently, invisibly: He took her with a sigh. AH, SUNFLOWER Ah, Sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done — Where the youth pined away with desire, And the pale virgin, shrouded in snow. Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go! AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE To see the world in a grain of sand. And a heaven in a wild flower; Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. 298 BRITISH POEMS THE LAMB Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, For He calls himself a Lamb; He is meek and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee! 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? WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 299 And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears. And watered heaven with their tears. Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [1770-1850] LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. — Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts. Which at this season, with their unripe fruits. Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 300 BRITISH POEMS 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, Httle Hnes Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless w^oods. Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: — feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life. His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust. To them I may have owed another gift. Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood. In which the burthen of the mystery. In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood. In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft — WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 301 In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless dayh'ght; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods. How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity. The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills; when lil^e a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love. That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe. Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour 302 BRITISH POEMS Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. And the round ocean, and the living air. And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought. And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense. The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance. If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once. My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feel WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 303 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joj^ wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance — If I should be where I no more can hear Thj' voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence — wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love — oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS She dwelt among the untrodden w^ays Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: 304 BRITISH POEMS A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh. The difference to me! A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. TO THE CUCKOO BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear. From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers. Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. WILLIAM WORDS^YORTH 305 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! THE SOLITARY REAPER Behold her, single in the field. Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands 306 BRITISH POEMS 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 ear I bore Long after it was heard no more. I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 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. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 307 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkUng 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. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay. To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free. And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; 308 BRITISH POEMS For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. ELEGIAC STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT 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. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air; So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I looked thy Image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away. \ i How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep; j No mood which season takes away or brings: I I could have fancied that the mighty Deep j Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. j 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, j The consecration and the Poet's dream; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 309 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 should'st 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. 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 my loss will ne'er be old; 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. Oh, '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! 310 BRITISH POEMS 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. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 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! The 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 everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 311 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE Earth has riot anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. 312 BRITISH POEMS LONDON 1802 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee; she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen. Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower. Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. ODE TO DUTY Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe: From vain temptations dost set free: And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth. Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! Around them cast. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 313 Serene will be our days and bright. And happy will our nature be. When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul. Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through thee. Are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I mvself commend 314 BRITISH POEMS Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! 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 whereso'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. 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; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 315 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. evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning. This sweet May-morning, And the Children are culling On every side. In a thousand valleys far and wide. Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm: — 1 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: 316 BRITISH POEMS Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven Hes about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Bo3% But he beholds the Hght, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who dailj^ farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim. The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life. Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart. And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 317 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 "humourous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest. Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight. And custom lie upon thee with a weight. Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live. That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed 318 BRITISH POEMS For that which is most worthy to be blest — DeHght and Hberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized. High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake. To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour. Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather ' Though inland far we be. Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither. Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore. And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng. Ye that pipe and ye that play, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 319 Ye that through your hearts to-daj' Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death. In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one dehght 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. 320 BRITISH POEMS 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: And here 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! 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! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 321 It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song. To such a deep delight 'twould win me. That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air. That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there. And all should cry, " Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread. For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise." THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country toward 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 Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country. Part I An ancient It is an aucicnt Mariner, mariner meeteth a i i j ±i r ±i three gallants ^ud he stoppeth onc ot three. bidden to a "gy thy loug gray beard and glittering eye, and detaineth Now whcrcfore stopp'st thou me ? one. 1 The Argument was prefixed co the first Edition of " The Ancient Mariner," 1798. The syllabus was added in 1829, when Coleridge considerably revised the poem. The text given is that of the edition of 1829. The Wedding- Guest is spell- bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale. BRITISH POEMS 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, gray-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. "The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill. Below the lighthouse top. The Mariner The sun Came up upon the left, shipsalkd^outh- Out of the sea came he! ward with a good And he shouc bright, and on the right weather, till it Went down iuto the sea. reached the Line. Higher and higher every day. Till over the mast at noon — " The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. For he heard the loud bassoon. The Wedding- The bride hath paced into the hall. Guest heareth -r> i • i the bridal music; I^^d as a rosc IS shc; but the Mariner Noddiug their hcads before her goes contmueth his . tale. Ine merry mmstrelsy. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 323 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. The ship drawn *'And uow the Storm-blast came, and he towardTh^ south Was tyrannous and strong: pole. He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow. As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head. The ship drove fast, loud 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. The land of ice, And through the drifts the snowy clifts and of fearful -nv i i t 11 sounds, where L)id scud a dismal sheen: no living thing '^q^ shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. was to be seen. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. Like voices in a swound! Till a great sea- bird called the Albatross came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality. At length did cross an i\.lbatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if 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. 324 BRITISH POEMS The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through! And lo! the Al- batross proveth a bird of good omen, and foUoweth the ship as it returned north- ward through fog and floating And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play. Came to the mariner's hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. It perched for vespers nine; While all the night, through fog-smoke white. Glimmered the white moon-shine." The ancient "God save thcc, aucicut Mariner! pitab^y'^kmeth" From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — the pious bird Why look'st thou so." — "With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross." of good omen. Part II "The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he. Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind. But no sweet bird did follow. Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo! His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all 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! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 325 But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime. Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line. The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. 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. And the Albatross begins to be avenged. W^ater, water, everywhere. And all the boards did shrink; W^ater, 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; 326 BRITISH POEMS A Spirit had followed them; one of the The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; invisible inhabit- Nine fathom deep he had followed us planet, neither From the land of mist and snow. departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constanti- nopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. 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. The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient ^lariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead seabird round his neck. Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. Part III The ancient Mariner behold- eth a sign in the element afar off. "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. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 327 At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I 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 w^as well-nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. It seemeth him And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, but the skeleton /^t ? t» «- . i i i\ of a ship. (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? And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The Spectre Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton-ship. 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.f^ 328 BRITISH POEMS Like vessel, like crew! Her lips were red, her looks were free. Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she. Who thicks man's blood with cold. Death and Life- The naked hulk alongside came. in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner, And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! IVe 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. His shipmates Four times fifty living men, drop down dead. / 4 i x i 1 • 1 \ (And 1 heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. They dropped down one by one. But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, he?lork?n°the They flcd to bliss or woe! ancient Mariner. And every soul, it passed by me. Like the whizz of my cross-bow — !' SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 329 Part IV The Wedding- "I fear thee, ancient Mariner! Guest feareth x <• .1 i • 1 1 that a Spirit is I i^ar thy skinny hand talliing to him; 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! But the ancient Mariner assureth rrn • i_ j 1 i ^ 1 him of his bodily This body dropt not down life, and pro- ceedeth to relate his horrible penance. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. He despiseth the The many men, so beautiful! creatures of the 4 1 .^ iii ii'ii- calm. And they all dead did lie: And a thousand, thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. And envieth I looked upon the Totting sea, that they should . 1 1 live, and so And drew my eyes away; many lie dead. J 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. 330 BRITISH POEMS But the curse The cold swcat melted from their Hmbs, liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. The look with which they looked on me Nor rot nor reek did thev: Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is a 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 — 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. By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm. 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. He blesseth them in his heart. 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. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 331 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 "Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. By grace of The silly buckets on the deck, the holy Mother, rr", i u j i • j the ancient I hat had SO loug remauied. Mariner is J dreamt that they were filled with dew: refreshed with a i i t i • • i rain. And whcn 1 awoke, it ramed. 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. It did not come anear; He heareth And soon I heard a roaring wind : sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions But with its souud it shook the sails, the element. 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. 332 BRITISH POEMS And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag. The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The bodies of The loud wiud never reached the ship. Ire fnspirerrnd Yct UOW the ship mOVcd OU ! the ship moves 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 — We were a ghastly crew. But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint. 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! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again. But a troop of spirits blest: SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 333 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 bj- 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! 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. The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedi- ence to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow. The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune. And the ship stood still also. 334 BRITISH POEMS 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 let go. She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a s wound. 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. The Polar Spirit's fellow- demons, the invisible inhabit- ants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. *Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow. He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The other was a softer voice. As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done. And penance more will do.' SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 335 . ,r . 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 — The Mariner ' But why drivcs on that ship so fast, hath been cast ^ithout Or WavC Or wiud ? ' into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure. Second Voice — 'The air is cut away before. And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated.' The supernatural I wokc, and wc wcre sailing on TetlrdedT the As in a gcutlc wcathcr: jNiariner awakes, 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high, begins anew. 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. 336 BRITISH POEMS ! The pang, the curse, with which they died, ' | Had never passed away: i I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. The curse is And now this spell was snapt : once more ' finally expiated, x • j j.t- 1 Viewed the ocean green, 1 And looked far forth, yet little saw j 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, j And turns no more his head; i Because he knows, a frightful fiend j Doth close behind him tread. ' But soon there breathed a wind on me. Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, ! In ripple or in shade. i i It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek j Like a meadow-gale of spring — i It mingled strangely with my fears, | Yet it felt like a welcoming. : Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. Yet she sailed softly too: j Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — | On me alone it blew. And the ancient Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed hoSSh'his' The light-house top I see.^ native country. Ig 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 — i 'O let me be awake, my God! } Or let me sleep alway. ' j SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 337 The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smooth^ 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. And the bay was white with silent light Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were. In crimson colours came. And appear in A little distance from the prow their own forms r^^ crimsou shadows wcrc: of light. I turned my eyes upon the deck — Oh, 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. BRITISH POEMS The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third — I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. Part VII The Hermit of the Wood, "This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff -boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Wh3% this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair. That signal made but now?' Approacheth the ship with wonder. 'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 'And they 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 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 339 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. The ship suddenly sioketh. 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. The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. 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. 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. 340 BRITISH POEMS 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! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. And scarcely he could stand. The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him. 'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit 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. And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land, Since then, at an uncertain hour. That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told. This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell. Which biddeth me to prayer! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 341 O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely, 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk. With a goodly company! — To walk together to the kirk. And all together pray. While each to his great Father bends. Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay! And to teach, Farewell, farewell! but this I tell exampleriove ^o thee, thou Weddiug-Gucst! and reverence to JJc praycth Wcll, who lovcth Well God made and Both man and bird and beast. loveth. He praj^eth 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. 342 BRITISH POEMS THE KNIGHT'S TOMB Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be? — By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hevellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone. Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown — The Knight's bones are dust. And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust. SIR WALTER SCOTT [1771-1832] BONNY DUNDEE To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke, "Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can. Come saddle your horses and call up your men; Come open the West Port and let me gang free, And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!" Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street. The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee." As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow Ilk carline was fly ting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee! SIR WALTER SCOTT 343 With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed. As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e. As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears. And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock. And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three. For the love of the bonnet of Bonn^^ Dundee." The Gordon demands of him which way he goes — "Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet on Bonny Dundee. "There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth, If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. "There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free. At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks — Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!" He waved his proud hand and the trumpets were blown. The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. 344 BRITISH POEMS Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates and let me gae free. For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! [From The Doom of Devorgoil.] THE FIGHT ON FLODDEN FIELD Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill. On which — for far the day was spent — The western sunbeams now were bent; The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view: Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, "Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — But see! look up — on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent." And sudden, as he spoke. From the sharp ridges of the hill. All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and vast, and rolling far. The cloud enveloped Scotland's war As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march; their tread alone. At times one warning trumpet blown. At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear or see their foes Until at weapon-point they close. — They close in clouds of smoke and dust. With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, SIR WALTER SCOTT 345 And fiends in upper air: Oh! life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout. And triumph and despair. Long looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And first the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears, And in the smoke the pennons flew. As in the storm the white seamew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far. The broken billows of the war. And plumed crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly; The stainless Tunstall's banner white. And Edmund Howard's lion bright. Still bear them bravely in the fight, Although against them come Of gallant Gordons many a one. And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, And many a rugged Border clan. With Huntly and with Home. — Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle, Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. And flung the feeble targe aside. And with both hands the broadsword plied. 346 BRITISH POEMS 'Twas vain. — But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. The Border Slogan rent the sky! A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced, — forced back, now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale. When rent are rigging, shrouds and sail, It wavered mid the foes. [From Canto VI, Marmion. ROBERT SOUTHEY [1774-1843] THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM It was a summer evening. Old Kaspar's work was done. And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun. And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round. Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found. That was so large, and smooth, and round, Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; ROBERT SOUTHEY 347 And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, '"Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough. The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell me what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war. And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then. Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground. And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled. Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide. And many a childing mother then. And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. 348 BRITISH POEMS "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things Hke that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said httle Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my Httle girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last.-^" Quoth little Peterkin. "W^hy that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory." CHARLES LAMB [1775-1834] THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES I HAVE had plaj^mates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing. Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a Love once, fairest among women: Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 349 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling.^ So might we talk of the old familiar faces. How some they have died, and some they have left me. And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR [1775-1864] ROSE AYLMER Ah what avails the sceptred race. Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. DIRGE Stand close around, ye Stygian set. With Dirce in one boat conveyed. Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old, and she a shade. 350 BRITISH POEMS THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA "Artemidora! Gods invisible, While thou art lying faint along the couch, Have tied the sandal to thy slender feet And stand beside thee, ready to convey Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness Away, and voices like thy own come near And nearer, and solicit an embrace." Artemidora sigh'd, and would have pressed The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak. Iris stood over her dark hair unseen While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into Eyes that had given light and life ere-while To those above them, but now dim with tears And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy. Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more: Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber: 'twas not hers. TO lANTHE Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives Immortal youth to mortal maids. Soon shall Ol^livion's deepening veil Hide all the peopled hills you see. The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 351 ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust; All that remains of thee these plaits unfold. Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the King Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, "O father! I am young and very happy. I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood While I was resting on her knee both arms And hitting it to make her mind my words. And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might he not also hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Oh'mpus.^" The father placed his cheek upon her head. And tears dropped down it, but the king of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. *'0 father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou not Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour. Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds. When it was inarticulate as theirs. And the down deadened it within the nest.^" He moved her gently from him, silent still. And this, and this alone, brought tears from her. Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, "I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polished altar with my virgin blood; 352 BRITISH POEMS I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped brow; And (after those who mind us girls the most,) Adore our own Athena, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. But father! to see you no more, and see Your love, O father! go ere I am gone . . .'* Gently he moved her off, and drew her back. Bending his lofty head far over hers, And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. He turn'd away; not far, but silent still. She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh. So long a silence seemed the approach of death. And like it. Once again she raised her voice. "O father! if the ships are now detained. And all your vows move not the Gods above. When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer The less to them: and purer can there be Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prater For her dear father's safety and success.'" A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word, stepped slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up and saw The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried "O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail." ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY I STROVE with none; for none was 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. THOMAS CAMPBELL 353 THOMAS CAMPBELL [1777-1844] YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND A NAVAL ODE Ye mariners of England That guard our native seas. Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! — For the deck it was their field of fame And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep. While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwark. No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves. Her home is on the deep. W'ith thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 354 BRITISH POEMS The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name. When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more. And the storm has ceased to blow. THOMAS MOORE [1779-1852] PRO PATRIA MORI When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind. Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resigned,^ Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn. Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee. With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above. Thy name shall be mingled with mine. Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. LORD BYRON 355 GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD BYRON [1788-1824] MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART Za>77 /uoi/, eras dya-rrC}. Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast. Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Zw^ fwv, eras dyairQ. By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each yEgean wind; By those hds whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Zw'^ fioVj eras dyairCo. By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, Za;?7 ixov^ ads dyairG). Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul; Can I cease to love thee? No! Zw^ fxov ffds dyairQ, 356 BRITISH POEMS WHEN WE TWO PARTED When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss*^ Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow — It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken. And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken. And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee. Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee. Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee.^^ — With silence and tears. LORD BYRON 357 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less. Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. The smiles that win, the tints that glow. But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! SONNET ON CHILLON Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thou art. For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. Their country conquers with their martyrdom. And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place. And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. 358 BRITISH POEMS STANZAS FOR MUSIC There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic Hke thee; And Uke music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming. And the luU'd winds seem dreaming; And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee. To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion. Like the swell of Summer's ocean. ON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! How in an hour the power which gave annuls Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too; In "pride of place" here last the eagle flew. Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain. Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; Ambition's life and labours all were vain; He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. Fit retribution! Gaul may champ the bit And foam in fetters;— but is Earth more free? Did nations combat to make One submit; Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? What! shall reviving Thraldom again be The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? LORD BYRON 359 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze And servile knees to thrones? No; prove before ye praise! If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more! In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears For Europe's flowers long rooted up before The trampler of her vineyards; in vain years Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, Have all been borne, and broken by the accord Of roused-up millions; all that most endears Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord. There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind. Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival. And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well BRITISH POEMS Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe, they come! they come!" And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose! The war-note ot Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: — How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years. And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves. Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they pass. Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. Over the unreturning brave, — alas! LORD BYRON 361 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe And burning with high hope shall moulder cold and low. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife. The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent! [From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.] THE ISLES OF GREECE The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung. Where grew the arts of war and peace, — Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet. But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse. The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon — And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free: 362 BRITISH POEMS For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below. And men in nations; — all were his! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set, where were they? And where are they? and where art thou. My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine. Degenerate into hands like mine? 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race. To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suflPuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three. To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall. And answer, "Let one living head. But one arise, — we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain — in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! LORD BYRON Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine; He served — but served Polycrates — A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! 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. 3G4 BRITISH POEMS Fill liigli the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade — I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid. My own the burning tear-drop laves. To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! [From Canto III, Don Juan. DON JUAN SOLILOQUIZES Milton's the prince of poets — so we say; A little heavy, but no less divine: An independent being in his day — Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; But his life falling into Johnson's way. We're told this great high priest of all the Nine Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. All these are, certes, entertaining facts. Like Shakspere's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes; Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts; Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes); Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth exacts These amiable descriptions from the scribes, As most essential to their hero's story, They do not much contribute to his glory. All are not moralists, like Southey, when He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy : " LORD BYRON 365 Or "Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then Season'd his pedlar poems with democrac}^; Or Coleridge, long before his flighty pen Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; When he and Southey, following the same path, Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). Such names at present cut a convict figure. The very Botany Bay in moral geography; Their royal treason, renegado rigor. Are good manure for their more bare biographj^ Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger Than any since the birthday of typography; A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the "Excursion," Writ in a manner which is my aversion. He there builds up a formidable dyke Between his own and others' intellect; But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect. Are things which in this century don't strike The public mind, — so few are the elect; And the new births of both their stale virginities Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. But let me to my story: I must own. If I have any fault, it is digression. Leaving my people to proceed alone. While I soliloquize beyond expression: But these are my addresses from the throne, Which put off business to the ensuing session: Forgetting each omission is a loss to The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. I know that what our neighbors call ""longueurs,'"' (We've not so good a word, but have the thing. In that complete perfection which insures An epic from Bob Southey every Spring — ) \GG BRITISH POEMS Form not the true temptation which alkires The reader; but 'twould not be hard to bring Some fine examples of the epopee. To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. We learn from Horace, "Homer sometimes sleeps;" We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes, — To show with what complacency he creeps, With his dear "Wagoners,'' around his lakes. He wishes for "a boat" to sail the deeps — Of ocean? — No, of air; and then he makes Another outcry for "a little boat," And drivels seas to set it well afloat. If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain. And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wagon," Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain.^ Or pray Medea for a single dragon.^ Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain, He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on. And he must needs mount nearer to the moon. Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon,'^ "Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Wagons!" Oh! ye shades Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this.^ That trash of such sort not alone evades Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — The "little boatman" and his "Peter Bell" Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel ! " [From Canto III, Don Juan.] CHARLES WOLFE 367 CHARLES WOLFE [1791-1823] THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead. And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed. And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our weary task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. 368 BRITISH POEMS Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone But we left him alone with his glory. JOHN KEATS [1795-1821] ! ! ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER | Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, i 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 i Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: i 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 star'd at the Pacific — and all his men I Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. ODE Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Have ye souls in heaven too. Double-lived in regions new? Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains w^ond'rous: And the parle of voices thund'rous. With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Brows'd bv none but Dian's fawns; JOHN KEATS 369 Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented. And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries. Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye lift behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you. Where your other souls are joying. Never slumber'd, never cloying. Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim. Thus ye teach us, every day. Wisdom, though fled far away. Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left j^our souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too. Double-lived in regions new! WHEN I HAVE FEARS When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain. Before high piled books, in charact'ry. Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face. Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance. And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; 370 BRITISH POEMS j And when I feel, fair creature of an hour! j That I shall never look upon thee more, I Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love! — then on the shore | Of the wide world I stand alone, and think j Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath. Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries. He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; But no — already had his deathbell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. JOHN KEATS 371 That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Star'd where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry. With plume, tiara, and all rich array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away. And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, Wliose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care. As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight. And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honey'd middle of the night If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim w^as thoughtful Madeline; The music, yearning like a God in pain. She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain Came many a tiptoe, amourous cavalier, And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain. But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 372 BRITISH POEMS She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort Of whisperings in anger, or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort. Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire. She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours. That he might gaze and worship all unseen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: All ej^es be muffled, or a hundred sw^ords Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage: not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came. Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her; but soon she knew his face, And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! JOHN KEATS 373 " Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit. And tell me how" — "Good Saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He follow'd through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she mutter'd "Well-a — Well-a-day!" He found him in a little moonlight room. Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "O tell me, Angela, b^^ the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve — Yet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Forphyro! — St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night; good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Forphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book. As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 374 BRITISH POEMS Sudden a thought came Hke a full-blown rose. Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot: then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: "A cruel man and impious thou art: Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go! — I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," Quoth Porphj^ro: "O may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruflSan passion in her face: Good Angela, believe me by these tears; Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears. And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul.^ A poor, weak, palsy-stricken church-yard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied. And win perhaps that night a peerless bride. While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. JOHN KEATS 375 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare. For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in praj'er The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid. Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care. She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare. Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide: No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 376 BRITISH POEMS A casement high and triple arch'd there was, x\ll garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint device. Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries. And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest. And on her silver cross soft amethyst. And on her hair a glory, like a saint: She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint: She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done. Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; Half -hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay. Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. JOHN KEATS 377 Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And hsten'd to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stepped. And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo! — how fast she slept. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half-anguish'd, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother than the creamy curd. And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one. From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night. Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so mv soul doth ache." 378 BRITISH POEMS ^ i Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm \ Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream i By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm I Impossible to melt as iced stream: j The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam: Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: ■ It seem'd he never, never could redeem ' From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes; j So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. I Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — j Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, ; He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans merci:" l Close to her ear touching the melody; — ; Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan: j He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly \ Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, ! Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd ; The blisses of her dream so pure and deep \ At which fair Madeline began to weep, I And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; ' Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, \ Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. : "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, i Made tunable with every sweetest vow: ' And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear. j How chang'd thou art!, how pallid, chill, and drear! j Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, i Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, j For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." ' JOHN KEATS 379 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odour with the violet, — Solution sweet: meantime the frost wind blows Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: **This is no dream, mj^ bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." *'My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed.? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land. Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — The bloated wassaillers will never heed: — Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be. For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.'* 380 BRITISH POEMS 3 She hurried at his words, beset with fears, j For there were sleeping dragons all around, | At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — i Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — j In all the house was heard no human sound. I A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; j The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, \ Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 1 And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. j They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; ! Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, j With a huge emptj^ flagon by his side: j The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, i But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: i By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: — ' The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; — The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. i And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. ', That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, ' And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form j Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, j Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the old i Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; i The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, j For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. l ODE ON A GRECIAN URN Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness. Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape JOHN KEATS 381 Of deities or mortals, or of both. In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above. That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. W^ho 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 dressed? What little town by river or sea shore. Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of this 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. BRITISH POEMS O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens over wrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe- wards had sunk: ' Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. But being too happy in thine happiness. — That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green. Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim. And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. And with thee fade away into the forest dim; Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou amongst the leaves hast never known. The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; JOHN KEATS 383 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where j'outh grows pale, and spectre- thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-ej^ed despairs. Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee. Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night. And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for 'many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme. To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die. To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod. 384 BRITISH POEMS Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd 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. f^ Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep? LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI BALLAD O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. Alone and palely loitering! The sedge has wither'd from the lake. And no birds sing. what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone .'^ The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. 1 see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew. And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. JOHN KEATS 385 I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful — a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head. And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love. And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long. For 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 — "I love thee true." She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore. And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep. And there I dream'd— Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. I saw pale kings and princes too. Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried— "La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side. 1 386 BRITISH POEMS And this is whj^ I sojourn here, \ Alone and palely loitering, ; Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake And no birds sing. ] BRIGHT STAR 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 priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores. Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors — No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell. Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath. And so live ever — or else swoon to death. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY [1792-1822] MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE Music, when soft voices die. Vibrates in the memory — Odours, when sweet violets sicken. Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. Are heaped for the beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone Love itself shall slumber on. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 387 OZYMANDIAS I MET a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand. Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown. And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command. Tell that its scupltor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. TO A SKYLARK Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert. That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strain 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 brightning. Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 388 BRITISH POEMS The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear. Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare. From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 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: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 389 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? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? W'hat love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep. Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 390 BRITISH POEMS We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear: If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. THE CLOUD I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one. When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail. And whiten the green plains under. And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 391 I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast, And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains. Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes. And his burning plumes outspread. Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag. Which an earthquake rocks and swings. An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden. Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. By the midnight breezes strewn; 392 BRITISH POEMS And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent. Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone. And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof. The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to mj' chair. Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of earth and water. And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 393 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, Kke ghosts from an enchanter fleemg. 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! II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge. Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. Vaulted with all thy congregated might 394 BRITISH POEMS Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: Oh hear! Ill 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 Baise's bay. And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day. All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er have striven PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 395 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh Hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: ^Yhat if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies AYill take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished 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? TO NIGHT Swiftly walk over the western wave. Spirit of Night! Out of thy 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! 596 BRITISH POEMS AYrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought ! BHnd with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er eity, 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, AVouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. Murmured like a noontide bee. Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? — And I replied, No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead Soon, too soon — Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night. When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 397 I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me — who knows how? To thy chamber window, Sweet! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream — The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art! lift me from the grass! 1 die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh! press it close to thine again. Where it will break at last. 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