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Hide Their Scars! | Joseph Horatio Chant | A painter, high in worldy fame,
Was sought to reproduce by art
A likeness of the man whose name
Sent darts of anguish through the heart
Of mighty monarchs in his day;
For he by arms subdued the world.
Kingdoms and empires owned his sway
And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.
But Alexander bore a scar,
Deep marked upon his royal brow;
To paint him thus would greatly mar
The monarch's beauty; as a slough
Would mar the beauty of a lawn,
Where queenly feet are wont to tread;
Or like the cloud at early dawn,
Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.
To leave it out would not be true,
For Alexander bore the scar;
The painter this resolved to do,
Which would be true, yet would not mar:
To paint the monarch's head reclined,
With his fore-finger on his brow;
And thus much grace with art combined,
Like ornament on vessel's prow.
The finger rested on the scar,
As if mere chance had placed it there;
And hid from sight this fruit of war,
And left a likeness true and fair.
So let us try, as best we can,
To cover o'er each ugly scar
Upon the brow of mortal man,
So none may see it, near nor far. |
The Hour Before Dawn | William Butler Yeats | A one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed man,
A bundle of rags upon a crutch,
Stumbled on windy Cruachan
Cursing the wind. It was as much
As the one sturdy leg could do
To keep him upright while he cursed.
He had counted, where long years ago
Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed,
A pair of lapwings, one old sheep,
And not a house to the plain's edge,
When close to his right hand a heap
Of grey stones and a rocky ledge
Reminded him that he could make,
If he but shifted a few stones,
A shelter till the daylight broke.
But while he fumbled with the stones
They toppled over; 'Were it not
I have a lucky wooden shin
I had been hurt'; and toppling brought
Before his eyes, where stones had been,
A dark deep hole in the rock's face.
He gave a gasp and thought to run,
Being certain it was no right place
But the Hell Mouth at Cruachan
That's stuffed with all that's old and bad,
And yet stood still, because inside
He had seen a red-haired jolly lad
In some outlandish coat beside
A ladle and a tub of beer,
Plainly no phantom by his look.
So with a laugh at his own fear
He crawled into that pleasant nook.
Young Red-head stretched himself to yawn
And murmured, 'May God curse the night
That's grown uneasy near the dawn
So that it seems even I sleep light;
And who are you that wakens me?
Has one of Maeve's nine brawling sons
Grown tired of his own company?
But let him keep his grave for once
I have to find the sleep I have lost.'
And then at last being wide awake,
'I took you for a brawling ghost,
Say what you please, but from daybreak
I'll sleep another century.'
The beggar deaf to all but hope
Went down upon a hand and knee
And took the wooden ladle up
And would have dipped it in the beer
But the other pushed his hand aside,
'Before you have dipped it in the beer
That sacred Goban brewed,' he cried,
'I'd have assurance that you are able
To value beer, I will have no fool
Dipping his nose into my ladle
Because he has stumbled on this hole
In the bad hour before the dawn.
If you but drink that beer and say
I will sleep until the winter's gone,
Or maybe, to Midsummer Day
You will sleep that length; and at the first
I waited so for that or this,
Because the weather was a-cursed
Or I had no woman there to kiss,
And slept for half a year or so;
But year by year I found that less
Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo
Even a half hour's nothingness,
And when at one year's end I found
I had not waked a single minute,
I chose this burrow under ground.
I will sleep away all Time within it:
My sleep were now nine centuries
But for those mornings when I find
The lapwing at their foolish cries
And the sheep bleating at the wind
As when I also played the fool.'
The beggar in a rage began
Upon his hunkers in the hole,
'It's plain that you are no right man
To mock at everything I love
As if it were not worth the doing.
I'd have a merry life enough
If a good Easter wind were blowing,
And though the winter wind is bad
I should not be too down in the mouth
For anything you did or said
If but this wind were in the south.'
But the other cried, 'You long for spring
Or that the wind would shift a point
And do not know that you would bring,
If time were suppler in the joint,
Neither the spring nor the south wind
But the hour when you shall pass away
And leave no smoking wick behind,
For all life longs for the Last Day
And there's no man but cocks his ear
To know when Michael's trumpet cries
That flesh and bone may disappear,
And souls as if they were but sighs,
And there be nothing but God left;
But I alone being blessed keep
Like some old rabbit to my cleft
And wait Him in a drunken sleep.'
He dipped his ladle in the tub
And drank and yawned and stretched him out.
The other shouted, 'You would rob
My life of every pleasant thought
And every comfortable thing
And so take that and that.' Thereon
He gave him a great pummelling,
But might have pummelled at a stone
For all the sleeper knew or cared;
And after heaped the stones again
And cursed and prayed, and prayed and cursed:
'Oh God if he got loose!' And then
In fury and in panic fled
From the Hell Mouth at Cruachan
And gave God thanks that overhead
The clouds were brightening with the dawn. |
A Nursery Darling | Lewis Carroll | A Mother's breast:
Safe refuge from her childish fears,
From childish troubles, childish tears,
Mists that enshroud her dawning years!
see how in sleep she seems to sing
A voiceless psalm, an offering
Raised, to the glory of her King
In Love: for Love is Rest.
A Darling's kiss:
Dearest of all the signs that fleet
From lips that lovingly repeat
Again, again, the message sweet!
Full to the brim with girlish glee,
A child, a very child is she,
Whose dream of heaven is still to be
At Home: for Home is Bliss.
|
The Prairie States | Walt Whitman | A newer garden of creation, no primal solitude,
Dense, joyous, modern, populous millions, cities and farms,
With iron interlaced, composite, tied, many in one,
By all the world contributed freedom's and law's and thrift's society,
The crown and teeming paradise, so far, of time's accumulations,
To justify the past.
|
A Noiseless Patient Spider | Walt Whitman | A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. |
Washington's Monument. | George Pope Morris | A monument to Washington?
A tablet graven with his name?--
Green be the mound it stands upon,
And everlasting as his fame!
His glory fills the land--the plain,
The moor, the mountain, and the mart!
More firm than column, urn, or fane,
His monument--the human heart.
The Christian--patriot--hero--sage!
The chief from heaven in mercy sent;
His deeds are written on the age--
His country is his monument.
"The sword of Gideon and the Lord"
Was mighty in his mighty hand--
The God who guided he adored,
And with His blessing freed the land.
The first in war--the first in peace--
The first in hearts that freeman own;
Unparalleled till time shall cease--
He lives immortal and alone.
Yet let the rock-hewn tower arise,
High to the pathway of the sun,
And speak to the approving skies
Our gratitude to Washington. |
A Narrow Girdle Of Rough Stones And Crags | William Wordsworth | A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy:
And there myself and two beloved Friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
Each on the other heaped, along the line
Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now a lifeless stand!
And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.
And often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
So fared we that bright morning: from the fields
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
"Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,
"The Man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time."
Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us and we saw a Mam worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The Man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
The same admonishment, have called the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears. |
The Cry Of The Women | Helen Leah Reed | A new year dawning on a warring world!
And many fight, and many pray for peace;
But yet the roar of battle will not cease,
Still man against his brother man is hurled.
So we who wait - we women in our woe,
Who wait and work - who wait, and work, and weep -
For us there is no rest, for us no sleep,
As our sad thoughts are wandering grim and slow,
Across those dreary fields where far away
Our hero myriads bleed and burn and die,
We lift our hearts toward the pitying sky -
Dawns there no hope upon this New Year's day?
1915
|
Maytime In Midwinter | Algernon Charles Swinburne | A new year gleams on us, tearful
And troubled and smiling dim
As the smile on a lip still fearful,
As glances of eyes that swim:
But the bird of my heart makes cheerful
The days that are bright for him.
Child, how may a man's love merit
The grace you shed as you stand,
The gift that is yours to inherit?
Through you are the bleak days bland;
Your voice is a light to my spirit;
You bring the sun in your hand.
The year's wing shows not a feather
As yet of the plumes to be;
Yet here in the shrill grey weather
The spring's self stands at my knee,
And laughs as we commune together,
And lightens the world we see.
The rains are as dews for the christening
Of dawns that the nights benumb:
The spring's voice answers me listening
For speech of a child to come,
While promise of music is glistening
On lips that delight keeps dumb.
The mists and the storms receding
At sight of you smile and die:
Your eyes held wide on me reading
Shed summer across the sky:
Your heart shines clear for me, heeding
No more of the world than I.
The world, what is it to you, dear,
And me, if its face be grey,
And the new-born year be a shrewd year
For flowers that the fierce winds fray?
You smile, and the sky seems blue, dear;
You laugh, and the month turns May.
Love cares not for care, he has daffed her
Aside as a mate for guile:
The sight that my soul yearns after
Feeds full my sense for awhile;
Your sweet little sun-faced laughter,
Your good little glad grave smile.
Your hands through the bookshelves flutter;
Scott, Shakespeare, Dickens, are caught;
Blake's visions, that lighten and mutter;
Moli're and his smile has nought
Left on it of sorrow, to utter
The secret things of his thought.
No grim thing written or graven
But grows, if you gaze on it, bright;
A lark's note rings from the raven,
And tragedy's robe turns white;
And shipwrecks drift into haven;
And darkness laughs, and is light.
Grief seems but a vision of madness;
Life's key-note peals from above
With nought in it more of sadness
Than broods on the heart of a dove:
At sight of you, thought grows gladness,
And life, through love of you, love. |
A Pastoral Dialogue. | Jonathan Swift | DERMOT, SHEELAH
A Nymph and swain, Sheelah and Dermot hight;
Who wont to weed the court of Gosford knight;[1]
While each with stubbed knife removed the roots,
That raised between the stones their daily shoots;
As at their work they sate in counterview,
With mutual beauty smit, their passion grew.
Sing, heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing strain,
The soft endearments of the nymph and swain.
DERMOT
My love to Sheelah is more firmly fixt,
Than strongest weeds that grow those stones betwixt;
My spud these nettles from the stones can part;
No knife so keen to weed thee from my heart.
SHEELAH
My love for gentle Dermot faster grows,
Than yon tall dock that rises to thy nose.
Cut down the dock, 'twill sprout again; but, O!
Love rooted out, again will never grow.
DERMOT
No more that brier thy tender leg shall rake:
(I spare the thistles for Sir Arthur's[2] sake)
Sharp are the stones; take thou this rushy mat;
The hardest bum will bruise with sitting squat.
SHEELAH
Thy breeches, torn behind, stand gaping wide;
This petticoat shall save thy dear backside;
Nor need I blush; although you feel it wet,
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but sweat.
DERMOT
At an old stubborn root I chanced to tug,
When the Dean threw me this tobacco-plug;
A longer ha'p'orth [3] never did I see;
This, dearest Sheelah, thou shall share with me.
SHEELAH
In at the pantry door, this morn I slipt,
And from the shelf a charming crust I whipt:
Dennis[4] was out, and I got hither safe;
And thou, my dear, shall have the bigger half.
DERMOT
When you saw Tady at long bullets play,
You sate and loused him all a sunshine day:
How could you, Sheelah, listen to his tales,
Or crack such lice as his between your nails?
SHEELAH
When you with Oonah stood behind a ditch,
I peep'd, and saw you kiss the dirty bitch;
Dermot, how could you touch these nasty sluts?
I almost wish'd this spud were in your guts.
DERMOT
If Oonah once I kiss'd, forbear to chide;
Her aunt's my gossip by my father's side:
But, if I ever touch her lips again,
May I be doom'd for life to weed in rain!
SHEELAH
Dermot, I swear, though Tady's locks could hold
Ten thousand lice, and every louse was gold;
Him on my lap you never more shall see;
Or may I lose my weeding knife - and thee!
DERMOT
O, could I earn for thee, my lovely lass,
A pair of brogues [5] to bear thee dry to mass!
But see, where Norah with the sowins [6] comes -
Then let us rise, and rest our weary bums. |
The Humane Mikado. | William Schwenck Gilbert | A more humane Mikado never
Did in Japan exist,
To nobody second,
I'm certainly reckoned
A true philanthropist,
It is my very humane endeavor
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time
To let the punishment fit the crime
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners,
Who chatter and bleat and bore,
Are sent to hear sermons
From mystical Germans
Who preach from ten to four,
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villanies
All desire to shirk,
Shall, during off hours,
Exhibit his powers
To Madame Tussaud's waxwork.
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
Or stains her grey hair puce,
Or pinches her figger,
Is blacked like a nigger
With permanent walnut juice.
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
Scribbles on window panes,
We only suffer
To ride on a buffer
In Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time
To let the punishment fit the crime
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who wearier
With tales of countless cures.
His teeth, I've enacted,
Shall all be extracted
By terrified amateurs.
The music hall singer attends a series
Of masses and fugues and "ops"
By Bach, interwoven
With Sophr and Beethoven,
At classical Monday Pops.
The billiard sharp whom any one catches,
His doom's extremely hard
He's made to dwell
In a dungeon cell
On a spot that's always barred.
And there he plays extravagant matches
In fitless finger-stalls,
On a cloth untrue
With a twisted cue,
And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time
To let the punishment fit the crime
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment! |
The Character Of A Good Parson.[1] | John Dryden | A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor;
(As God had clothed his own ambassador;)
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense;
And made almost a sin of abstinence,
Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see;
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity:
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd;
Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charm'd.
For letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky;
And oft, with holy hymns, he charm'd their ears:
(A music more melodious than the spheres.)
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best.
He bore his great commission in his look:
But sweetly temper'd awe; and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell;
And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal;
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.
He taught the gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive: but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared;
But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away,
Lightning and thunder (heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before the Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.
The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took;
But never sued, or cursed with bell and book.
With patience bearing wrong; but offering none:
Since every man is free to lose his own.
The country churls, according to their kind,
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind),
The less he sought his offerings, pinch'd the more,
And praised a priest contented to be poor.
Yet of his little he had some to spare,
To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare;
For mortified he was to that degree,
A poorer than himself he would not see.
True priests, he said, and preachers of the Word,
Were only stewards of their sovereign Lord:
Nothing was theirs; but all the public store;
Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor:
Who, should they steal for want of his relief,
He judged himself accomplice with the thief.
Wide was his parish; not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick; to succour the distress'd:
Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.
All this the good old man perform'd alone,
Nor spared his pains; for curate he had none:
Nor durst he trust another with his care;
Nor rode himself to Paul's, the public fair,
To chaffer for preferment with his gold,
Where bishoprics and sinecures are sold:
But duly watch'd his flock, by night and day,
And from the prowling wolf redeem'd the prey;
And hungry sent the wily fox away.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd;
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.
His preaching much, but more his practice wrought;
(A living sermon of the truths he taught);
For this by rules severe his life he squared,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard.
For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest:
(The gold of heaven, who bear the God impress'd):
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.
The prelate for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised:
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show;
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,
These marks of Church and Churchmen he design'd,
And living taught, and dying left behind.
The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn:
In purple he was crucified, not born.
They who contend for place and high degree,
Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.
Not but he knew the signs of earthly power
Might well become Saint Peter's successor;
The holy father holds a double reign,
The prince may keep his pomp, the fisher must be plain.
Such was the saint, who shone with every grace,
Reflecting, Moses'-like, his Maker's face.
God saw his image lively was express'd;
And his own work, as in creation, bless'd.
The Tempter saw him too, with envious eye;
And, as on Job, demanded leave to try.
He took the time when Richard was deposed,
And high and low with happy Harry closed.
This prince, though great in arms, the priest withstood:
Near though he was, yet not the next of blood.
Had Richard, unconstrain'd, resign'd the throne,
A king can give no more than is his own:
The title stood entail'd, had Richard had a son.
Conquest, an odious name, was laid aside,
Where all submitted, none the battle tried.
The senseless plea of right by Providence
Was, by a flattering priest, invented since;
And lasts no longer than the present sway;
But justifies the next who comes in play.
The people's right remains; let those who dare
Dispute their power, when they the judges are.
He join'd not in their choice, because he knew
Worse might, and often did, from change ensue.
Much to himself he thought; but little spoke;
And, undeprived, his benefice forsook.
Now, through the land, his cure of souls he stretch'd;
And like a primitive apostle preach'd:
Still cheerful; ever constant to his call;
By many follow'd; loved by most, admired by all.
With what he begg'd, his brethren he relieved:
And gave the charities himself received.
Gave, while he taught; and edified the more,
Because he showed, by proof, 'twas easy to be poor.
He went not with the crowd to see a shrine;
But fed us, by the way, with food divine.
In deference to his virtues, I forbear
To show you what the rest in orders were:
This brilliant is so spotless and so bright,
He needs no foil, but shines by his own proper light.
|
La Nuit Blanche | Rudyard Kipling | A much-discerning Public hold
The Singer generally sings
And prints and sells his past for gold.
Whatever I may here disclaim,
The very clever folk I sing to
Will most indubitably cling to
Their pet delusion, just the same.
I had seen, as the dawn was breaking
And I staggered to my rest,
Tari Devi softly shaking
From the Cart Road to the crest.
I had seen the spurs of Jakko
Heave and quiver, swell and sink.
Was it Earthquake or tobacco,
Day of Doom, or Night of Drink?
In the full, fresh fragrant morning
I observed a camel crawl,
Laws of gravitation scorning,
On the ceiling and the wall;
Then I watched a fender walking,
And I heard grey leeches sing,
And a red-hot monkey talking
Did not seem the proper thing.
Then a Creature, skinned and crimson,
Ran about the floor and cried,
And they said that I had the "jims" on,
And they dosed me with bromide,
And they locked me in my bedroom,
Me and one wee Blood Red Mouse,
Though I said: "To give my head room
You had best unroof the house."
But my words were all unheeded,
Though I told the grave M.D.
That the treatment really needed
Was a dip in open sea
That was lapping just below me,
Smooth as silver, white as snow,
And it took three men to throw me
When I found I could not go.
Half the night I watched the Heavens
Fizz like '81 champagne,
Fly to sixes and to sevens,
Wheel and thunder back again;
And when all was peace and order
Save one planet nailed askew,
Much I wept because my warder
Would not let me sit it true.
After frenzied hours of wating,
When the Earth and Skies were dumb,
Pealed an awful voice dictating
An interminable sum,
Changing to a tangle story,
"What she said you said I said",
Till the Moon arose in glory,
And I found her . . . in my head;
Then a Face came, blind and weeping,
And It couldn't wipe its eyes,
And It muttered I was keeping
Back the moonlight from the skies;
So I patted it for pity,
But it whistled shrill with wrath,
And a huge black Devil City
Poured its peoples on my path.
So I fled with steps uncertain
On a thousand-year long race,
But the bellying of the curtain
Kept me always in one place;
While the tumult rose and maddened
To the roar of Earth on fire,
Ere it ebbed and sank and saddened
To a whisper tense as wire.
In tolerable stillness
Rose one little, little star,
And it chuckled at my illness,
And it mocked me from afar;
And its breathren came and eyed me,
Called the Universe to aid,
Till I lay, with naught to hide me,
'Neath' the Scorn of All Things Made.
Dun and saffron, robed and splendid,
Broke the solemn, pitying Day,
And I knew my pains were ended,
And I turned and tried to pray;
But my speech was shattered wholly,
And I wept as children weep.
Till the dawn-wind, softly, slowly,
Brought to burning eyelids sleep. |
Cyclopean | Gilbert Keith Chesterton | A mountainous and mystic brute
No rein can curb, no arrow shoot,
Upon whose domed deformed back
I sweep the planets scorching track.
Old is the elf, and wise, men say,
His hair grows green as ours grows grey;
He mocks the stars with myriad hands.
High as that swinging forest stands.
But though in pigmy wanderings dull
I scour the deserts of his skull,
I never find the face, eyes, teeth.
Lowering or laughing underneath.
I met my foe in an empty dell,
His face in the sun was naked hell.
I thought, 'One silent, bloody blow.
No priest would curse, no crowd would know.'
Then cowered: a daisy, half concealed,
Watched for the fame of that poor field;
And in that flower and suddenly
Earth opened its one eye on me. |
Picture Songs. | George MacDonald | I.
A pale green sky is gleaming;
The steely stars are few;
The moorland pond is steaming
A mist of gray and blue.
Along the pathway lonely
My horse is walking slow;
Three living creatures only,
He, I, and a home-bound crow!
The moon is hardly shaping
Her circle in the fog;
A dumb stream is escaping
Its prison in the bog.
But in my heart are ringing
Tones of a lofty song;
A voice that I know, is singing,
And my heart all night must long.
II.
Over a shining land--
Once such a land I knew--
Over its sea, by a soft wind fanned,
The sky is all white and blue.
The waves are kissing the shores,
Murmuring love and for ever;
A boat gleams green, and its timeful oars
Flash out of the level river.
Oh to be there with thee
And the sun, on wet sands, my love!
With the shining river, the sparkling sea,
And the radiant sky above!
III.
The autumn winds are sighing
Over land and sea;
The autumn woods are dying
Over hill and lea;
And my heart is sighing, dying,
Maiden, for thee.
The autumn clouds are flying
Homeless over me;
The nestless birds are crying
In the naked tree;
And my heart is flying, crying,
Maiden, to thee.
The autumn sea is crawling
Up the chilly shore;
The thin-voiced firs are calling
Ghostily evermore:
Maiden, maiden! I am falling
Dead at thy door.
IV.
The waters are rising and flowing
Over the weedy stone--
Over it, over it going:
It is never gone.
Waves upon waves of weeping
Went over the ancient pain;
Glad waves go over it leaping--
Still it rises again! |
A Girl's Garden | Robert Lee Frost | A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.
One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot
To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, "Why not?"
In casting about for a corner
He thought of an idle bit
Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, "Just it."
And he said, "That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm."
It was not enough of a garden
Her father said, to plow;
So she had to work it all by hand,
But she don't mind now.
She wheeled the dung in a wheelbarrow
Along a stretch of road;
But she always ran away and left
Her not-nice load,
And hid from anyone passing.
And then she begged the seed.
She says she thinks she planted one
Of all things but weed.
A hill each of potatoes,
Radishes, lettuce, peas,
Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,
And even fruit trees.
And yes, she has long mistrusted
That a cider-apple
In bearing there today is hers,
Or at least may be.
Her crop was a miscellany
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
A great deal of none.
Now when she sees in the village
How village things go,
Just when it seems to come in right,
She says, "I know!
"It's as when I was a farmer..."
Oh never by way of advice!
And she never sins by telling the tale
To the same person twice. |
A Hope Carol. | Christina Georgina Rossetti | A night was near, a day was near;
Between a day and night
I heard sweet voices calling clear,
Calling me:
I heard a whirr of wing on wing,
But could not see the sight;
I long to see my birds that sing, -
I long to see.
Below the stars, beyond the moon,
Between the night and day,
I heard a rising falling tune
Calling me:
I long to see the pipes and strings
Whereon such minstrels play;
I long to see each face that sings, -
I long to see.
To-day or may be not to-day,
To-night or not to-night;
All voices that command or pray,
Calling me,
Shall kindle in my soul such fire,
And in my eyes such light,
That I shall see that heart's desire
I long to see. |
Lasting Fame. III-30 (From The Odes Of Horace) | Helen Leah Reed | A monument outlasting brass I have builded,
Higher than pyramids in their crumbling glory,
That no devouring storm, nor futile North wind
Can overthrow, nor years in long succession,
Nor fleeting seasons. I shall not wholly perish.
In great part I'll escape the funeral pyre;
And lately praised, my praise will go on growing
To latest years. As long as Priest and Vestal
Ascend the Capitol, I shall be mentioned
Where Aufidus fierce rages, and where Daunus
A rustic race rules in an arid country.
Great, though of humble birth, I the first poet
To write in Latin rhythms 'olian lyrics,
Take pride, Melpomene, in well-earned merits,
And crown me willingly with Delphic laurel.
|
The Old Tramp | James Whitcomb Riley | A Old Tramp slep' in our stable wunst,
An' The Raggedy Man he caught
An' roust him up, an' chased him off
Clean out through our back lot!
An' th' Old Tramp hollered back an' said, -
"You're a purty man! - You air! -
With a pair o' eyes like two fried eggs,
An' a nose like a Bartlutt pear!" |
The League Of The Rats. | Jean de La Fontaine | A mouse was once in mortal fear
Of a cat that watch'd her portal near.
What could be done in such a case?
With prudent care she left the catship,
And courted, with a humble grace,
A neighbour of a higher race,
Whose lordship - I should say his ratship -
Lay in a great hotel;
And who had boasted oft, 'tis said,
Of living wholly without dread.
'Well,' said this braggart, 'well,
Dame Mouse, what should I do?
Alone I cannot rout
The foe that threatens you.
I'll rally all the rats about,
And then I'll play him such a trick!'
The mouse her court'sy dropp'd,
And off the hero scamper'd quick,
Nor till he reach'd the buttery stopp'd,
Where scores of rats were clustered,
In riotous extravagance,
All feasting at the host's expense.
To him, arriving there much flustered,
Indeed, quite out of breath,
A rat among the feasters saith,
'What news? what news? I pray you, speak.'
The rat, recovering breath to squeak,
Replied, 'To tell the matter in a trice,
It is, that we must promptly aid the mice;
For old Raminagrab is making
Among their ranks a dreadful quaking.
This cat, of cats the very devil,
When mice are gone, will do us evil.'
'True, true,' said each and all;
'To arms! to arms!' they cry and call.
Some ratties by their fears
Were melted e'en to tears.
It matter'd not a whisk,
Nor check'd the valour brisk.
Each took upon his back
Some cheese in haversack,
And roundly swore to risk
His carcass in the cause.
They march'd as to a feast,
Not flinching in the least. -
But quite too late, for in his jaws
The cat already held the mouse.
They rapidly approach'd the house -
To save their friend, beyond a doubt.
Just then the cat came growling out,
The mouse beneath his whisker'd nose.
And march'd along before his foes.
At such a voice, our rats discreet,
Foreboding a defeat,
Effected, in a style most fleet,
A fortunate retreat.
Back hurried to his hole each rat,
And afterwards took care to shun the cat. |
Repose. | Theodore Harding Rand | A mossy footfall in this wood
A peal of thunder were,
Or autumn tempest-shriek, compared
With the unwhispered stir
Of massy fluids lift in air,
To build these leafy pillars fair.
Lavished at wordless wish or mute
Command, the chemic wealth
Upsprings to meet the builders' hands,
All hushed as dusky stealth.
Noiseless as love, as silent prayer
Mysterious, the builders are.
Ah, sure, these silences are works
Of God's sabbatic rest,
A music perfect as the calm
Of wave's unbroken crest!
These woven leaves that stilly nod,
These violets, ope their eyes on God.
The deep serene that worketh here
Works, too, 'mid human tears;
A thousand years as one day is,
One day a thousand years.
Fell death still thunders at his task,
But death the peace of God doth mask. |
The Mouse Metamorphosed Into A Maid. | Jean de La Fontaine | [1]
A mouse once from an owl's beak fell;
I'd not have pick'd it up, I wis;
A Brahmin did it: very well;
Each country has its prejudice.
The mouse, indeed, was sadly bruised.
Although, as neighbours, we are used
To be more kind to many others,
The Brahmins treat the mice as brothers.
The notion haunts their heads, that when
The soul goes forth from dying men,
It enters worm, or bird, or beast,
As Providence or Fate is pleased;
And on this mystery rests their law,
Which from Pythagoras they're said to draw.
And hence the Brahmin kindly pray'd
To one who knew the wizard's trade,
To give the creature, wounded sore,
The form in which it lodged before.
Forthwith the mouse became a maid,
Of years about fifteen;
A lovelier was never seen.
She would have waked, I ween,
In Priam's son, a fiercer flame
Than did the beauteous Grecian dame.
Surprised at such a novelty,
The Brahmin to the damsel cried,
'Your choice is free;
For every he
Will seek you for his bride.'
Said she, 'Am I to have a voice?
The strongest, then, shall be my choice.'
'O sun!' the Brahmin cried, 'this maid is thine,
And thou shalt be a son-in-law of mine.'
'No,' said the sun, 'this murky cloud, it seems,
In strength exceeds me, since he hides my beams;
And him I counsel you to take.'
Again the reverend Brahmin spake -
'O cloud, on-flying with thy stores of water,
Pray wast thou born to wed my daughter?'
'Ah, no, alas! for, you may see,
The wind is far too strong for me.
My claims with Boreas' to compare,
I must confess, I do not dare.'
'O wind,' then cried the Brahmin, vex'd,
And wondering what would hinder next, -
'Approach, and, with thy sweetest air,
Embrace - possess - the fairest fair.'
The wind, enraptured, thither blew; -
A mountain stopp'd him as he flew,
To him now pass'd the tennis-ball,
And from him to a creature small.
Said he, 'I'd wed the maid, but that
I've had a quarrel with the rat.
A fool were I to take the bride
From one so sure to pierce my side.'
The rat! It thrill'd the damsel's ear;
To name at once seem'd sweet and dear.
The rat! 'Twas one of Cupid's blows;
The like full many a maiden knows;
But all of this beneath the rose.
One smacketh ever of the place
Where first he show'd the world his face.
Thus far the fable's clear as light;
But, if we take a nearer sight,
There lurks within its drapery
Somewhat of graceless sophistry;
For who, that worships e'en the glorious sun,
Would not prefer to wed some cooler one?
And doth a flea's exceed a giant's might,
Because the former can the latter bite?
And, by the rule of strength, the rat
Had sent his bride to wed the cat;
From cat to dog, and onward still
To wolf or tiger, if you will:
Indeed, the fabulist might run
A circle backward to the sun. -
But to the change the tale supposes, -
In learned phrase, metempsychosis.
The very thing the wizard did
Its falsity exposes -
If that indeed were ever hid.
According to the Brahmin's plan,
The proud aspiring soul of man,
And souls that dwell in humbler forms
Of rats and mice, and even worms,
All issue from a common source,
And, hence, they are the same of course. -
Unequal but by accident
Of organ and of tenement,
They use one pair of legs, or two,
Or e'en with none contrive to do,
As tyrant matter binds them to.
Why, then, could not so fine a frame
Constrain its heavenly guest
To wed the solar flame?
A rat her love possess'd.
In all respects, compared and weigh'd,
The souls of men and souls of mice
Quite different are made, -
Unlike in sort as well as size.
Each fits and fills its destined part
As Heaven doth well provide;
Nor witch, nor fiend, nor magic art,
Can set their laws aside.
|
The Man And The Wooden God. | Jean de La Fontaine | [1]
A pagan kept a god of wood, -
A sort that never hears,
Though furnish'd well with ears, -
From which he hoped for wondrous good.
The idol cost the board of three;
So much enrich'd was he
With vows and offerings vain,
With bullocks garlanded and slain:
No idol ever had, as that,
A kitchen quite so full and fat.
But all this worship at his shrine
Brought not from this same block divine
Inheritance, or hidden mine,
Or luck at play, or any favour.
Nay, more, if any storm whatever
Brew'd trouble here or there,
The man was sure to have his share,
And suffer in his purse,
Although the god fared none the worse.
At last, by sheer impatience bold,
The man a crowbar seizes,
His idol breaks in pieces,
And finds it richly stuff'd with gold.
'How's this? Have I devoutly treated,'
Says he, 'your godship, to be cheated?
Now leave my house, and go your way,
And search for altars where you may.
You're like those natures, dull and gross,
From, which comes nothing but by blows;
The more I gave, the less I got;
I'll now be rich, and you may rot.' |
The Four Gifts. | H. P. Nichols | A new-born babe was sleeping
Within its cradle fair,
And angel guards were keeping
Its peaceful slumbers there.
Gone was the age of fairies,
And of the elfins wild,
Who, hovering o'er the infant's couch,
Were wont to bless the child.
But in a distant city,
Fays that still glad the earth,
Four gentle little children,
Hailed with delight his birth.
Out spake the eldest sister,
"O, let us fairies play,
And give to our young brother
Some precious gift to-day.
"Sit down around the fireside,
And I my gift will tell."
And the little children sat them down
The fancy pleased them well.
Again thus spake the eldest,
"I 'll give him _beauty_ rare;
His eyes shall be as diamonds bright,
His brow like marble fair.
"He shall have golden ringlets,
His cheeks shall mock the rose;
And he shall be the loveliest
Where'er his light form goes."
The next replied, "Oh! sister,
Not such a gift is mine;
For beauty's charms, though lovely,
Must perish and decline.
"I'll give him _wit_ and _talents_;
In manhood he shall stand
Among the gifted and the wise,
That bless our native land."
"I'll give him _sweet good-temper_,"
Said the third loving child;
"He shall make glad our happy home
By actions kind and mild."
The youngest raised her wondering eyes,
And said, in accents low,
"I thought the gift I chose would be
The first that you 'd bestow.
"I'll give our little brother
_Obedience_ to-day,
And he shall mind, with cheerfulness,
All that our parents say."
Oh! blessed is the childish heart,
In life's first opening dawn,
For all its high and holy thoughts
From heavenly founts are drawn.
May our most valued blessings be
Obedience and love!
Our hearts, like that sweet sister's, full
Of teachings from above! |
Marianne's Dream. | Percy Bysshe Shelley | 1.
A pale Dream came to a Lady fair,
And said, A boon, a boon, I pray!
I know the secrets of the air,
And things are lost in the glare of day,
Which I can make the sleeping see,
If they will put their trust in me.
2.
And thou shalt know of things unknown,
If thou wilt let me rest between
The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown
Over thine eyes so dark and sheen:
And half in hope, and half in fright,
The Lady closed her eyes so bright.
3.
At first all deadly shapes were driven
Tumultuously across her sleep,
And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven
All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep;
And the Lady ever looked to spy
If the golden sun shone forth on high.
4.
And as towards the east she turned,
She saw aloft in the morning air,
Which now with hues of sunrise burned,
A great black Anchor rising there;
And wherever the Lady turned her eyes,
It hung before her in the skies.
5.
The sky was blue as the summer sea,
The depths were cloudless overhead,
The air was calm as it could be,
There was no sight or sound of dread,
But that black Anchor floating still
Over the piny eastern hill.
6.
The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear
To see that Anchor ever hanging,
And veiled her eyes; she then did hear
The sound as of a dim low clanging,
And looked abroad if she might know
Was it aught else, or but the flow
Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro.
7.
There was a mist in the sunless air,
Which shook as it were with an earthquake's shock,
But the very weeds that blossomed there
Were moveless, and each mighty rock
Stood on its basis steadfastly;
The Anchor was seen no more on high.
8.
But piled around, with summits hid
In lines of cloud at intervals,
Stood many a mountain pyramid
Among whose everlasting walls
Two mighty cities shone, and ever
Through the red mist their domes did quiver.
9.
On two dread mountains, from whose crest,
Might seem, the eagle, for her brood,
Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest,
Those tower-encircled cities stood.
A vision strange such towers to see,
Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously,
Where human art could never be.
10.
And columns framed of marble white,
And giant fanes, dome over dome
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright
With workmanship, which could not come
From touch of mortal instrument,
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent
From its own shapes magnificent.
11.
But still the Lady heard that clang
Filling the wide air far away;
And still the mist whose light did hang
Among the mountains shook alway,
So that the Lady's heart beat fast,
As half in joy, and half aghast,
On those high domes her look she cast.
12.
Sudden, from out that city sprung
A light that made the earth grow red;
Two flames that each with quivering tongue
Licked its high domes, and overhead
Among those mighty towers and fanes
Dropped fire, as a volcano rains
Its sulphurous ruin on the plains.
13.
And hark! a rush as if the deep
Had burst its bonds; she looked behind
And saw over the western steep
A raging flood descend, and wind
Through that wide vale; she felt no fear,
But said within herself, 'Tis clear
These towers are Nature's own, and she
To save them has sent forth the sea.
14.
And now those raging billows came
Where that fair Lady sate, and she
Was borne towards the showering flame
By the wild waves heaped tumultuously.
And, on a little plank, the flow
Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro.
15.
The flames were fiercely vomited
From every tower and every dome,
And dreary light did widely shed
O'er that vast flood's suspended foam,
Beneath the smoke which hung its night
On the stained cope of heaven's light.
16.
The plank whereon that Lady sate
Was driven through the chasms, about and about,
Between the peaks so desolate
Of the drowning mountains, in and out,
As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails -
While the flood was filling those hollow vales.
17.
At last her plank an eddy crossed,
And bore her to the city's wall,
Which now the flood had reached almost;
It might the stoutest heart appal
To hear the fire roar and hiss
Through the domes of those mighty palaces.
18.
The eddy whirled her round and round
Before a gorgeous gate, which stood
Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound
Its aery arch with light like blood;
She looked on that gate of marble clear,
With wonder that extinguished fear.
19.
For it was filled with sculptures rarest,
Of forms most beautiful and strange,
Like nothing human, but the fairest
Of winged shapes, whose legions range
Throughout the sleep of those that are,
Like this same Lady, good and fair.
20.
And as she looked, still lovelier grew
Those marble forms; - the sculptor sure
Was a strong spirit, and the hue
Of his own mind did there endure
After the touch, whose power had braided
Such grace, was in some sad change faded.
21.
She looked, the flames were dim, the flood
Grew tranquil as a woodland river
Winding through hills in solitude;
Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver,
And their fair limbs to float in motion,
Like weeds unfolding in the ocean.
22.
And their lips moved; one seemed to speak,
When suddenly the mountains cracked,
And through the chasm the flood did break
With an earth-uplifting cataract:
The statues gave a joyous scream,
And on its wings the pale thin Dream
Lifted the Lady from the stream.
23.
The dizzy flight of that phantom pale
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep,
And she arose, while from the veil
Of her dark eyes the Dream did creep,
And she walked about as one who knew
That sleep has sights as clear and true
As any waking eyes can view.
NOTES:
_18 golden 1819; gold 1824, 1839.
_28 or 1824; nor 1839.
_62 or]a cj. Rossetti.
_63 its]their cj. Rossetti.
_92 flames cj. Rossetti; waves 1819, 1824, 1839.
_101 mountains 1819; mountain 1824, 1839.
_106 flood]flames cj. James Thomson ('B.V.').
_120 that 1819, 1824; who 1839.
_135 mountains 1819; mountain 1824, 1839. |
A Murmur In The Trees To Note, | Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | A murmur in the trees to note,
Not loud enough for wind;
A star not far enough to seek,
Nor near enough to find;
A long, long yellow on the lawn,
A hubbub as of feet;
Not audible, as ours to us,
But dapperer, more sweet;
A hurrying home of little men
To houses unperceived, --
All this, and more, if I should tell,
Would never be believed.
Of robins in the trundle bed
How many I espy
Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,
Although I heard them try!
But then I promised ne'er to tell;
How could I break my word?
So go your way and I'll go mine, --
No fear you'll miss the road. |
Halloween. | Edwin C. Ranck | A night when witches skim the air,
When spooks and goblins climb the stair;
When bats rush out with muffled wings,
And now and then the door-bell rings;
But just the funniest thing of all
Is 'cause you can't see when they call. |
The Migratory Swans | Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass | A necklace in the depth of blue
Of scintillating, silvery pearls,
Which peering eagerly we view
As gracefully it curves and whirls,
Safely and swiftly, far away
They seek the groves of date and lime;
Naught can arrest and naught dismay
From heights so lofty and sublime.
In dreams alone their wintry home
Can haunt them with its ice and snow;
Mingled with visions as they come
Of shimmering waves where lilies grow
And open lakes are fresh and clear,
Fit mirror for a plumaged breast,
Shaded by moss-grown trees. 'Tis here
They'll dip and dive in gleeful rest.
Vanished! and vainly do we try
To trace upon the distant air
That scroll which written on the sky
Told of the hand which led them there.
Could we upon our heavenward way
From tempting snares as far remove
And be as disenthralled as they,
We'd plainer show a guiding love.
We skim too closely to the earth,
We press too slowly for the prize,
Let thoughts and cares of trivial worth
Retard our journey to the skies.
Oh, let us watch and pray to have
A loftier flight from transient things,
Inspired like swans at last to lave
In streams of bliss our wearied wings! |
A Morn Of Guilt, An Hour Of Doom. (Hymn) | Jean Ingelow | "There was darkness."
A Morn of guilt, an hour of doom -
Shocks and tremblings dread;
All the city sunk in gloom -
Thick darkness overhead.
An awful Sufferer straight and stark;
Mocking voices fell;
Tremblings - tremblings in the dark,
In heaven, and earth, and hell.
Groping, stumbling up the way,
They pass, whom Christ forgave;
They know not what they do - they say,
"Himself He cannot save.
On His head behold the crown
That alien hands did weave;
Let Him come down, let Him come down,
And we will believe!"
Fearsome dreams, a rending veil,
Cloven rocks down hurl'd;
God's love itself doth seem to fail
The Saviour of the world.
Dying thieves do curse and wail,
Either side is scorn;
Lo! He hangs while some cry "Hail!"
Of heaven and earth forlorn.
Still o'er His passion darkness lowers,
He nears the deathly goal;
But He shall see in His last hours
Of the travail of His soul;
Lo, a cry! - the firstfruits given
On the accurs'd tree -
"Dying Love of God in heaven,
Lord, remember me!"
By His sacrifice, foreknown
Long ages ere that day,
And by God's sparing of His own
Our debt of death to pay;
By the Comforter's consent,
With ardent flames bestow'd,
In this dear race when Jesus went
To make His mean abode -
By the pangs God look'd not on,
And the world dared not see;
By all redeeming wonders won
Through that dread mystery; -
Lord, receive once more the sigh
From the accurs'd tree -
"Sacred Love of God most high,
O remember me!" |
Imitated From The Japanese | William Butler Yeats | A most astonishing thing --
Seventy years have I lived;
(Hurrah for the flowers of Spring,
For Spring is here again.)
Seventy years have I lived
No ragged beggar-man,
Seventy years have I lived,
Seventy years man and boy,
And never have I danced for joy. |
Ein Yahav | Yehuda Amichai | A night drive to Ein Yahav in the Arava Desert,
a drive in the rain. Yes, in the rain.
There I met people who grow date palms,
there I saw tamarisk trees and risk trees,
there I saw hope barbed as barbed wire.
And I said to myself: That's true, hope needs to be
like barbed wire to keep out despair,
hope must be a mine field. |
The Nightingale And Glowworm. | William Cowper | A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued his thus, right eloquent'
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies. |
Birchbrook Mill | John Greenleaf Whittier | "A noteless stream, the Birchbrook runs
Beneath its leaning trees;
That low, soft ripple is its own,
That dull roar is the sea's.
Of human signs it sees alone
The distant church spire's tip,
And, ghost-like, on a blank of gray,
The white sail of a ship.
No more a toiler at the wheel,
It wanders at its will;
Nor dam nor pond is left to tell
Where once was Birchbrook mill.
The timbers of that mill have fed
Long since a farmer's fires;
His doorsteps are the stones that ground
The harvest of his sires.
Man trespassed here; but Nature lost
No right of her domain;
She waited, and she brought the old
Wild beauty back again.
By day the sunlight through the leaves
Falls on its moist, green sod,
And wakes the violet bloom of spring
And autumn's golden-rod.
Its birches whisper to the wind,
The swallow dips her wings
In the cool spray, and on its banks
The gray song-sparrow sings.
But from it, when the dark night falls,
The school-girl shrinks with dread;
The farmer, home-bound from his fields,
Goes by with quickened tread.
They dare not pause to hear the grind
Of shadowy stone on stone;
The plashing of a water-wheel
Where wheel there now is none.
Has not a cry of pain been heard
Above the clattering mill?
The pawing of an unseen horse,
Who waits his mistress still?
Yet never to the listener's eye
Has sight confirmed the sound;
A wavering birch line marks alone
The vacant pasture ground.
No ghostly arms fling up to heaven
The agony of prayer;
No spectral steed impatient shakes
His white mane on the air.
The meaning of that common dread
No tongue has fitly told;
The secret of the dark surmise
The brook and birches hold.
What nameless horror of the past
Broods here forevermore?
What ghost his unforgiven sin
Is grinding o'er and o'er?
Does, then, immortal memory play
The actor's tragic part,
Rehearsals of a mortal life
And unveiled human heart?
God's pity spare a guilty soul
That drama of its ill,
And let the scenic curtain fall
On Birchbrook's haunted mil |
Running the Batteries, As observed from the Anchorage above Vicksburgh. | Herman Melville | (April, 1863.)
A moonless night - a friendly one;
A haze dimmed the shadowy shore
As the first lampless boat slid silent on;
Hist! and we spake no more;
We but pointed, and stilly, to what we saw.
We felt the dew, and seemed to feel
The secret like a burden laid.
The first boat melts; and a second keel
Is blent with the foliaged shade -
Their midnight rounds have the rebel officers made?
Unspied as yet. A third - a fourth -
Gun-boat and transport in Indian file
Upon the war-path, smooth from the North;
But the watch may they hope to beguile?
The manned river-batteries stretch for mile on mile.
A flame leaps out; they are seen;
Another and another gun roars;
We tell the course of the boats through the screen
By each further fort that pours,
And we guess how they jump from their beds on those shrouded shores.
Converging fires. We speak, though low:
"That blastful furnace can they thread"
"Why, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego
Came out all right, we read;
The Lord, be sure, he helps his people, Ned."
How we strain our gaze. On bluffs they shun
A golden growing flame appears -
Confirms to a silvery steadfast one:
"The town is afire!" crows Hugh: "three cheers"
Lot stops his mouth: "Nay, lad, better three tears."
A purposed light; it shows our fleet;
Yet a little late in its searching ray,
So far and strong, that in phantom cheat
Lank on the deck our shadows lay;
The shining flag-ship stings their guns to furious play.
How dread to mark her near the glare
And glade of death the beacon throws
Athwart the racing waters there;
One by one each plainer grows,
Then speeds a blazoned target to our gladdened foes.
The impartial cresset lights as well
The fixed forts to the boats that run;
And, plunged from the ports, their answers swell
Back to each fortress dun:
Ponderous words speaks every monster gun.
Fearless they flash through gates of flame,
The salamanders hard to hit,
Though vivid shows each bulky frame;
And never the batteries intermit,
Nor the boats huge guns; they fire and flit.
Anon a lull. The beacon dies:
"Are they out of that strait accurst"
But other flames now dawning rise,
Not mellowly brilliant like the first,
But rolled in smoke, whose whitish volumes burst.
A baleful brand, a hurrying torch
Whereby anew the boats are seen -
A burning transport all alurch!
Breathless we gaze; yet still we glean
Glimpses of beauty as we eager lean.
The effulgence takes an amber glow
Which bathes the hill-side villas far;
Affrighted ladies mark the show
Painting the pale magnolia -
The fair, false, Circe light of cruel War.
The barge drifts doomed, a plague-struck one.
Shoreward in yawls the sailors fly.
But the gauntlet now is nearly run,
The spleenful forts by fits reply,
And the burning boat dies down in morning's sky.
All out of range. Adieu, Messieurs!
Jeers, as it speeds, our parting gun.
So burst we through their barriers
And menaces every one:
So Porter proves himself a brave man's son.[7]
7. Admiral Porter is son of the late Commodore Porter, commander of the Frigate Essex on that Pacific cruise which ended in the desparate fight off Valparaiso with the English frigates Cherub and Phoebe, in the year 1814.
|
Translations. - A Song Concerning The Two Martyrs Of Christ, Burnt At Brussels By The Sophists Of Loubaine, Which Took Place In The Year 1523. (Luther's Song-Book.) | George MacDonald | A new song here shall be begun--
The Lord God help our singing!--
Of what our God himself hath done,
Praise, honour to him bringing:
At Brussels in the Netherlands,
By two young boys, He gracious
Displays the wonders of his hands,
Giving them gifts right precious,
And richly them adorning.
The first right fitly John was named,
So rich he in God's favour;
His brother, Henry--one unblamed,
Whose salt had lost no savour.
From this world they are gone away,
The diadem they've gained!
Honest, like God's good children, they
For his word life disdained,
And have become his martyrs.
The ancient foe on them laid hold,
With terrors did enwrap them;
To lie against God's word them told,
With cunning would entrap them:
From Louvaine too, to see the game
And in his crust nets take them,
Many a sophist gathered came:
The Spirit fools did make them--
Their cunning could gain nothing.
Oh! they sung sweet, and they sung sour;
Oh! they tried every double;
The boys they stood firm as a tower,
And mocked the sophists' trouble.
The serpent old it filled with hate
To be thuswise defeated
By two such youngsters--he, so great!--
His wrath sevenfold was heated,
And he resolved to burn them.
Their cloister-garments off they tore,
Undid their consecrations;
All this the boys were ready for,
And said Amen with patience.
To God their Father they gave thanks
That they would soon be rescued
From Satan's scoffs and mumming pranks,
Whereby with false pretences
The world he so befooleth.
Then gracious God did grant to them
To pass true priesthood's border,
And offer up themselves to him,
Thus entering Christ's own order;
So to the world to die outright,
With falsehood make a schism;
And coming to heaven pure and white
Give monkery the besom,
And leave behind men's prattle.
They wrote for them a paper small:
At their request they read it;
They showed them every point there, all
To which themselves gave credit.
There was an error great indeed!
In God we should trust solely:
To cheat and lie, man maketh speed;
We should distrust him wholly:
For that they burn to ashes.
Two awful fires they kindled then,
The boys they carried to them;
Great wonder seizes every man
That with contempt they view them.
With joy themselves they yielded quite,
With singing and God-praising:
The sophists had small appetite
For these new things so dazing
Which God was thus revealing.
They now repent the deed of blame,
Would gladly gloze it over;
They dare not glory in their shame;
The facts almost they cover.
In their hearts gnaweth infamy--
They to their friends deplore it:
The Spirit cannot silent be;
Good Abel's blood out-poured
Must still old Cain discover!
To spread, their ashes will not cease;
Into all lands they scatter;
Stream, hole, ditch, grave will them release;
All winds shall tell the matter.
Them whom from life their murderous hand
Drove down to silence triple,
They hear them now in every land,
In tongues of every people,
Go about gladly singing.
Still their foul lies they will not leave,
But trim and dress the murther;
The fable false which out they give
Shows conscience grinds them further.
God's holy ones, even after death,
They still go on belying;
They say that with their latest breath
The boys, in act of dying,
Repented and recanted!
Let them lie on for evermore--
Nothing by that they're gaining;
For us, we thank our God therefore:
His word is yet remaining!
Even at the door is summer nigh,
The winter hard is ended,
The tender flowers come out to spy:
His hand when once extended
Stays not till it has finished. Amen. |
Orkney Lullaby | Eugene Field | A moonbeam floateth from the skies,
Whispering, "Heigho, my dearie!
I would spin a web before your eyes,--
A beautiful web of silver light,
Wherein is many a wondrous sight
Of a radiant garden leagues away,
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway,
And the snow-white lambkins are at play,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
A brownie stealeth from the vine
Singing, "Heigho, my dearie!
And will you hear this song of mine,--
A song of the land of murk and mist
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist?
Then let the moonbeam's web of light
Be spun before thee silvery white,
And I shall sing the livelong night,--
Heigho, my dearie!"
The night wind speedeth from the sea,
Murmuring, "Heigho, my dearie!
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee;
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes,
And the brownie sing thee lullabies;
But I shall rock thee to and fro,
Kissing the brow he loveth so,
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow,--
Heigho, my dearie!" |
Sonnet On The Nuptials Of The Marquis Antonio Cavalli With The Countess Clelia Rasponi Of Ravenna.[589] | George Gordon Byron | A noble Lady of the Italian shore
Lovely and young, herself a happy bride,
Commands a verse, and will not be denied,
From me a wandering Englishman; I tore
One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more
To hail these gentle hearts which Love has tied,
In Youth, Birth, Beauty, genially allied
And blest with Virtue's soul, and Fortune's store.
A sweeter language, and a luckier bard
Were worthier of your hopes, Auspicious Pair!
And of the sanctity of Hymen's shrine,
But, - since I cannot but obey the Fair,
To render your new state your true reward,
May your Fate be like Hers, and unlike mine.
Ravenna, July 31, 1819.
[From an autograph MS. in the possession of the Lady Dorchester, now for the first time printed.] |
To Mrs. Newton. | William Cowper | A noble theme demands a noble verse,
In such I thank you for your fine oysters.
The barrel was magnificently large,
But, being sent to Olney at free charge,
Was not inserted in the driver's list,
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd;
For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd
Inquired for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd;
Denying that his waggon or his wain
Did any such commodity contain.
In consequence of which, your welcome boon
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon;
In consequence of which some chanced to die,
And some, though very sweet, were very dry.
Now Madam says (and what she says must still
Deserve attention, say she what she will),
That what we call the diligence, be-case
It goes to London with a swifter pace,
Would better suit the carriage of your gift,
Returning downward with a pace as swift;
And therefore recommends it with this aim'
To save at least three days,'the price the same;
For though it will not carry or convey
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you may,
For oysters bred upon the salt sea-shore,
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more.
News have I none that I can deign to write,
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night;
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour,
Caught in the first beginning of the shower;
But walking, running, and with much ado,
Got home'just time enough to be wet through,
Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told,
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold;
And wishing just the same good hap to you,
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu! |
Greek: Adakryn Nemontai Aiona | Ralph Waldo Emerson | 'A New commandment,' said the smiling Muse,
'I give my darling son, Thou shalt not preach';--
Luther, Fox, Behmen, Swedenborg, grew pale,
And, on the instant, rosier clouds upbore
Hafiz and Shakspeare with their shining choirs. |
Extempore Lines | Henry Kendall | A morning crowns the Western hill,
A day begins to reign,
A sun awakes o'er distant seas
Shall never sleep again.
The world is growing old,
And men are waxing wise;
A mist has cleared a something falls
Like scales from off their eyes.
Too long the 'Dark of Ignorance'
Has brooded on their way;
Too long Oppression 's stood before,
Excluding light of day.
But now they've found the track
And now they've seen the dawn,
A 'beacon lamp' is pointing on,
Where stronger glows the morn.
Since Adam lived, the mighty ones
Have ever ruled the weak;
Since Noah's flood, the fettered slave
Has seldom dared to speak.
'Tis time a voice was heard,
'Tis time a voice was spoken
So in the chain of tyranny
A link or two be broken.
A tiny rill will swell a stream,
A spark will cause a flame,
And one man's burning eloquence
Has help'd to do the same.
And he will persevere,
And soon that blaze must spread,
Till to the corners of the earth
Reflecting beams are shed.
The 'few' will try to beat it down,
But can they stop the flood
Bind up the pinions of the light,
Or check the will of God?
And is it not His will
That deeply injured Right
Should overthrow the iron rule
And reign instead of Might? |
The Snake. | Emily Elizabeth Dickinson | A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him, -- did you not,
His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun, --
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone. |
Lines On The Portrait Of A Celebrated Publisher | John Greenleaf Whittier | A moony breadth of virgin face,
By thought unviolated;
A patient mouth, to take from scorn
The hook with bank-notes baited!
Its self-complacent sleekness shows
How thrift goes with the fawner;
An unctuous unconcern of all
Which nice folks call dishonor!
A pleasant print to peddle out
In lands of rice and cotton;
The model of that face in dough
Would make the artist's fortune.
For Fame to thee has come unsought,
While others vainly woo her,
In proof how mean a thing can make
A great man of its doer.
To whom shall men thyself compare,
Since common models fail 'em,
Save classic goose of ancient Rome,
Or sacred ass of Balaam?
The gabble of that wakeful goose
Saved Rome from sack of Brennus;
The braying of the prophet's ass
Betrayed the angel's menace!
So when Guy Fawkes, in petticoats,
And azure-tinted hose on,
Was twisting from thy love-lorn sheets
The slow-match of explosion
An earthquake blast that would have tossed
The Union as a feather,
Thy instinct saved a perilled land
And perilled purse together.
Just think of Carolina's sage
Sent whirling like a Dervis,
Of Quattlebum in middle air
Performing strange drill-service!
Doomed like Assyria's lord of old,
Who fell before the Jewess,
Or sad Abimelech, to sigh,
"Alas! a woman slew us!"
Thou saw'st beneath a fair disguise
The danger darkly lurking,
And maiden bodice dreaded more
Than warrior's steel-wrought jerkin.
How keen to scent the hidden plot!
How prompt wert thou to balk it,
With patriot zeal and pedler thrift,
For country and for pocket!
Thy likeness here is doubtless well,
But higher honor's due it;
On auction-block and negro-jail
Admiring eyes should view it.
Or, hung aloft, it well might grace
The nation's senate-chamber
A greedy Northern bottle-fly
Preserved in Slavery's amber |
The Mountain In Labour. | Jean de La Fontaine | [1]
A mountain was in travail pang;
The country with her clamour rang.
Out ran the people all, to see,
Supposing that the birth would be
A city, or at least a house.
It was a mouse!
In thinking of this fable,
Of story feign'd and false,
But meaning veritable,
My mind the image calls
Of one who writes, "The war I sing
Which Titans waged against the Thunder-king."[2]
As on the sounding verses ring,
What will be brought to birth?
Why, dearth. |
An Epistle To An Editor | Henry Austin Dobson | "Jamais les arbres verts n'ont essaye d'etre bleus."--
THEOPHILE GAUTIER.
"A new Review!" You make me tremble
(Though as to that, I can dissemble
Till I hear more). But is it "new"?
And will it be a real Review?--
I mean, a Court wherein the scales
Weigh equally both him that fails,
And him that hits the mark?--a place
Where the accus'd can plead his case,
If wrong'd? All this I need to know
Before I (arrogant!) say "Go."
"We, that are very old" (the phrase
Is STEELE'S, not mine!), in former days,
Have seen so many "new Reviews"
Arise, arraign, absolve, abuse;--
Proclaim their mission to the top
(Where there's still room!), then slowly drop,
Shrink down, fade out, and sans preferment,
Depart to their obscure interment;--
We should be pardon'd if we doubt
That a new venture can hold out.
It will, you say. Then don't be "new";
Be "old." The Old is still the True.
Nature (said GAUTIER) never tries
To alter her accustom'd dyes;
And all your novelties at best
Are ancient puppets, newly drest.
What you must do, is not to shrink
From speaking out the thing you think;
And blaming where 'tis right to blame,
Despite tradition and a Name.
Yet don't expand a trifling blot,
Or ban the book for what it's not
(That is the poor device of those
Who cavil where they can't oppose!);
Moreover (this is very old!),
Be courteous--even when you scold!
Blame I put first, but not at heart.
You must give Praise the foremost part;--
Praise that to those who write is breath
Of Life, if just; if unjust, Death.
Praise then the things that men revere;
Praise what they love, not what they fear;
Praise too the young; praise those who try;
Praise those who fail, but by and by
May do good work. Those who succeed,
You'll praise perforce,--so there's no need
To speak of that. And as to each,
See you keep measure in your speech;--
See that your praise be so exprest
That the best man shall get the best;
Nor fail of the fit word you meant
Because your epithets are spent.
Remember that our language gives
No limitless superlatives;
And SHAKESPEARE, HOMER, should have more
Than the last knocker at the door!
"We, that are very old!"--May this
Excuse the hint you find amiss.
My thoughts, I feel, are what to-day
Men call vieux jeu. Well!--"let them say."
The Old, at least, we know: the New
(A changing Shape that all pursue!)
Has been,--may be, a fraud.
--But there!
Wind to your sail! Vogue la galere! |
Our Lady Of The Snows | Rudyard Kipling | A nation spoke to a Nation,
A Queen sent word to a Throne:
'Daughter am I in my mother's house,
But mistress in my own.
The gates are mine to open,
As the gates are mine to close,
And I set my house in order,'
Said our Lady of the Snows.
'Neither with laughter nor weeping,
Fear or the child's amaze,
Soberly under the White Man's law
My white men go their ways.
Not for the Gentiles' clamour,
Insult or threat of blows,
Bow we the knee to Baal,'
Said our Lady of the Snows.
'My speech is clean and single,
I talk of common things,
Words of the wharf and the market-place
And the ware the merchant brings:
Favour to those I favour,
But a stumbling-block to my foes.
Many there be that hate us,'
Said our Lady of the Snows.
'I called my chiefs to council
In the din of a troubled year;
For the sake of a sign ye would not see,
And a word ye would not hear.
This is our message and answer;
This is the path we chose:
For we be also a people,'
Said our Lady of the Snows.
'Carry the word to my sisters,
To the Queens of the East and the South.
I have proven faith in the Heritage
By more than the word of the mouth.
They that are wise may follow
Ere the world's war-trumpet blows,,
But I, I am first in the battle,'
Said our Lady of the Snows.
A Nation spoke to a Nation
A Throne sent word to a Throne:
'Daughter am I in my mother's house
But mistress in my own.
The gates are mine to open,
As the gates are mine to close,
And I abide by my Mother's House,'
Said our Lady of the Snows. |
Verses Occasioned By The Foregoing Presents (Verses Left With A Silver Standish On The Dean Of St. Patrick's Desk, On His Birth-Day. By Dr. Delany) | Jonathan Swift | A paper book is sent by Boyle,
Too neatly gilt for me to soil.
Delany sends a silver standish,
When I no more a pen can brandish.
Let both around my tomb be placed:
As trophies of a Muse deceased;
And let the friendly lines they writ,
In praise of long-departed wit,
Be graved on either side in columns,
More to my praise than all my volumes,
To burst with envy, spite, and rage,
The Vandals of the present age. |
The Kite And The Nightingale. | Jean de La Fontaine | [1]
A noted thief, the kite,
Had set a neighbourhood in fright,
And raised the clamorous noise
Of all the village boys,
When, by misfortune, - sad to say, -
A nightingale fell in his way.
Spring's herald begg'd him not to eat
A bird for music - not for meat.
'O spare!' cried she, 'and I'll relate
'The crime of Tereus and his fate.' -
'What's Tereus?[2] Is it food for kites?' -
'No, but a king, of female rights
The villain spoiler, whom I taught
A lesson with repentance fraught;
And, should it please you not to kill,
My song about his fall
Your very heart shall thrill,
As it, indeed, does all.' -
Replied the kite, a 'pretty thing!
When I am faint and famishing,
To let you go, and hear you sing?' -
'Ah, but I entertain the king!' -
'Well, when he takes you, let him hear
Your tale, full wonderful, no doubt;
For me, a kite, I'll go without.'
An empty stomach hath no ear.[3] |
Nationality. | Thomas Osborne Davis | I.
A Nation's voice, a nation's voice--
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice--
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves,
Which brightly look through prison bars,
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.
II.
A nation's flag, a nation's flag--
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But in the cause of Liberty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory--
Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.
III.
A nation's right, a nation's right--
God gave it, and gave, too,
A nation's sword, a nation's might,
Danger to guard it through.
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,
'Tis just and equal laws,
Which deal unto the humblest folk,
As in a noble's cause.
On nations fixed in right and truth,
God would bestow eternal youth.
IV.
May Ireland's voice be ever heard
Amid the world's applause!
And never be her flag-staff stirred,
But in an honest cause!
May Freedom be her very breath,
Be Justice ever dear;
And never an ennobled death
May son of Ireland fear!
So the Lord God will ever smile,
With guardian grace, upon our isle. |
The Mvses Elizivm | Michael Drayton | The Description of Elizium
A Paradice on earth is found,
Though farre from vulgar sight,
Which with those pleasures doth abound
That it Elizium hight.
Where, in Delights that neuer fade,
The Muses lulled be,
And sit at pleasure in the shade
Of many a stately tree,
Which no rough Tempest makes to reele
Nor their straight bodies bowes,
Their lofty tops doe neuer feele
The weight of winters snowes;
In Groues that euermore are greene,
No falling leafe is there,
But Philomel (of birds the Queene)
In Musicke spends the yeare.
The Merle vpon her mertle Perch,
There to the Mavis sings,
Who from the top of some curld Berch
Those notes redoubled rings;
There Daysyes damaske euery place
Nor once their beauties lose,
That when proud Phoebus hides his face
Themselues they scorne to close.
The Pansy and the Violet here,
As seeming to descend,
Both from one Root, a very payre,
For sweetnesse yet contend,
And pointing to a Pinke to tell
Which beares it, it is loath,
To iudge it; but replyes for smell
That it excels them both.
Wherewith displeasde they hang their heads
So angry soone they grow
And from their odoriferous beds
Their sweets at it they throw.
The winter here a Summer is,
No waste is made by time,
Nor doth the Autumne euer misse
The blossomes of the Prime.
The flower that Iuly forth doth bring
In Aprill here is seene,
The Primrose that puts on the Spring
In Iuly decks each Greene.
The sweets for soueraignty contend
And so abundant be,
That to the very Earth they lend
And Barke of euery Tree:
Rills rising out of euery Banck,
In wild Meanders strayne,
And playing many a wanton pranck
Vpon the speckled plaine,
In Gambols and lascivious Gyres
Their time they still bestow
Nor to their Fountaines none retyres,
Nor on their course will goe.
Those Brooks with Lillies brauely deckt,
So proud and wanton made,
That they their courses quite neglect:
And seeme as though they stayde,
Faire Flora in her state to viewe
Which through those Lillies looks,
Or as those Lillies leand to shew
Their beauties to the brooks.
That Phoebusin his lofty race,
Oft layes aside his beames
And comes to coole his glowing face
In these delicious streames;
Oft spreading Vines clime vp the Cleeues,
Whose ripned clusters there,
Their liquid purple drop, which driues
A Vintage through the yeere.
Those Cleeues whose craggy sides are clad
With Trees of sundry sutes,
Which make continuall summer glad,
Euen bending with their fruits,
Some ripening, ready some to fall,
Some blossom'd, some to bloome,
Like gorgeous hangings on the wall
Of some rich princely Roome:
Pomegranates, Lymons, Cytrons, so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaues in number that outgoe
Nor roomth will them alow.
There in perpetuall Summers shade,
Apolloes Prophets sit,
Among the flowres that neuer fade,
But flowrish like their wit;
To whom the Nimphes vpon their Lyres,
Tune many a curious lay,
And with their most melodious Quires
Make short the longest day.
The thrice three Virgins heavenly Cleere,
Their trembling Timbrels sound,
Whilst the three comely Graces there
Dance many a dainty Round,
Decay nor Age there nothing knowes,
There is continuall Youth,
As Time on plant or creatures growes,
So still their strength renewth.
The Poets Paradice this is,
To which but few can come;
The Muses onely bower of blisse
Their Deare Elizium.
Here happy soules, (their blessed bowers,
Free from the rude resort
Of beastly people) spend the houres,
In harmelesse mirth and sport,
Then on to the Elizian plaines
Apollo doth invite you
Where he prouides with pastorall straines,
In Nimphals to delight you.
The first Nimphall
RODOPE and DORIDA.
This Nimphall of delights doth treat,
Choice beauties, and proportions neat,
Of curious shapes, and dainty features
Describd in two most perfect creatures.
When Phoebus with a face of mirth,
Had flong abroad his beames,
To blanch the bosome of the earth,
And glaze the gliding streames.
Within a goodly Mertle groue,
Vpon that hallowed day
The Nimphes to the bright Queene of loue
Their vowes were vsde to pay.
Faire Rodope and Dorida
Met in those sacred shades,
Then whom the Sunne in all his way,
Nere saw two daintier Maids.
And through the thickets thrild his fires,
Supposing to haue seene
The soueraigne Goddesse of desires,
Or Ioves Emperious Queene:
Both of so wondrous beauties were,
In shape both so excell,
That to be paraleld elsewhere,
No iudging eye could tell.
And their affections so surpasse,
As well it might be deemd,
That th' one of them the other was,
And but themselues they seem'd.
And whilst the Nimphes that neare this place,
Disposed were to play
At Barly-breake and Prison-base,
Doe passe the time away:
This peerlesse payre together set,
The other at their sport,
None neare their free discourse to let,
Each other thus they court,
Dorida. My sweet, my soueraigne Rodope,
My deare delight, my loue,
That Locke of hayre thou sentst to me,
I to this Bracelet woue;
Which brighter euery day doth grow
The longer it is worne,
As its delicious fellowes doe,
Thy Temples that adorne.
Rodope. Nay had I thine my Dorida,
I would them so bestow,
As that the winde vpon my way,
Might backward make them flow,
So should it in its greatst excesse
Turne to becalmed ayre,
And quite forget all boistrousnesse
To play with euery hayre.
Dorida. To me like thine had nature giuen,
A Brow, so Archt, so cleere,
A Front, wherein so much of heauen
Doth to each eye appeare,
The world should see, I would strike dead
The Milky Way that's now,
And say that Nectar Hebe shed
Fell all vpon my Brow.
Rodope. O had I eyes like Doridaes,
I would inchant the day
And make the Sunne to stand at gaze,
Till he forget his way:
And cause his Sister Queene of Streames,
When so I list by night;
By her much blushing at my Beames
T' eclipse her borrowed light.
Dorida. Had I a Cheeke like Rodopes,
In midst of which doth stand,
A Groue of Roses, such as these,
In such a snowy land:
I would then make the Lilly which we now
So much for whitenesse name,
As drooping downe the head to bow,
And die for very shame.
Rodope. Had I a bosome like to thine,
When I it pleas'd to show,
T' what part o' th' Skie I would incline
I would make th' Etheriall bowe,
My swannish breast brancht all with blew,
In brauery like the spring:
In Winter to the generall view
Full Summer forth should bring.
Dorida. Had I a body like my deare,
Were I so straight so tall,
O, if so broad my shoulders were,
Had I a waste so small;
I would challenge the proud Queene of loue
To yeeld to me for shape,
And I should feare that Mars or Iove
Would venter for my rape.
Rodope. Had I a hand like thee my Gerle,
(This hand O let me kisse)
These Ivory Arrowes pyl'd with pearle,
Had I a hand like this;
I would not doubt at all to make,
Each finger of my hand
To taske swift Mercury to take
With his inchanting wand.
Dorida. Had I a Theigh like Rodopes;
Which twas my chance to viewe,
When lying on yon banck at ease,
The wind thy skirt vp blew,
I would say it were a columne wrought
To some intent Diuine,
And for our chaste Diana sought,
A pillar for her shryne.
Rodope. Had I a Leg but like to thine
That were so neat, so cleane,
A swelling Calfe, a Small so fine,
An Ankle, round and leane,
I would tell nature she doth misse
Her old skill; and maintaine,
She shewd her master peece in this,
Not to be done againe.
Dorida. Had I that Foot hid in those shoos,
(Proportion'd to my height)
Short Heele, thin Instep, euen Toes,
A Sole so wondrous straight,
The Forresters and Nimphes at this
Amazed all should stand,
And kneeling downe, should meekely kisse
The Print left in the sand.
By this the Nimphes came from their sport,
All pleased wondrous well,
And to these Maydens make report
What lately them befell:
One said the dainty Lelipa
Did all the rest out-goe,
Another would a wager lay
She would outstrip a Roe;
Sayes one, how like you Florimel
There is your dainty face:
A fourth replide, she lik't that well,
Yet better lik't her grace,
She's counted, I confesse, quoth she,
To be our onely Pearle,
Yet haue I heard her oft to be
A melancholy Gerle.
Another said she quite mistoke,
That onely was her art,
When melancholly had her looke
Then mirth was in her heart;
And hath she then that pretty trick
Another doth reply,
I thought no Nimph could haue bin sick
Of that disease but I;
I know you can dissemble well
Quoth one to giue you due,
But here be some (who Ile not tell)
Can do't as well as you,
Who thus replies, I know that too,
We haue it from our Mother,
Yet there be some this thing can doe
More cunningly then other:
If Maydens but dissemble can
Their sorrow and ther ioy,
Their pore dissimulation than,
Is but a very toy.
The second Nimphall
LALVS, CLEON, and LIROPE.
The Muse new Courtship doth deuise,
By Natures strange Varieties,
Whose Rarieties she here relates,
And giues you Pastorall Delicates.
Lalus a Iolly youthfull Lad,
With Cleon, no lesse crown'd
With vertues; both their beings had
On the Elizian ground.
Both hauing parts so excellent,
That it a question was,
Which should be the most eminent,
Or did in ought surpasse:
This Cleon was a Mountaineer,
And of the wilder kinde,
And from his birth had many a yeere
Bin nurst vp by a Hinde.
And as the sequell well did show,
It very well might be;
For neuer Hart, nor Hare, nor Roe,
Were halfe so swift as he.
But Lalus in the Vale was bred,
Amongst the Sheepe and Neate,
And by these Nimphes there choicly fed,
With Hony, Milke, and Wheate;
Of Stature goodly, faire of speech,
And of behauiour mylde,
Like those there in the Valley rich,
That bred him of a chyld.
Of Falconry they had the skill,
Their Halkes to feed and flye,
No better Hunters ere clome Hill,
Nor hollowed to a Cry:
In Dingles deepe, and Mountains hore,
Oft with the bearded Speare
They combated the tusky Boare,
And slew the angry Beare.
In Musicke they were wondrous quaint,
Fine Aers they could deuise;
They very curiously could Paint,
And neatly Poetize;
That wagers many time were laid
On Questions that arose,
Which song the witty Lalus made,
Which Cleon should compose.
The stately Steed they manag'd well,
Of Fence the art they knew,
For Dansing they did all excell
The Gerles that to them drew;
To throw the Sledge, to pitch the Barre,
To wrestle and to Run,
They all the Youth exceld so farre,
That still the Prize they wonne.
These sprightly Gallants lou'd a Lasse,
Cald Lirope the bright,
In the whole world there scarcely was
So delicate a Wight,
There was no Beauty so diuine
That euer Nimph did grace,
But it beyond it selfe did shine
In her more heuenly face:
What forme she pleasd each thing would take
That ere she did behold,
Of Pebbles she could Diamonds make,
Grosse Iron turne to Gold:
Such power there with her presence came
Sterne Tempests she alayd,
The cruell Tiger she could tame,
She raging Torrents staid,
She chid, she cherisht, she gaue life,
Againe she made to dye,
She raisd a warre, apeasd a Strife,
With turning of her eye.
Some said a God did her beget,
But much deceiu'd were they,
Her Father was a Riuelet,
Her Mother was a Fay.
Her Lineaments so fine that were,
She from the Fayrie tooke,
Her Beauties and Complection cleere,
By nature from the Brooke.
These Ryualls wayting for the houre
(The weather calme and faire)
When as she vs'd to leaue her Bower
To take the pleasant ayre
Acosting her; their complement
To her their Goddesse done;
By gifts they tempt her to consent,
When Lalus thus begun.
Lalus. Sweet Lirope I haue a Lambe
Newly wayned from the Damme,
Of the right kinde, it is notted,[1]
Naturally with purple spotted,
Into laughter it will put you,
To see how prettily 'twill But you;
When on sporting it is set,
It will beate you a Corvet,
And at euery nimble bound
Turne it selfe aboue the ground;
When tis hungry it will bleate,
From your hand to haue its meate,
And when it hath fully fed,
It will fetch Iumpes aboue your head,
As innocently to expresse
Its silly sheepish thankfullnesse,
When you bid it, it will play,
Be it either night or day,
This Lirope I haue for thee,
So thou alone wilt liue with me.
Cleon. From him O turne thine eare away,
And heare me my lou'd Lirope,
I haue a Kid as white as milke,
His skin as soft as Naples silke,
His hornes in length are wondrous euen,
And curiously by nature writhen;
It is of th' Arcadian kinde,
Ther's not the like twixt either Inde;
If you walke, 'twill walke you by,
If you sit downe, it downe will lye,
It with gesture will you wooe,
And counterfeit those things you doe;
Ore each Hillock it will vault,
And nimbly doe the Summer-sault,
Upon the hinder Legs 'twill goe,
And follow you a furlong so,
And if by chance a Tune you roate,
'Twill foote it finely to your note,
Seeke the worlde and you may misse
To finde out such a thing as this;
This my loue I haue for thee
So thou'lt leaue him and goe with me.
Lirope. Beleeue me Youths your gifts are rare,
And you offer wondrous faire;
Lalus for Lambe, Cleon for Kyd,
'Tis hard to iudge which most doth bid,
And haue you two such things in store,
And I n'er knew of them before?
Well yet I dare a Wager lay
That Brag my little Dog shall play,
As dainty tricks when I shall bid,
As Lalus Lambe, or Cleons Kid.
But t' may fall out that I may neede them
Till when yee may doe well to feed them;
Your Goate and Mutton pretty be
But Youths these are noe bayts for me,
Alasse good men, in vaine ye wooe,
'Tis not your Lambe nor Kid will doe.
Lalus. I haue two Sparrowes white as Snow,
Whose pretty eyes like sparkes doe show;
In her Bosome Venus hatcht them
Where her little Cupid watcht them,
Till they too fledge their Nests forsooke
Themselues and to the Fields betooke,
Where by chance a Fowler caught them
Of whom I full dearely bought them;
They'll fetch you Conserue from the Hip,[2]
And lay it softly on your Lip,
Through their nibling bills they'll Chirup
And fluttering feed you with the Sirup,
And if thence you put them by
They to your white necke will flye,
And if you expulse them there
They'll hang vpon your braded Hayre;
You so long shall see them prattle
Till at length they'll fall to battle,
And when they haue fought their fill,
You will smile to see them bill
These birds my Lirope's shall be
So thou'lt leaue him and goe with me.
Cleon. His Sparrowes are not worth a rush
I'le finde as good in euery bush,
Of Doues I haue a dainty paire
Which when you please to take the Air,
About your head shall gently houer
You Cleere browe from the Sunne to couer,
And with their nimble wings shall fan you,
That neither Cold nor Heate shall tan you,
And like Vmbrellas with their feathers
Sheeld you in all sorts of weathers:
They be most dainty Coloured things,
They haue Damask backs and Chequerd wings,
Their neckes more Various Cullours showe
Then there be mixed in the Bowe;
Venus saw the lesser Doue
And therewith was farre in Loue,
Offering for't her goulden Ball
For her Sonne to play withall;
These my Liropes shall be
So shee'll leaue him and goe with me.
Lirope. Then for Sparrowes, and for Doues
I am fitted twixt my Loues,
But Lalus I take no delight
In Sparowes, for they'll scratch and bite
And though ioynd, they are euer wooing
Alwayes billing, if not doeing,
Twixt Venus breasts if they haue lyen
I much feare they'll infect myne;
Cleon your Doues are very dainty,
Tame Pidgeons else you know are plenty,
These may winne some of your Marrowes
I am not caught with Doues, nor Sparrowes,
I thanke ye kindly for your Coste,
Yet your labour is but loste.
Lalus. With full-leau'd Lillies I will stick
Thy braded hayre all o'r so thick,
That from it a Light shall throw
Like the Sunnes vpon the Snow.
Thy Mantle shall be Violet Leaues,
With the fin'st the Silkeworme weaues
As finely wouen; whose rich smell
The Ayre about thee so shall swell
That it shall haue no power to mooue.
A Ruffe of Pinkes thy Robe aboue
About thy necke so neatly set
That Art it cannot counterfet,
Which still shall looke so Fresh and new,
As if vpon their Roots they grew:
And for thy head Ile haue a Tyer
Of netting, made of Strawbery wyer,
And in each knot that doth compose
A Mesh, shall stick a halfe blowne Rose,
Red, damaske, white, in order set
About the sides, shall run a Fret
Of Primroses, the Tyer throughout
With Thrift and Dayses frindgd about;
All this faire Nimph Ile doe for thee,
So thou'lt leaue him and goe with me.
Cleon. These be but weeds and Trash he brings,
Ile giue thee solid, costly things,
His will wither and be gone
Before thou well canst put them on;
With Currall I will haue thee Crown'd,
Whose Branches intricatly wound
Shall girt thy Temples euery way;
And on the top of euery Spray
Shall stick a Pearle orient and great,
Which so the wandring Birds shall cheat,
That some shall stoope to looke for Cheries,
As other for tralucent Berries.
And wondering, caught e'r they be ware
In the curld Tramels of thy hayre:
And for thy necke a Christall Chaine
Whose lincks shapt like to drops of Raine,
Vpon thy panting Breast depending,
Shall seeme as they were still descending,
And as thy breath doth come and goe,
So seeming still to ebbe and flow:
With Amber Bracelets cut like Bees,
Whose strange transparency who sees,
With Silke small as the Spiders Twist
Doubled so oft about thy Wrist,
Would surely thinke aliue they were,
From Lillies gathering hony there.
Thy Buskins Ivory, caru'd like Shels
Of Scallope, which as little Bels
Made hollow, with the Ayre shall Chime,
And to thy steps shall keepe the time:
Leaue Lalus, Lirope for me
And these shall thy rich dowry be.
Lirope. Lalus for Flowers. Cleon for Iemmes,
For Garlands and for Diadems,
I shall be sped, why this is braue,
What Nimph can choicer Presents haue,
With dressing, brading, frowncing, flowring,
All your Iewels on me powring,
In this brauery being drest,
To the ground I shall be prest,
That I doubt the Nimphes will feare me,
Nor will venture to come neare me;
Neuer Lady of the May,
To this houre was halfe so gay;
All in flowers, all so sweet,
From the Crowne, beneath the Feet,
Amber, Currall, Ivory, Pearle,
If this cannot win a Gerle,
Ther's nothing can, and this ye wooe me,
Giue me your hands and trust ye to me,
(Yet to tell ye I am loth)
That I'le haue neither of you both;
Lalus. When thou shalt please to stem the flood,
(As thou art of the watry brood)
I'le haue twelve Swannes more white than Snow,
Yokd for the purpose two and two,
To drawe thy Barge wrought of fine Reed
So well that it nought else shall need,
The Traces by which they shall hayle
Thy Barge; shall be the winding trayle
Of woodbynd; whose braue Tasseld Flowers
(The Sweetnesse of the Woodnimphs Bowres)
Shall be the Trappings to adorne,
The Swannes, by which thy Barge is borne,
Of flowred Flags I'le rob the banke
Of water-Cans and King-cups ranck
To be the Couering of thy Boate,
And on the Streame as thou do'st Floate,
The Naiades that haunt the deepe,
Themselues about thy Barge shall keepe,
Recording most delightfull Layes,
By Sea Gods written in thy prayse.
And in what place thou hapst to land,
There the gentle Siluery sand,
Shall soften, curled with the Aier
As sensible of thy repayre:
This my deare loue I'le doe for thee,
So Thou'lt leaue him and goe with me:
Cleon. Tush Nimphe his Swannes will prove but Geese,
His Barge drinke water like a Fleece;
A Boat is base, I'le thee prouide,
A Chariot, wherein Ioue may ride;
In which when brauely thou art borne,
Thou shalt looke like the gloryous morne
Vshering the Sunne, and such a one
As to this day was neuer none,
Of the Rarest Indian Gummes,
More pretious then your Balsamummes
Which I by Art haue made so hard,
That they with Tooles may well be Caru'd
To make a Coach of: which shall be
Materyalls of this one for thee,
And of thy Chariot each small peece
Shall inlayd be with Amber Greece,
And guilded with the Yellow ore
Produc'd from Tagus wealthy shore;
In which along the pleasant Lawne,
With twelue white Stags thou shalt be drawne,
Whose brancht palmes of a stately height,
With seuerall nosegayes shall be dight;
And as thou ryd'st, thy Coach about,
For thy strong guard shall runne a Rout,
Of Estriges; whose Curled plumes,
Sen'sd with thy Chariots rich perfumes,
The scent into the Aier shall throw;
Whose naked Thyes shall grace the show;
Whilst the Woodnimphs and those bred
Vpon the mountayns, o'r thy head
Shall beare a Canopy of flowers,
Tinseld with drops of Aprill showers,
Which shall make more glorious showes
Then spangles, or your siluer Oas;
This bright nimph I'le doe for thee
So thou'lt leaue him and goe with me.
Lirope. Vie and reuie, like Chapmen profer'd,
Would't be receaued what you haue offer'd;
Ye greater honour cannot doe me,
If not building Altars to me:
Both by Water and by Land,
Bardge and Chariot at command;
Swans vpon the Streame to rawe me,
Stags vpon the Land to drawe me,
In all this Pompe should I be seene,
What a pore thing were a Queene:
All delights in such excesse,
As but yee, who can expresse:
Thus mounted should the Nimphes me see,
All the troope would follow me,
Thinking by this state that I
Would asume a Deitie.
There be some in loue haue bin,
And I may commit that sinne,
And if e'r I be in loue,
With one of you I feare twill proue,
But with which I cannot tell,
So my gallant Youths farewell.
The third Nimphall
DORON. NAIJS. CLORIS. CLAIA. DORILVS. CLOE. MERTILLA. FLORIMEL.
With Nimphes and Forresters.
Poetick Raptures, sacred fires,
With which Apollo his inspires,
This Nimphall gives you; and withall
Obserues the Muses Festivall.
Amongst th' Elizians many mirthfull Feasts,
At which the Muses are the certaine guests,
Th' obserue one Day with most Emperiall state,
To wise Apollo which they dedicate,
The Poets God; and to his Alters bring
Th' enamel'd Brauery of the beauteous spring,
And strew their Bowers with euery precious sweet,
Which still wax fresh, most trod on with their feet;
With most choice flowers each Nimph doth brade her hayre,
And not the mean'st but bauldrick wise doth weare
Some goodly Garland, and the most renown'd
With curious Roseat Anadems are crown'd.
These being come into the place where they
Yearely obserue the Orgies to that day,
The Muses from their Heliconian spring
Their brimfull Mazers to the feasting bring:
When with deepe Draughts out of those plenteous Bowles,
The iocond Youth haue swild their thirsty soules,
They fall enraged with a sacred heat,
And when their braines doe once begin to sweat
They into braue and Stately numbers breake,
And not a word that any one doth speake
But tis Prophetick, and so strangely farre
In their high fury they transported are,
As there's not one, on any thing can straine,
But by another answred is againe
In the same Rapture, which all sit to heare;
When as two Youths that soundly liquord were,
Dorilus and Doron, two as noble swayns
As euer kept on the Elizian playns,
First by their signes attention hauing woonne,
Thus they the Reuels frolikly begunne.
Doron. Come Dorilus, let vs be brave,
In lofty numbers let vs raue,
With Rymes I will inrich thee.
Dorilus. Content say I, then bid the base,
Our wits shall runne the Wildgoosechase,
Spurre vp, or I will swich thee.
Doron. The Sunne out of the East doth peepe,
And now the day begins to creepe,
Vpon the world at leasure.
Dorilus. The Ayre enamor'd of the Greaues,
The West winde stroaks the velvit leaues
And kisses them at pleasure.
Doron. The spinners webs twixt spray and spray,
The top of euery bush make gay,
By filmy coards there dangling.
Dorilus. For now the last dayes euening dew
Euen to the full it selfe doth shew,
Each bough with Pearle bespangling.
Doron. O Boy how thy abundant vaine
Euen like a Flood breaks from thy braine,
Nor can thy Muse be gaged.
Dorilus. Why nature forth did neuer bring
A man that like to me can sing,
If once I be enraged.
Doron. Why Dorilus I in my skill
Can make the swiftest Streame stand still,
Nay beare back to his springing.
Dorilus. And I into a Trance most deepe
Can cast the Birds that they shall sleepe
When fain'st they would be singing.
Doron. Why Dorilus thou mak'st me mad,
And now my wits begin to gad,
But sure I know not whither.
Dorilus. O Doron let me hug thee then,
There neuer was two madder men,
Then let vs on together.
Doron. Hermes the winged Horse bestrid,
And thorow thick and thin he rid,
And floundred throw the Fountaine.
Dorilus. He spurd the Tit vntill he bled,
So that at last he ran his head
Against the forked Mountaine,
Doron. How sayst thou, but pyde Iris got
Into great Iunos Chariot,
I spake with one that saw her.
Dorilus. And there the pert and sawcy Elfe,
Behau'd her as twere Iuno's selfe,
And made the Peacocks draw her.
Doron. Ile borrow Phoebus fiery Iades,
With which about the world he trades,
And put them in my Plow.
Dorilus. O thou most perfect frantique man,
Yet let thy rage be what it can,
Ile be as mad as thou.
Doron. Ile to great Iove, hap good, hap ill,
Though he with Thunder threat to kill,
And beg of him a boone.
Dorilus. To swerue vp one of Cynthias beames,
And there to bath thee in the streames.
Discouerd in the Moone.
Doron. Come frolick Youth and follow me,
My frantique boy, and Ile show thee
The Countrey of the Fayries.
Dorilus. The fleshy Mandrake where't doth grow
In noonshade of the Mistletow,
And where the Phoenix Aryes.
Doron. Nay more, the Swallowes winter bed,
The Caverns where the Winds are bred,
Since thus thou talkst of showing.
Dorilus. And to those Indraughts Ile thee bring,
That wondrous and eternall spring
Whence th' Ocean hath its flowing.
Doron. We'll downe to the darke house of sleepe,
Where snoring Morpheus doth keepe,
And wake the drowsy Groome.
Dorilus. Downe shall the Dores and Windowes goe,
The Stooles vpon the Floare we'll throw,
And roare about the Roome.
The Muses here commanded them to stay,
Commending much the caridge of their Lay
As greatly pleasd at this their madding Bout,
To heare how brauely they had borne it out
From first to the last, of which they were right glad,
By this they found that Helicon still had
That vertue it did anciently retaine
When Orpheus Lynus and th' Ascrean Swaine
Tooke lusty Rowses, which hath made their Rimes,
To last so long to all succeeding times.
And now amongst this beauteous Beauie here,
Two wanton Nimphes, though dainty ones they were,
Naijs and Cloe in their female fits
Longing to show the sharpnesse of their wits,
Of the nine Sisters speciall leaue doe craue
That the next Bout they two might freely haue,
Who hauing got the suffrages of all,
Thus to their Rimeing instantly they fall.
Naijs. Amongst you all let us see
Who ist opposes mee,
Come on the proudest she
To answere my dittye.
Cloe. Why Naijs, that am I,
Who dares thy pride defie.
And that we soone shall try
Though thou be witty.
Naijs. Cloe I scorne my Rime
Should obserue feet or time,
Now I fall, then I clime,
Where i'st I dare not.
Cloe. Giue thy Invention wing,
And let her flert and fling,
Till downe the Rocks she ding,
For that I care not.
Naijs. This presence delights me,
My freedome inuites me,
The Season excytes me,
In Rime to be merry.
Cloe. And I beyond measure,
Am rauisht with pleasure,
To answer each Ceasure,
Untill thou beist weary.
Naijs. Behold the Rosye Dawne,
Rises in Tinsild Lawne,
And smiling seemes to fawne,
Vpon the mountaines.
Cloe. Awaked from her Dreames,
Shooting foorth goulden Beames
Dansing vpon the Streames
Courting the Fountaines.
Naijs. These more then sweet Showrets,
Intice vp these Flowrets,
To trim vp our Bowrets,
Perfuming our Coats.
Cloe. Whilst the Birds billing
Each one with his Dilling
The thickets still filling
With Amorous Noets.
Naijs. The Bees vp in hony rould,
More then their thighes can hould,
Lapt in their liquid gould,
Their Treasure vs Bringing.
Cloe. To these Rillets purling
Vpon the stones Curling,
And oft about wherling,
Dance tow'ard their springing.
Naijs. The Wood-Nimphes sit singing,
Each Groue with notes ringing
Whilst fresh Ver is flinging
Her Bounties abroad.
Cloe. So much as the Turtle,
Upon the low Mertle,
To the meads fertle,
Her cares doth unload.
Naijs. Nay 'tis a world to see,
In euery bush and Tree,
The Birds with mirth and glee,
Woo'd as they woe.
Cloe. The Robin and the Wren,
Every Cocke with his Hen,
Why should not we and men,
Doe as they doe.
Naijs. The Faires are hopping,
The small Flowers cropping,
And with dew dropping,
Skip thorow the Greaues.
Cloe. At Barly-breake they play
Merrily all the day,
At night themselues they lay
Vpon the soft leaues.
Naijs. The gentle winds sally,
Vpon every Valley,
And many times dally
And wantonly sport.
Cloe. About the fields tracing,
Each other in chasing,
And often imbracing,
In amorous sort.
Naijs. And Eccho oft doth tell
Wondrous things from her Cell,
As her what chance befell,
Learning to prattle.
Cloe. And now she sits and mocks
The Shepherds and their flocks,
And the Heards from the Rocks
Keeping their Cattle.
When to these Maids the Muses silence cry,
For 'twas the opinion of the Company,
That were not these two taken of, that they
Would in their Conflict wholly spend the day.
When as the Turne to Florimel next came,
A Nimph for Beauty of especiall name,
Yet was she not so Iolly as the rest:
And though she were by her companions prest,
Yet she by no intreaty would be wrought
To sing, as by th' Elizian Lawes she ought:
When two bright Nimphes that her companions were,
And of all other onely held her deare,
Mild Claris and Mertilla, with faire speech
Their most beloued Florimel beseech,
T'obserue the Muses, and the more to wooe her,
They take their turnes, and thus they sing vnto her.
Cloris. Sing, Florimel, O sing, and wee
Our whole wealth will giue to thee,
We'll rob the brim of euery Fountaine,
Strip the sweets from euery Mountaine,
We will sweepe the curled valleys,
Brush the bancks that mound our allyes,
We will muster natures dainties
When she wallowes in her plentyes,
The lushyous smell of euery flower
New washt by an Aprill shower,
The Mistresse of her store we'll make thee
That she for her selfe shall take thee;
Can there be a dainty thing,
That's not thine if thou wilt sing.
Mertilla. When the dew in May distilleth,
And the Earths rich bosome filleth,
And with Pearle embrouds each Meadow,
We will make them like a widow,
And in all their Beauties dresse thee,
And of all their spoiles possesse thee,
With all the bounties Zephyre brings,
Breathing on the yearely springs,
The gaudy bloomes of euery Tree
In their most beauty when they be,
What is here that may delight thee,
Or to pleasure may excite thee,
Can there be a dainty thing
That's not thine if thou wilt sing.
But Florimel still sullenly replyes
I will not sing at all, let that suffice:
When as a Nimph one of the merry ging
Seeing she no way could be wonne to sing;
Come, come, quoth she, ye vtterly vndoe her
With your intreaties, and your reuerence to her;
For praise nor prayers, she careth not a pin;
They that our froward Florimel would winne,
Must worke another way, let me come to her,
Either Ile make her sing, or Ile vndoe her.
Claia. Florimel I thus coniure thee,
Since their gifts cannot alure thee;
By stampt Garlick, that doth stink
Worse then common Sewer, or Sink,
By Henbane, Dogsbane, Woolfsbane, sweet
As any Clownes or Carriers feet,
By stinging Nettles, pricking Teasels
Raysing blisters like the measels,
By the rough Burbreeding docks,
Rancker then the oldest Fox,
By filthy Hemblock, poysning more
Then any vlcer or old sore,
By the Cockle in the corne,
That smels farre worse then doth burnt horne,
By Hempe in water that hath layne,
By whose stench the Fish are slayne,
By Toadflax which your Nose may tast,
If you haue a minde to cast,
May all filthy stinking Weeds
That e'r bore leafe, or e'r had seeds,
Florimel be giuen to thee,
If thou'lt not sing as well as wee.
At which the Nimphs to open laughter fell,
Amongst the rest the beauteous Florimel,
(Pleasd with the spell from Claia that came,
A mirthfull Gerle and giuen to sport and game)
As gamesome growes as any of them all,
And to this ditty instantly doth fall.
Florimel. How in my thoughts should I contriue
The Image I am framing,
Which is so farre superlatiue,
As tis beyond all naming;
I would Ioue of my counsell make,
And haue his judgement in it,
But that I doubt he would mistake
How rightly to begin it,
It must be builded in the Ayre,
And tis my thoughts must doo it,
And onely they must be the stayre
From earth to mount me to it,
For of my Sex I frame my Lay,
Each houre, our selues forsaking,
How should I then finde out the way
To this my vndertaking,
When our weake Fancies working still,
Yet changing every minnit,
Will shew that it requires some skill,
Such difficulty's in it.
We would things, yet we know not what,
And let our will be granted,
Yet instantly we finde in that
Something vnthought of wanted:
Our ioyes and hopes such shadowes are,
As with our motions varry,
Which when we oft haue fetcht from farre,
With us they neuer tarry:
Some worldly crosse doth still attend,
What long we haue in spinning,
And e'r we fully get the end
We lose of our beginning.
Our pollicies so peevish are,
That with themselues they wrangle,
And many times become the snare
That soonest vs intangle;
For that the Loue we beare our Friends
Though nere so strongly grounded,
Hath in it certaine oblique ends
If to the bottome sounded:
Our owne well wishing making it,
A pardonable Treason;
For that is deriud from witt,
And vnderpropt with reason.
For our Deare selues beloued sake
(Euen in the depth of passion)
Our Center though our selues we make,
Yet is not that our station;
For whilst our Browes ambitious be
And youth at hand awayts vs,
It is a pretty thing to see
How finely Beautie cheats vs,
And whilst with tyme we tryfling stand
To practise Antique graces
Age with a pale and withered hand
Drawes Furowes in our faces.
When they which so desirous were before
To hear her sing; desirous are far more
To haue her cease; and call to haue her stayd
For she to much alredy had bewray'd.
And as the thrice three Sisters thus had grac'd
Their Celebration, and themselues had plac'd
Vpon a Violet banck, in order all
Where they at will might view the Festifall
The Nimphs and all the lusty youth that were
At this braue Nimphall, by them honored there,
To Gratifie the heauenly Gerles againe
Lastly prepare in state to entertaine
Those sacred Sisters, fairely and confer,
On each of them, their prayse particular
And thus the Nimphes to the nine Muses sung.
When as the Youth and Forresters among
That well prepared for this businesse were,
Become the Chorus, and thus sung they there.
Nimphes. Clio then first of those Celestiall nine
That daily offer to the sacred shryne,
Of wise Apollo; Queene of Stories,
Thou that vindicat'st the glories
Of passed ages, and renewst
Their acts which euery day thou viewst,
And from a lethargy dost keepe
Old nodding time, else prone to sleepe.
Chorus. Clio O craue of Phoebus to inspire
Vs, for his Altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Melpomine thou melancholly Maid
Next, to wise Phoebus we inuoke thy ayd,
In Buskins that dost stride the Stage,
And in thy deepe distracted rage,
In blood-shed that dost take delight,
Thy obiect the most fearfull sight,
That louest the sighes, the shreekes, and sounds
Of horrors, that arise from wounds.
Chorus. Sad Muse, O craue of Phoebus to inspire
Vs for his Altars, with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Comick Thalia then we come to thee,
Thou mirthfull Mayden, onely that in glee
And loues deceits, thy pleasure tak'st,
Of which thy varying Scene that mak'st
And in thy nimble Sock do'st stirre
Loude laughter through the Theater,
That with the Peasant mak'st the sport,
As well as with the better sort.
Chorus. Thalia craue of Phoebus to inspire
Vs for his Alters with his holyest fier;
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
Giue life, and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Euterpe next to thee we will proceed,
That first sound'st out the Musick on the Reed,
With breath and fingers giu'ng life,
To the shrill Cornet and the Fyfe.
Teaching euery stop and kaye,
To those vpon the Pipe that playe,
Those which Wind-Instruments we call
Or soft, or lowd, or greate, or small,
Chorus. Euterpe aske of Phebus to inspire,
Vs for his Alters with his holyest fire
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Terpsichore that of the Lute and Lyre,
And Instruments that sound with Cords and wyere,
That art the Mistres, to commaund
The touch of the most Curious hand,
When euery Quauer doth Imbrace
His like in a true Diapase,
And euery string his sound doth fill
Toucht with the Finger or the Quill.
Chorus. Terpsichore, craue Phebus to inspire
Vs for his Alters with his holyest fier
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Then Erato wise muse on thee we call,
In Lynes to vs that do'st demonstrate all,
Which neatly, with thy staffe and Bowe,
Do'st measure, and proportion showe;
Motion and Gesture that dost teach
That euery height and depth canst reach,
And do'st demonstrate by thy Art
What nature else would not Impart.
Chorus. Deare Erato craue Phebus to inspire
Vs for his Alters with his holyest fire,
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes,
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. To thee then braue Caliope we come
Thou that maintain'st, the Trumpet, and the Drum;
The neighing Steed that louest to heare,
Clashing of Armes doth please thine eare,
In lofty Lines that do'st rehearse
Things worthy of a thundring verse,
And at no tyme are heard to straine,
On ought that suits a Common vayne.
Chorus. Caliope, craue Phebus to inspire,
Vs for his Alters with his holyest fier,
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes,
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Then Polyhymnia most delicious Mayd,
In Rhetoricks Flowers that art arayd,
In Tropes and Figures, richly drest,
The Fyled Phrase that louest best,
That art all Elocution, and
The first that gau'st to vnderstand
The force of wordes in order plac'd
And with a sweet deliuery grac'd.
Chorus. Sweet Muse perswade our Phoebus to inspire
Vs for his Altars, with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious euer shining Rayes
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
Nimphes. Lofty Vrania then we call to thee,
To whom the Heauens for euer opened be,
Thou th' Asterismes by name dost call,
And shewst when they doe rise and fall
Each Planets force, and dost diuine
His working, seated in his Signe,
And how the starry Frame still roules
Betwixt the fixed stedfast Poles.
Chorus. Vrania aske of Phoebus to inspire
Vs for his Altars with his holiest fire,
And let his glorious euer-shining Rayes
Giue life and growth to our Elizian Bayes.
The fourth Nimphall
CLORIS and MERTILLA.
Chaste Cloris doth disclose the shames
Of the Felician frantique Dames,
Mertilla striues t' apease her woe,
To golden wishes then they goe.
Mertilla. Why how now Cloris, what, thy head
Bound with forsaken Willow?
Is the cold ground become thy bed?
The grasse become thy Pillow?
O let not those life-lightning eyes
In this sad vayle be shrowded,
Which into mourning puts the Skyes,
To see them ouer-clowded.
Cloris. O my Mertilla doe not praise
These Lampes so dimly burning,
Such sad and sullen lights as these
Were onely made for mourning:
Their obiects are the barren Rocks
With aged Mosse o'r shaded;
Now whilst the Spring layes forth her Locks
With blossomes brauely braded.
Mertilla. O Cloris, Can there be a Spring,
O my deare Nimph, there may not,
Wanting thine eyes it forth to bring,
Without which Nature cannot:
Say what it is that troubleth thee
Encreast by thy concealing,
Speake; sorrowes many times we see
Are lesned by reuealing.
Cloris. Being of late too vainely bent
And but at too much leisure;
Not with our Groves and Downes content,
But surfetting in pleasure;
Felicia's Fields I would goe see,
Where fame to me reported,
The choyce Nimphes of the world to be
From meaner beauties sorted;
Hoping that I from them might draw
Some graces to delight me,
But there such monstrous shapes I saw,
That to this houre affright me.
Throw the thick Hayre, that thatch'd their Browes,
Their eyes vpon me stared,
Like to those raging frantique Froes
For Bacchus Feasts prepared:
Their Bodies, although straight by kinde,
Yet they so monstrous make them,
That for huge Bags blowne vp with wind,
You very well may take them.
Their Bowels in their Elbowes are,
Whereon depend their Panches,
And their deformed Armes by farre
Made larger than their Hanches:
For their behauiour and their grace,
Which likewise should haue priz'd them,
Their manners were as beastly base
As th' rags that so disguisd them;
All Anticks, all so impudent,
So fashon'd out of fashion,
As blacke Cocytus vp had sent
Her Fry into this nation,
Whose monstrousnesse doth so perplex,
Of Reason and depriues me,
That for their sakes I loath my sex,
Which to this sadnesse driues me.
Mertilla. O my deare Cloris be not sad,
Nor with these Furies danted,
But let these female fooles be mad,
With Hellish pride inchanted;
Let not thy noble thoughts descend
So low as their affections;
Whom neither counsell can amend,
Nor yet the Gods corrections:
Such mad folks ne'r let vs bemoane,
But rather scorne their folly,
And since we two are here alone,
To banish melancholly,
Leaue we this lowly creeping vayne
Not worthy admiration,
And in a braue and lofty strayne,
Lets exercise our passion,
With wishes of each others good,
From our abundant treasures,
And in this iocund sprightly mood:
Thus alter we our measures.
Mertilla. O I could wish this place were strewd with Roses,
And that this Banck were thickly thrumd with Grasse
As soft as Sleaue, or Sarcenet euer was,
Whereon my Cloris her sweet selfe reposes.
Cloris. O that these Dewes Rosewater were for thee,
These Mists Perfumes that hang vpon these thicks,
And that the Winds were all Aromaticks,
Which, if my wish could make them, they should bee.
Mertilla. O that my Bottle one whole Diamond were,
So fild with Nectar that a Flye might sup,
And at one draught that thou mightst drinke it vp,
Yet a Carouse not good enough I feare.
Cloris. That all the Pearle, the Seas, or Indias haue
Were well dissolu'd, and thereof made a Lake,
Thou there in bathing, and I by to take
Pleasure to see thee cleerer than the Waue.
Mertilla. O that the Hornes of all the Heards we see,
Were of fine gold, or else that euery horne
Were like to that one of the Vnicorne,
And of all these, not one but were thy Fee.
Cloris. O that their Hooues were Iuory, or some thing,
Then the pur'st Iuory farre more Christalline,
Fild with the food wherewith the Gods doe dine,
To keepe thy Youth in a continuall Spring.
Mertilla. O that the sweets of all the Flowers that grow,
The labouring ayre would gather into one,
In Gardens, Fields, nor Meadowes leauing none,
And all their Sweetnesse vpon thee would throw.
Cloris. Nay that those sweet harmonious straines we heare,
Amongst the liuely Birds melodious Layes,
As they recording sit vpon the Sprayes,
Were houering still for Musick at thine eare.
Mertilla. O that thy name were caru'd on euery Tree,
That as these plants still great, and greater grow,
Thy name deare Nimph might be enlarged so,
That euery Groue and Coppis might speake thee.
Cloris. Nay would thy name vpon their Rynds were set,
And by the Nimphes so oft and lowdly spoken,
As that the Ecchoes to that language broken
Thy happy name might hourely counterfet.
Mertilla. O let the Spring still put sterne winter by,
And in rich Damaske let her Reuell still,
As it should doe if I might haue my will,
That thou mightst still walke on her Tapistry;
And thus since Fate no longer time alowes
Vnder this broad and shady Sicamore,
Where now we sit, as we haue oft before;
Those yet vnborne shall offer vp their Vowes.
The fift Nimphall
CLAIA, LELIPA, CLARINAX a Hermit.
Of Garlands, Anadems, and Wreathes,
This Nimphall nought but sweetnesse breathes,
Presents you with delicious Posies,
And with powerfull Simples closes.
Claia. See where old Clarinax is set,
His sundry Simples sorting,
From whose experience we may get
What worthy is reporting.
Then Lelipa let vs draw neere,
Whilst he his weedes is weathering,
I see some powerfull Simples there
That he hath late bin gathering.
Hail gentle Hermit, Iove thee speed,
And haue thee in his keeping,
And euer helpe thee at thy need,
Be thou awake or sleeping.
Clarinax. Ye payre of most Celestiall lights,
O Beauties three times burnisht,
Who could expect such heauenly wights
With Angels features furnisht;
What God doth guide you to this place,
To blesse my homely Bower?
It cannot be but this high grace
Proceeds from some high power;
The houres like hand-maids still attend,
Disposed at your pleasure,
Ordayned to noe other end
But to awaite your leasure;
The Deawes drawne vp into the Aer,
And by your breathes perfumed,
In little Clouds doe houer there
As loath to be consumed:
The Aer moues not but as you please,
So much sweet Nimphes it owes you,
The winds doe cast them to their ease,
And amorously inclose you.
Lelipa. Be not too lauish of thy praise,
Thou good Elizian Hermit,
Lest some to heare such words as these,
Perhaps may flattery tearme it;
But of your Simples something say,
Which may discourse affoord vs,
We know your knowledge lyes that way,
With subiects you haue stor'd vs.
Claia. We know for Physick yours you get,
Which thus you heere are sorting,
And vpon garlands we are set,
With Wreathes and Posyes sporting:
Lelipa. The Chaplet and the Anadem,
The curled Tresses crowning,
We looser Nimphes delight in them,
Not in your Wreathes renowning.
Clarinax. The Garland long agoe was worne,
As Time pleased to bestow it,
The Lawrell onely to adorne
The Conquerer and the Poet.
The Palme his due, who vncontrould,
On danger looking grauely,
When Fate had done the worst it could,
Who bore his Fortunes brauely.
Most worthy of the Oken Wreath
The Ancients him esteemed,
Who in a Battle had from death
Some man of worth redeemed.
About his temples Grasse they tye,
Himselfe that so behaued
In some strong Seedge by th' Enemy,
A City that hath saued.
A Wreath of Vervaine Herhauts weare,
Amongst our Garlands named,
Being sent that dreadfull newes to beare,
Offensiue warre proclaimed.
The Signe of Peace who first displayes,
The Oliue Wreath possesses:
The Louer with the Myrtle Sprayes
Adornes his crisped Tresses.
In Loue the sad forsaken wight
The Willow Garland weareth:
The Funerall man befitting night,
The balefull Cipresse beareth.
To Pan we dedicate the Pine,
Whose Slips the Shepherd graceth:
Againe the Ivie and the Vine
On his, swolne Bacchus placeth.
Claia. The Boughes and Sprayes, of which you tell,
By you are rightly named,
But we with those of pretious smell
And colours are enflamed;
The noble Ancients to excite
Men to doe things worth crowning,
Not vnperformed left a Rite,
To heighten their renowning:
But they that those rewards deuis'd,
And those braue wights that wore them
By these base times, though poorely priz'd,
Yet Hermit we adore them.
The store of euery fruitfull Field
We Nimphes at will possessing,
From that variety they yeeld
Get flowers for euery dressing:
Of which a Garland Ile compose,
Then busily attend me.
These flowers I for that purpose chose,
But where I misse amend me.
Clarinax. Well Claia on with your intent,
Lets see how you will weaue it,
Which done, here for a monument
I hope with me, you'll leaue it.
Claia. Here Damaske Roses, white and red,
Out of my lap first take I,
Which still shall runne along the thred,
My chiefest Flower this make I:
Amongst these Roses in a row,
Next place I Pinks in plenty,
These double Daysyes then for show,
And will not this be dainty.
The pretty Pansy then Ile tye
Like Stones some Chaine inchasing,
And next to them their neere Alye,
The purple Violet placing.
The curious choyce, Clove Iuly-flower,
Whose kinds hight the Carnation
For sweetnesse of most soueraine power
Shall helpe my Wreath to fashion.
Whose sundry cullers of one kinde
First from one Root derived,
Them in their seuerall sutes Ile binde,
My Garland so contriued;
A course of Cowslips then I'll stick,
And here and there though sparely
The pleasant Primrose downe Ile prick
Like Pearles, which will show rarely:
Then with these Marygolds Ile make
My Garland somewhat swelling,
These Honysuckles then Ile take,
Whose sweets shall helpe their smelling:
The Lilly and the Flower delice,
For colour much contenting,
For that, I them doe only prize,
They are but pore in senting:
The Daffadill most dainty is
To match with these in meetnesse;
The Columbyne compar'd to this,
All much alike for sweetnesse.
These in their natures onely are
Fit to embosse the border,
Therefore Ile take especiall care
To place them in their order:
Sweet-Williams, Campions, Sops-in-Wine
One by another neatly:
Thus haue I made this Wreath of mine,
And finished it featly.
Lelipa. Your Garland thus you finisht haue,
Then as we haue attended
Your leasure, likewise let me craue
I may the like be friended.
Those gaudy garish Flowers you chuse,
In which our Nimphes are flaunting,
Which they at Feasts and Brydals vse,
The sight and smell inchanting:
A Chaplet me of Hearbs Ile make
Then which though yours be brauer,
Yet this of myne I'le vndertake
Shall not be short in fauour.
With Basill then I will begin,
Whose scent is wondrous pleasing,
This Eglantine I'le next put in,
The sense with sweetnes seasing.
Then in my Lauender I'le lay,
Muscado put among it,
And here and there a leafe of Bay,
Which still shall runne along it.
Germander, Marieram, and Tyme
Which vsed are for strewing,
With Hisop as an hearbe most pryme
Here in my wreath bestowing.
Then Balme and Mynt helps to make vp
My Chaplet, and for Tryall,
Costmary that so likes the Cup,
And next it Penieryall
Then Burnet shall beare vp with this
Whose leafe I greatly fansy,
Some Camomile doth not amisse,
With Sauory and some Tansy,
Then heere and there I'le put a sprig
Of Rosemary into it
Thus not too little or too big
Tis done if I can doe it.
Clarinax. Claia your Garland is most gaye,
Compos'd of curious Flowers,
And so most louely Lelipa,
This Chaplet is of yours,
In goodly Gardens yours you get
Where you your laps haue laded;
My symples are by Nature set,
In Groues and Fields vntraded.
Your Flowers most curiously you twyne,
Each one his place supplying.
But these rough harsher Hearbs of mine,
About me rudely lying,
Of which some dwarfish Weeds there be,
Some of a larger stature,
Some by experience as we see,
Whose names expresse their nature,
Heere is my Moly of much fame,
In Magicks often vsed,
Mugwort and Night-shade for the same
But not by me abused;
Here Henbane, Popy, Hemblock here,
Procuring Deadly sleeping,
Which I doe minister with Feare,
Not fit for each mans keeping.
Heere holy Veruayne, and heere Dill,
Against witchcraft much auailing.
Here Horhound gainst the Mad dogs ill
By biting, neuer failing.
Here Mandrake that procureth loue,
In poysning philters mixed,
And makes the Barren fruitfull proue,
The Root about them fixed.
Inchaunting Lunary here lyes
In Sorceries excelling,
And this is Dictam, which we prize
Shot shafts and Darts expelling,
Here Saxifrage against the stone
That Powerfull is approued,
Here Dodder by whose helpe alone,
Ould Agues are remoued
Here Mercury, here Helibore,
Ould Vlcers mundifying,
And Shepheards-Purse the Flux most sore,
That helpes by the applying;
Here wholsome Plantane, that the payne
Of Eyes and Eares appeases;
Here cooling Sorrell that againe
We vse in hot diseases:
The medcinable Mallow here,
Asswaging sudaine Tumors,
The iagged Polypodium there,
To purge ould rotten humors,
Next these here Egremony is,
That helpes the Serpents byting,
The blessed Betony by this,
Whose cures deseruen writing:
This All-heale, and so nam'd of right,
New wounds so quickly healing,
A thousand more I could recyte,
Most worthy of Reuealing,
But that I hindred am by Fate,
And busnesse doth preuent me,
To cure a mad man, which of late
Is from Felicia sent me.
Claia. Nay then thou hast inough to doe,
We pity thy enduring,
For they are there infected soe,
That they are past thy curing.
The sixt Nimphall
SILVIVS, HALCIVS, MELANTHVS.
A Woodman, Fisher, and a Swaine
This Nimphall through with mirth maintaine,
Whose pleadings so the Nimphes doe please,
That presently they giue them Bayes.
Cleere had the day bin from the dawne,
All chequerd was the Skye,
Thin Clouds like Scarfs of Cobweb Lawne
Vayld Heauen's most glorious eye.
The Winde had no more strength then this,
That leasurely it blew,
To make one leafe the next to kisse,
That closly by it grew.
The Rils that on the Pebbles playd,
Might now be heard at will;
This world they onely Musick made,
Else euerything was still.
The Flowers like braue embraudred Gerles,
Lookt as they much desired,
To see whose head with orient Pearles,
Most curiously was tyred;
And to it selfe the subtle Ayre,
Such souerainty assumes,
That it receiu'd too large a share
From natures rich perfumes.
When the Elizian Youth were met,
That were of most account,
And to disport themselues were set
Vpon an easy Mount:
Neare which, of stately Firre and Pine
There grew abundant store,
The Tree that weepeth Turpentine,
And shady Sicamore.
Amongst this merry youthfull trayne
A Forrester they had,
A Fisher, and a Shepheards swayne
A liuely Countrey Lad:
Betwixt which three a question grew,
Who should the worthiest be,
Which violently they pursue,
Nor stickled would they be.
That it the Company doth please
This ciuill strife to stay,
Freely to heare what each of these
For his braue selfe could say:
When first this Forrester (of all)
That Silvius had to name,
To whom the Lot being cast doth fall,
Doth thus begin the Game.
Silvius. For my profession then, and for the life I lead,
All others to excell, thus for my selfe I plead;
I am the Prince of sports, the Forrest is my Fee,
He's not vpon the Earth for pleasure liues like me;
The Morne no sooner puts her rosye Mantle on,
But from my quyet Lodge I instantly am gone,
When the melodious Birds from euery Bush and Bryer,
Of the wilde spacious Wasts, make a continuall quire;
The motlied Meadowes then, new vernisht with the Sunne
Shute vp their spicy sweets vpon the winds that runne,
In easly ambling Gales, and softly seeme to pace,
That it the longer might their lushiousnesse imbrace:
I am clad in youthfull Greene, I other colour, scorne,
My silken Bauldrick beares my Beugle, or my Horne,
Which setting to my Lips, I winde so lowd and shrill,
As makes the Ecchoes showte from euery neighbouring Hill:
My Doghooke at my Belt, to which my Lyam's tyde,
My Sheafe of Arrowes by, my Woodknife at my Syde,
My Crosse-bow in my Hand, my Gaffle or my Rack
To bend it when I please, or it I list to slack,
My Hound then in my Lyam, I by the Woodmans art
Forecast, where I may lodge the goodly Hie-palm'd Hart,
To viewe the grazing Heards, so sundry times I vse,
Where by the loftiest Head I know my Deare to chuse,
And to vnheard him then, I gallop o'r the ground
Vpon my wel-breath'd Nag, to cheere my earning Hound.
Sometime I pitch my Toyles the Deare aliue to take,
Sometime I like the Cry, the deep-mouth'd Kennell make,
Then vnderneath my Horse, I staulke my game to strike,
And with a single Dog to hunt him hurt, I like.
The Siluians are to me true subiects, I their King,
The stately Hart, his Hind doth to my presence bring,
The Buck his loued Doe, the Roe his tripping Mate,
Before me to my Bower, whereas I sit in State.
The Dryads, Hamadryads, the Satyres and the Fawnes
Oft play at Hyde and Seeke before me on the Lawnes,
The frisking Fayry oft when horned Cinthia shines
Before me as I walke dance wanton Matachynes,
The numerous feathered flocks that the wild Forrests haunt
Their Siluan songs to me, in cheerefull dittyes chaunte,
The Shades like ample Sheelds, defend me from the Sunne,
Through which me to refresh the gentle Riuelets runne,
No little bubling Brook from any Spring that falls
But on the Pebbles playes me pretty Madrigals.
I' th' morne I clime the Hills, where wholsome winds do blow,
At Noone-tyde to the Vales, and shady Groues below,
T'wards Euening I againe the Chrystall Floods frequent,
In pleasure thus my life continually is spent.
As Princes and great Lords haue Pallaces, so I
Haue in the Forrests here, my Hall and Gallery
The tall and stately Woods, which vnderneath are Plaine,
The Groues my Gardens are, the Heath and Downes againe
My wide and spacious walkes, then say all what ye can,
The Forrester is still your only gallant man.
He of his speech scarce made an end,
But him they load with prayse,
The Nimphes most highly him commend,
And vow to giue him Bayes:
He's now cryde vp of euery one,
And who but onely he,
The Forrester's the man alone,
The worthyest of the three.
When some then th' other farre more stayd,
Wil'd them a while to pause,
For there was more yet to be sayd,
That might deserve applause,
When Halcius his turne next plyes,
And silence hauing wonne,
Roome for the fisher man he cryes,
And thus his Plea begunne.
Halcius. No Forrester, it so must not be borne away,
But heare what for himselfe the Fisher first can say,
The Chrystall current Streames continually I keepe,
Where euery Pearle-pau'd Foard, and euery Blew-eyd deepe
With me familiar are; when in my Boate being set,
My Oare I take in hand, my Augle and my Net
About me; like a Prince my selfe in state I steer,
Now vp, now downe the Streame, now am I here, now ther,
The Pilot and the Fraught my selfe; and at my ease
Can land me where I list, or in what place I please,
The Siluer-scaled Sholes, about me in the Streames,
As thick as ye discerne the Atoms in the Beames,
Neare to the shady Banck where slender Sallowes grow,
And Willows their shag'd tops downe t'wards the waters bow
I shove in with my Boat to sheeld me from the heat,
Where chusing from my Bag, some prou'd especiall bayt,
The goodly well growne Trout I with my Angle strike,
And with my bearded Wyer I take the rauenous Pike,
Of whom when I haue hould, he seldome breakes away
Though at my Lynes full length, soe long I let him play
Till by my hand I finde he well-nere wearyed be,
When softly by degrees I drawe him vp to me.
The lusty Samon to, I oft with Angling take,
Which me aboue the rest most Lordly sport doth make,
Who feeling he is caught, such Frisks and bounds doth fetch,
And by his very strength my Line soe farre doth stretch,
As draws my floating Corcke downe to the very ground,
And wresting at my Rod, doth make my Boat turne round.
I neuer idle am, some tyme I bayt my Weeles,
With which by night I take the dainty siluer Eeles,
And with my Draughtnet then, I sweepe the streaming Flood,
And to my Tramell next, and Cast-net from the Mud,
I beate the Scaly brood, noe hower I idely spend,
But wearied with my worke I bring the day to end:
The Naijdes and Nymphes that in the Riuers keepe,
Which take into their care, the store of euery deepe,
Amongst the Flowery flags, the Bullrushes and Reed,
That of the Spawne haue charge (abundantly to breed)
Well mounted vpon Swans, their naked bodys lend
To my discerning eye, and on my Boate attend,
And dance vpon the Waues, before me (for my sake)
To th' Musick the soft wynd vpon the Reeds doth make
And for my pleasure more, the rougher Gods of Seas
From Neptune's Court send in the blew Neriades,
Which from his bracky Realme vpon the Billowes ride
And beare the Riuers backe with euery streaming Tyde,
Those Billowes gainst my Boate, borne with delightfull Gales,
Oft seeming as I rowe to tell me pretty tales,
Whilst Ropes of liquid Pearle still load my laboring Oares,
As streacht vpon the Streame they stryke me to the Shores:
The silent medowes seeme delighted with my Layes,
As sitting in my Boate I sing my Lasses praise,
Then let them that like, the Forrester vp cry,
Your noble Fisher is your only man say I.
This speech of Halcius turn'd the Tyde,
And brought it so about,
That all vpon the Fisher cryde,
That he would beare it out;
Him for the speech he made, to clap
Who lent him not a hand,
And said t'would be the Waters hap,
Quite to put downe the Land.
This while Melanthus silent sits,
(For so the Shepheard hight)
And hauing heard these dainty wits,
Each pleading for his right;
To heare them honor'd in this wise,
His patience doth prouoke,
When for a Shepheard roome he cryes,
And for himselfe thus spoke.
Melanthus. Well Fisher you haue done, and Forrester for you
Your Tale is neatly tould, s'are both's to giue you due,
And now my turne comes next, then heare a Shepherd speak:
My watchfulnesse and care giues day scarce leaue to break,
But to the Fields I haste, my folded flock to see,
Where when I finde, nor Woolfe, nor Fox, hath iniur'd me,
I to my Bottle straight, and soundly baste my Throat,
Which done, some Country Song or Roundelay I roate
So merrily; that to the musick that I make,
I Force the Larke to sing ere she be well awake;
Then Baull my cut-tayld Curre and I begin to play,
He o'r my Shephooke leapes, now th'one, now th'other way,
Then on his hinder feet he doth himselfe aduance,
I tune, and to my note, my liuely Dog doth dance,
Then whistle in my Fist, my fellow Swaynes to call,
Downe goe our Hooks and Scrips, and we to Nine-holes fall, 0
At Dust-point, or at Quoyts, else are we at it hard,
All false and cheating Games, we Shepheards are debard;
Suruaying of my sheepe if Ewe or Wether looke
As though it were amisse, or with my Curre, or Crooke
I take it, and when once I finde what it doth ayle,
It hardly hath that hurt, but that my skill can heale;
And when my carefull eye, I cast vpon my sheepe
I sort them in my Pens, and sorted soe I keepe:
Those that are bigst of Boane, I still reserue for breed,
My Cullings I put off, or for the Chapman feed.
When the Euening doth approach I to my Bagpipe take,
And to my Grazing flocks such Musick then I make,
That they forbeare to feed; then me a King you see,
I playing goe before, my Subiects followe me,
My Bell-weather most braue, before the rest doth stalke,
The Father of the flocke, and after him doth walke
My writhen-headed Ram, with Posyes crowned in pride
Fast to his crooked hornes with Rybands neatly ty'd
And at our Shepheards Board that's cut out of the ground,
My fellow Swaynes and I together at it round,
With Greencheese, clouted Cream, with Flawns, and Custards, stord,
Whig, Sider, and with Whey, I domineer a Lord,
When shering time is come I to the Riuer driue,
My goodly well-fleec'd Flocks: (by pleasure thus I thriue)
Which being washt at will; vpon the shering day,
My wooll I foorth in Loaks, fit for the wynder lay,
Which vpon lusty heapes into my Coate I heaue,
That in the Handling feeles as soft as any Sleaue,
When euery Ewe two Lambes, that yeaned hath that yeare,
About her new shorne neck a Chaplet then doth weare;
My Tarboxe, and my Scrip, my Bagpipe, at my back,
My Sheephooke in my hand, what can I say I lacke;
He that a Scepter swayd, a sheephooke in his hand,
Hath not disdaind to haue, for Shepheards then I stand;
Then Forester and you my Fisher cease your strife
I say your Shepheard leads your onely merry life,
They had not cryd the Forester,
And Fisher vp before,
So much: but now the Nimphes preferre,
The Shephard ten tymes more,
And all the Ging goes on his side,
Their Minion him they make,
To him themselues they all apply'd,
And all his partie take;
Till some in their discretion cast,
Since first the strife begunne,
In all that from them there had past
None absolutly wonne;
That equall honour they should share;
And their deserts to showe,
For each a Garland they prepare,
Which they on them bestowe,
Of all the choisest flowers that weare,
Which purposly they gather,
With which they Crowne them, parting there,
As they came first together.
The seuenth Nimphall
FLORIMEL, LELIPA, NAIJS, CODRVS a
Feriman.
The Nimphes, the Queene of loue pursue,
Which oft doth hide her from their view:
But lastly from th' Elizian Nation,
She banisht is by Proclamation.
Florimel. Deare Lelipa, where hast thou bin so long,
Was't not enough for thee to doe me wrong;
To rob me of thy selfe, but with more spight
To take my Naijs from me, my delight?
Yee lazie Girles, your heads where haue ye layd,
Whil'st Venus here her anticke prankes hath playd?
Lelipa. Nay Florimel, we should of you enquire,
The onely Mayden, whom we all admire
For Beauty, Wit, and Chastity, that you
Amongst the rest of all our Virgin crue,
In quest of her, that you so slacke should be,
And leaue the charge to Naijs and to me.
Florimel. Y'are much mistaken Lelipa, 'twas I,
Of all the Nimphes, that first did her descry,
At our great Hunting, when as in the Chase
Amongst the rest, me thought I saw one face
So exceeding faire, and curious, yet vnknowne
That I that face not possibly could owne.
And in the course, so Goddesse like a gate,
Each step so full of maiesty and state;
That with my selfe, I thus resolu'd that she
Lesse then a Goddesse (surely) could not be:
Thus as Idalia, stedfastly I ey'd,
A little Nimphe that kept close by her side
I noted, as vnknowne as was the other,
Which Cupid was disguis'd so by his mother.
The little purblinde Rogue, if you had seene,
You would haue thought he verily had beene
One of Diana's Votaries so clad,
He euery thing so like a Huntresse had:
And she had put false eyes into his head,
That very well he might vs all haue sped.
And still they kept together in the Reare,
But as the Boy should haue shot at the Deare,
He shot amongst the Nimphes, which when I saw,
Closer vp to them I began to draw;
And fell to hearken, when they naught suspecting,
Because I seem'd them vtterly neglecting,
I heard her say, my little Cupid too't,
Now Boy or neuer, at the Beuie shoot,
Haue at them Venus quoth the Boy anon,
I'le pierce the proud'st, had she a heart of stone:
With that I cryde out, Treason, Treason, when
The Nimphes that were before, turning agen
To vnderstand the meaning of this cry,
They out of sight were vanish't presently.
Thus but for me, the Mother and the Sonne,
Here in Elizium, had vs all vndone.
Naijs. Beleeue me, gentle Maide, 'twas very well,
But now heare me my beauteous Florimel,
Great Mars his Lemman being cryde out here,
She to Felicia goes, still to be neare
Th' Elizian Nimphes, for at vs is her ayme,
The fond Felicians are her common game.
I vpon pleasure idly wandring thither,
Something worth laughter from those fooles to gather,
Found her, who thus had lately beene surpriz'd,
Fearing the like, had her faire selfe disguis'd
Like an old Witch, and gaue out to haue skill
In telling Fortunes either good or ill;
And that more nearly she with them might close,
She cut the Cornes, of dainty Ladies Toes:
She gaue them Phisicke, either to coole or mooue them,
And powders too to make their sweet Hearts loue them:
And her sonne Cupid, as her Zany went,
Carrying her boxes, whom she often sent
To know of her faire Patients how they slept.
By which meanes she, and the blinde Archer crept
Into their fauours, who would often Toy,
And tooke delight in sporting with the Boy;
Which many times amongst his waggish tricks,
These wanton Wenches in the bosome prickes;
That they before which had some franticke fits,
Were by his Witchcraft quite out of their wits.
Watching this Wisard, my minde gaue me still
She some Impostor was, and that this skill
Was counterfeit, and had some other end.
For which discouery, as I did attend,
Her wrinckled vizard being very thin,
My piercing eye perceiu'd her cleerer skin
Through the thicke Riuels perfectly to shine;
When I perceiu'd a beauty so diuine,
As that so clouded, I began to pry
A little nearer, when I chanc't to spye
That pretty Mole vpon her Cheeke, which when
I saw; suruaying euery part agen,
Vpon her left hand, I perceiu'd the skarre
Which she receiued in the Troian warre;
Which when I found, I could not chuse but smile.
She, who againe had noted me the while,
And, by my carriage, found I had descry'd her,
Slipt out of sight, and presently doth hide her.
Lelipa. Nay then my dainty Girles, I make no doubt
But I my selfe as strangely found her out
As either of you both; in Field and Towne,
When like a Pedlar she went vp and downe:
For she had got a pretty handsome Packe,
Which she had fardled neatly at her backe:
And opening it, she had the perfect cry,
Come my faire Girles, let's see, what will you buy.
Here be fine night Maskes, plastred well within,
To supple wrinckles, and to smooth the skin:
Heer's Christall, Corall, Bugle, Iet, in Beads,
Cornelian Bracelets for my dainty Maids:
Then Periwigs and Searcloth-Gloues doth show,
To make their hands as white as Swan or Snow:
Then takes she forth a curious gilded boxe,
Which was not opened but by double locks;
Takes them aside, and doth a Paper spred,
In which was painting both for white and red:
And next a piece of Silke, wherein there lyes
For the decay'd, false Breasts, false Teeth, false Eyes
And all the while shee's opening of her Packe,
Cupid with's wings bound close downe to his backe:
Playing the Tumbler on a Table gets,
And shewes the Ladies many pretty feats.
I seeing behinde him that he had such things,
For well I knew no boy but he had wings,
I view'd his Mothers beauty, which to me
Lesse then a Goddesse said, she could not be:
With that quoth I to her, this other day,
As you doe now, so one that came this way,
Shew'd me a neate piece, with the needle wrought,
How Mars and Venus were together caught
By polt-foot Vulcan in an Iron net;
It grieu'd me after that I chanc't to let,
It to goe from me: whereat waxing red,
Into her Hamper she hung downe her head,
As she had stoup't some noueltie to seeke,
But 'twas indeed to hide her blushing Cheeke:
When she her Trinkets trusseth vp anon,
E'r we were 'ware, and instantly was gone.
Florimel. But hearke you Nimphes, amongst our idle prate,
Tis current newes through the Elizian State,
That Venus and her Sonne were lately seene
Here in Elizium, whence they oft haue beene
Banisht by our Edict, and yet still merry,
Were here in publique row'd o'r at the Ferry,
Where as 'tis said, the Ferryman and she
Had much discourse, she was so full of glee,
Codrus much wondring at the blind Boyes Bow.
Naijs. And what it was, that easly you may know,
Codrus himselfe comes rowing here at hand.
Lelipa. Codrus Come hither, let your Whirry stand,
I hope vpon you, ye will take no state
Because two Gods haue grac't your Boat of late;
Good Ferry-man I pray thee let vs heare
What talke ye had, aboard thee whilst they were.
Codrus. Why thus faire Nimphes.
As I a Fare had lately past,
And thought that side to ply,
I heard one as it were in haste;
A Boate, a Boate, to cry,
Which as I was aboute to bring,
And came to view my Fraught,
Thought I; what more then heauenly thing,
Hath fortune hither brought.
She seeing mine eyes still on her were,
Soone, smilingly, quoth she;
Sirra, looke to your Roother there,
Why lookst thou thus at me?
And nimbly stept into my Boat,
With her a little Lad
Naked and blind, yet did I note,
That Bow and Shafts he had,
And two Wings to his Shoulders fixt,
Which stood like little Sayles,
With farre more various colours mixt,
Then be your Peacocks Tayles;
I seeing this little dapper Elfe,
Such Armes as these to beare,
Quoth I thus softly to my selfe,
What strange thing haue we here,
I neuer saw the like thought I:
Tis more then strange to me,
To haue a child haue wings to fly,
And yet want eyes to see;
Sure this is some deuised toy,
Or it transform'd hath bin,
For such a thing, halfe Bird, halfe Boy,
I thinke was neuer seene;
And in my Boat I turnd about,
And wistly viewd the Lad,
And cleerely saw his eyes were out,
Though Bow and Shafts he had.
As wistly she did me behold,
How likst thou him, quoth she,
Why well, quoth I; and better should,
Had he but eyes to see.
How sayst thou honest friend, quoth she,
Wilt thou a Prentice take,
I thinke in time, though blind he be,
A Ferry-man hee'll make;
To guide my passage Boat quoth I,
His fine hands were not made,
He hath beene bred too wantonly
To vndertake my trade;
Why helpe him to a Master then,
Quoth she, such Youths be scant,
It cannot be but there be men
That such a Boy do want.
Quoth I, when you your best haue done,
No better way you'll finde,
Then to a Harper binde your Sonne,
Since most of them are blind.
The louely Mother and the Boy,
Laught heartily thereat,
As at some nimble iest or toy,
To heare my homely Chat.
Quoth I, I pray you let me know,
Came he thus first to light,
Or by some sicknesse, hurt, or blow,
Depryued of his sight;
Nay sure, quoth she, he thus was borne,
Tis strange borne blind, quoth I,
I feare you put this as a scorne
On my simplicity;
Quoth she, thus blind I did him beare,
Quoth I, if't be no lye,
Then he 's the first blind man Ile sweare,
Ere practisd Archery,
A man, quoth she, nay there you misse,
He 's still a Boy as now,
Nor to be elder then he is,
The Gods will him alow;
To be no elder then he is,
Then sure he is some sprite
I straight replide, againe at this,
The Goddesse laught out right;
It is a mystery to me,
An Archer and yet blinde;
Quoth I againe, how can it be,
That he his marke should finde;
The Gods, quoth she, whose will it was
That he should want his sight,
That he in something should surpasse,
To recompence their spight,
Gaue him this gift, though at his Game
He still shot in the darke,
That he should haue so certaine ayme,
As not to misse his marke.
By this time we were come a shore,
When me my Fare she payd,
But not a word she vttered more,
Nor had I her bewrayd,
Of Venus nor of Cupid I
Before did neuer heare,
But that Fisher comming by
Then, told me who they were.
Florimel. Well: against them then proceed
As before we haue decreed,
That the Goddesse and her Child,
Be for euer hence exild,
Which Lelipa you shall proclaime
In our wise Apollo's name.
Lelipa. To all th' Elizian Nimphish Nation,
Thus we make our Proclamation,
Against Venus and her Sonne
For the mischeefe they haue done,
After the next last of May,
The fixt and peremtory day,
If she or Cupid shall be found
Vpon our Elizian ground,
Our Edict, meere Rogues shall make them,
And as such, who ere shall take them,
Them shall into prison put,
Cupids wings shall then be cut,
His Bow broken, and his Arrowes
Giuen to Boyes to shoot at Sparrowes,
And this Vagabund be sent,
Hauing had due punishment
To mount Cytheron, which first fed him:
Where his wanton Mother bred him,
And there out of her protection
Dayly to receiue correction;
Then her Pasport shall be made,
And to Cyprus Isle conuayd,
And at Paphos in her Shryne,
Where she hath been held diuine,
For her offences found contrite,
There to liue an Anchorite.
The eight Nimphall
MERTILLA, CLAIA, CLORIS.
A Nimph is marryed to a Fay,
Great preparations for the Day,
All Rites of Nuptials they recite you
To the Brydall and inuite you.
Mertilla. But will our Tita wed this Fay?
Claia. Yea, and to morrow is the day.
Mertilla. But why should she bestow her selfe
Vpon this dwarfish Fayry Elfe?
Claia. Why by her smalnesse you may finde,
That she is of the Fayry kinde,
And therefore apt to chuse her make
Whence she did her begining take:
Besides he 's deft and wondrous Ayrye,
And of the noblest of the Fayry,
Chiefe of the Crickets of much fame,
In Fayry a most ancient name.
But to be briefe, 'tis cleerely done,
The pretty wench is woo'd and wonne.
Cloris. If this be so, let vs prouide
The Ornaments to fit our Bryde.
For they knowing she doth come
From vs in Elizium,
Queene Mab will looke she should be drest
In those attyres we thinke our best,
Therefore some curious things lets giue her,
E'r to her Spouse we her deliuer.
Mertilla. Ile haue a Iewell for her eare,
(Which for my sake Ile haue her weare)
'T shall be a Dewdrop, and therein
Of Cupids I will haue a twinne,
Which strugling, with their wings shall break
The Bubble, out of which shall leak,
So sweet a liquor as shall moue
Each thing that smels, to be in loue.
Claia. Beleeue me Gerle, this will be fine,
And to this Pendant, then take mine;
A Cup in fashion of a Fly,
Of the Linxes piercing eye,
Wherein there sticks a Sunny Ray
Shot in through the cleerest day,
Whose brightnesse Venus selfe did moue,
Therein to put her drinke of Loue,
Which for more strength she did distill,
The Limbeck was a Phoenix quill,
At this Cups delicious brinke,
A Fly approching but to drinke,
Like Amber or some precious Gumme
It transparant doth become.
Cloris. For Iewels for her eares she's sped,
But for a dressing for her head
I thinke for her I haue a Tyer,
That all Fayryes shall admyre,
The yellowes in the full-blowne Rose,
Which in the top it doth inclose
Like drops of gold Oare shall be hung;
Vpon her Tresses, and among
Those scattered seeds (the eye to please)
The wings of the Cantharides:
With some o' th' Raine-bow that doth raile
Those Moons in, in the Peacocks taile:
Whose dainty colours being mixt
With th' other beauties, and so fixt,
Her louely Tresses shall appeare,
As though vpon a flame they were.
And to be sure she shall be gay,
We'll take those feathers from the Iay;
About her eyes in Circlets set,
To be our Tita's Coronet.
Mertilla. Then dainty Girles I make no doubt,
But we shall neatly send her out:
But let's amongst our selues agree,
Of what her wedding Gowne shall be.
Claia. Of Pansie, Pincke, and Primrose leaues,
Most curiously laid on in Threaues:
And all embroydery to supply,
Powthred with flowers of Rosemary:
A trayle about the skirt shall runne,
The Silkewormes finest, newly spunne;
And euery Seame the Nimphs shall sew
With th' smallest of the Spinners Clue:
And hauing done their worke, againe
These to the Church shall beare her Traine:
Which for our Tita we will make
Of the cast slough of a Snake,
Which quiuering as the winde doth blow,
The Sunne shall it like Tinsell shew.
Cloris. And being led to meet her mate,
To make sure that she want no state,
Moones from the Peacockes tayle wee'll shred,
With feathers from the Pheasants head:
Mix'd with the plume of (so high price,)
The precious bird of Paradice.
Which to make vp, our Nimphes shall ply
Into a curious Canopy.
Borne o're her head (by our enquiry)
By Elfes, the fittest of the Faery.
Mertilla. But all this while we haue forgot
Her Buskins, neighbours, haue we not?
Claia. We had, for those I'le fit her now,
They shall be of the Lady-Cow:
The dainty shell vpon her backe
Of Crimson strew'd with spots of blacke;
Which as she holds a stately pace,
Her Leg will wonderfully grace.
Cloris. But then for musicke of the best,
This must be thought on for the Feast.
Mertilla. The Nightingale of birds most choyce,
To doe her best shall straine her voyce;
And to this bird to make a Set,
The Mauis, Merle, and Robinet;
The Larke, the Lennet, and the Thrush,
That make a Quier of euery Bush.
But for still musicke, we will keepe
The Wren, and Titmouse, which to sleepe
Shall sing the Bride, when shee's alone
The rest into their chambers gone.
And like those vpon Ropes that walke
On Gossimer, from staulke to staulke,
The tripping Fayry tricks shall play
The euening of the wedding day.
Claia. But for the Bride-bed, what were fit,
That hath not beene talk'd of yet.
Cloris. Of leaues of Roses white and red,
Shall be the Couering of her bed:
The Curtaines, Valence, Tester, all,
Shall be the flower Imperiall,
And for the Fringe, it all along
With azure Harebels shall be hung:
Of Lillies shall the Pillowes be,
With downe stuft of the Butterflee.
Mertilla. Thus farre we handsomely haue gone,
Now for our Prothalamion
Or Marriage song of all the rest,
A thing that much must grace our feast.
Let vs practise then to sing it,
Ere we before th' assembly bring it:
We in Dialogues must doe it,
The my dainty Girles set to it.
Claia. This day must Tita marryed be,
Come Nimphs this nuptiall let vs see.
Mertilla. But is it certaine that ye say,
Will she wed the Noble Faye?
Cloris. Sprinckle the dainty flowers with dewes,
Such as the Gods at Banquets vse:
Let Hearbs and Weeds turne all to Roses,
And make proud the posts with posies:
Shute your sweets into the ayre,
Charge the morning to be fayre.
Claia. } For our Tita is this day,
Mertilla. } To be married to a Faye.
Claia. By whom then shall our Bride be led
To the Temple to be wed.
Mertilla. Onely by your selfe and I,
Who that roomth should else supply?
Cloris. Come bright Girles, come altogether,
And bring all your offrings hither,
Ye most braue and Buxome Beuye,
All your goodly graces Leuye,
Come in Maiestie and state
Our Brydall here to celebrate.
Mertilla. } For our Tita is this day,
Claia. } Married to a noble Faye.
Claia. Whose lot wilt be the way to strow
On which to Church our Bride must goe?
Mertilla. That I think as fit'st of all,
To liuely Lelipa will fall.
Cloris. Summon all the sweets that are,
To this nuptiall to repayre;
Till with their throngs themselues they smother,
Strongly styfling one another;
And at last they all consume,
And vanish in one rich perfume.
Mertilla. } For our Tita is this day,
Claia. } Married to a noble Faye.
Mertilla. By whom must Tita married be,
'Tis fit we all to that should see?
Claia. The Priest he purposely doth come,
Th' Arch Flamyne of Elizium.
Cloris. With Tapers let the Temples shine,
Sing to Himen, Hymnes diuine:
Load the Altars till there rise
Clouds from the burnt sacrifice;
With your Sensors fling aloofe
Their smels, till they ascend the Roofe.
Mertilla. } For our Tita is this day,
Claia. } Married to a noble Fay.
Mertilla. But comming backe when she is wed,
Who breakes the Cake aboue her head.
Claia. That shall Mertilla, for shee's tallest,
And our Tita is the smallest.
Cloris. Violins, strike vp aloud,
Ply the Gitterne, scowre the Crowd,
Let the nimble hand belabour
The whistling Pipe, and drumbling Taber:
To the full the Bagpipe racke,
Till the swelling leather cracke.
Mertilla. } For our Tita is this day,
Claia. } Married to a noble Fay.
Claia. But when to dyne she takes her seate
What shall be our Tita's meate?
Mertilla. The Gods this Feast, as to begin,
Haue sent of their Ambrosia in.
Cloris. Then serue we vp the strawes rich berry,
The Respas, and Elizian Cherry:
The virgin honey from the flowers
In Hibla, wrought in Flora's bowers:
Full Bowles of Nectar, and no Girle
Carouse but in dissolued Pearle.
Mertilla. } For our Tita is this day,
Claia. } Married to a noble Fay.
Claia. But when night comes, and she must goe
To Bed, deare Nimphes what must we doe?
Mertilla. In the Posset must be brought,
And Poynts be from the Bridegroome caught.
Cloris. In Maskes, in Dances, and delight,
And reare Banquets spend the night:
Then about the Roome we ramble,
Scatter Nuts, and for them scramble:
Ouer Stooles, and Tables tumble,
Neuer thinke of noyse nor rumble.
Mertilla. } For our Tita is this day,
Claia. } Married to a noble Fay.
The ninth Nimphall
MVSES and NIMPHS.
The Muses spend their lofty layes,
Vpon Apollo and his prayse;
The Nimphs with Gems his Alter build,
This Nimphall is with Phoebus fild.
A Temple of exceeding state,
The Nimphes and Muses rearing,
Which they to Phoebus dedicate,
Elizium euer cheering:
These Muses, and those Nimphes contend
This Phane to Phoebus offring,
Which side the other should transcend,
These praise, those prizes proffering,
And at this long appointed day,
Each one their largesse bringing,
Those nine faire Sisters led the way
Thus to Apollo singing.
The Muses. Thou youthfull God that guid'st the howres,
The Muses thus implore thee,
By all those Names, due to thy powers,
By which we still adore thee.
Sol, Tytan, Delius, Cynthius, styles
Much reuerence that have wonne thee,
Deriu'd from Mountaines as from Iles
Where worship first was done thee.
Rich Delos brought thee forth diuine,
Thy Mother thither driven,
At Delphos thy most sacred shrine,
Thy Oracles were giuen.
In thy swift course from East to West,
They minutes misse to finde thee,
That bear'st the morning on thy breast,
And leau'st the night behinde thee.
Vp to Olimpus top so steepe,
Thy startling Coursers currying;
Thence downe to Neptunes vasty deepe,
Thy flaming Charriot hurrying.
Eos, Ethon, Phlegon, Pirois, proud,
Their lightning Maynes aduancing:[3]
Breathing forth fire on euery cloud
Vpon their Iourney prancing.
Whose sparkling hoofes, with gold for speed
Are shod, to scape all dangers,
Where they upon Ambrosia feed,
In their celestiall Mangers.
Bright Colatina, that of hils[4]
Is Goddesse, and hath keeping
Her Nimphes, the cleere Oreades wils
T'attend thee from thy sleeping.
Great [5]Demogorgon feeles thy might,
His Mynes about him heating:
Who through his bosome dart'st thy light,
Within the Center sweating.
If thou but touch thy golden Lyre,
Thou Minos mou'st to heare thee:
The Rockes feele in themselues a fire,[6]
And rise vp to come neere thee.
'Tis thou that Physicke didst deuise
Hearbs by their natures calling:
Of which some opening at thy Rise,
And closing at thy falling.
Fayre Hyacinth thy most lou'd Lad,
That with the sledge thou sluest;
Hath in a flower the life he had,
Whose root thou still renewest,
Thy Daphne thy beloued Tree,
That scornes thy Fathers Thunder,
And thy deare Clitia yet we see,
Not time from thee can sunder;[7]
From thy bright Bow that Arrow flew
(Snatcht from thy golden Quiver)
Which that fell Serpent Python slew,
Renowning thee for euer.
The Actian and the Pythian Games
Deuised were to praise thee,[8]
With all th' Apolinary names
That th' Ancients thought could raise thee.
A Shryne vpon this Mountaine hie,
To thee we'll haue erected,
Which thou the God of Poesie
Must care to haue protected:
With thy loud Cinthus that shall share,
With all his shady Bowers,
Nor Licia's Cragus shall compare
With this, for thee, of ours.
Thus hauing sung, the Nimphish Crue
Thrust in amongst them thronging,
Desiring they might haue the due
That was to them belonging.
Quoth they, ye Muses as diuine,
Are in his glories graced,
But it is we must build the Shryne
Wherein they must be placed;
Which of those precious Gemmes we'll make
That Nature can affoord vs,
Which from that plenty we will take,
Wherewith we here have stor'd vs:
O glorious Phoebus most diuine,
Thine Altars then we hallow.
And with those stones we build a Shryne
To thee our wise Apollo.
The Nimphes. No Gem, from Rocke, Seas, running streames,
(Their numbers let vs muster)
But hath from thy most powerfull beames
The Vertue and the Lustre;
The Diamond, the King of Gemmes,
The first is to be placed,
That glory is of Diadems,
Them gracing, by them graced:
In whom thy power the most is seene,
The raging fire refelling:
The Emerauld then, most deepely greene,
For beauty most excelling,
Resisting poyson often prou'd
By those about that beare it.
The cheerfull Ruby then, much lou'd,
That doth reuiue the spirit,
Whose kinde to large extensure growne
The colour so enflamed,
Is that admired mighty stone
The Carbunckle that's named,
Which from it such a flaming light
And radiency eiecteth,
That in the very dark'st of night
The eye to it directeth.
The yellow Iacynth, strengthening Sense,
Of which who hath the keeping,
No Thunder hurts nor Pestilence,
And much prouoketh sleeping:
The Chrisolite, that doth resist
Thirst, proued, neuer failing,
The purple colored Amatist,
'Gainst strength of wine prevailing;
The verdant gay greene Smaragdus,
Most soueraine ouer passion:
The Sardonix approu'd by vs
To master Incantation.
Then that celestiall colored stone
The Saphyre, heauenly wholly,
Which worne, there wearinesse is none,
And cureth melancholly:
The Lazulus, whose pleasant blew
With golden vaines is graced;
The Iaspis, of so various hew,
Amongst our other placed;
The Onix from the Ancients brought,
Of wondrous Estimation,
Shall in amongst the rest be wrought
Our sacred Shryne to fashion;
The Topas, we'll stick here and there,
And sea-greene colored Berill,
And Turkesse, which who haps to beare
Is often kept from perill,
To Selenite, of Cynthia's light,
So nam'd, with her still ranging,
Which as she wanes or waxeth bright
Its colours so are changing.
With Opalls, more then any one,
We'll deck thine Altar fuller,
For that of euery precious stone,
It doth retaine some colour;
With bunches of Pearle Paragon
Thine Altars vnderpropping,
Whose base is the Cornelian,
Strong bleeding often stopping:
With th' Agot, very oft that is
Cut strangely in the Quarry,
As Nature ment to show in this,
How she her selfe can varry:
With worlds of Gems from Mines and Seas
Elizium well might store vs:
But we content our selues with these
That readiest lye before vs:
And thus O Phoebus most diuine
Thine Altars still we hallow,
And to thy Godhead reare this Shryne
Our onely wise Apollo.
The tenth Nimphall
NAIIS, CLAIA, CORBILVS, SATYRE.
A Satyre on Elizium lights,
Whose vgly shape the Nimphes affrights,
Yet when they heare his iust complaint,
They make him an Elizian Saint.
Corbilus.
What; breathles Nimphs? bright Virgins let me know
What suddaine cause constraines ye to this haste?
What haue ye seene that should affright ye so?
What might it be from which ye flye so fast?
I see your faces full of pallid feare,
As though some perill followed on your flight;
Take breath a while, and quickly let me heare
Into what danger ye haue lately light.
Naijs. Neuer were poore distressed Gerles so glad,
As when kinde, loued Corbilus we saw,
When our much haste vs so much weakned had,
That scarcely we our wearied breathes could draw,
In this next Groue vnder an aged Tree,
So fell a monster lying there we found,
As till this day, our eyes did neuer see,
Nor euer came on the Elizian ground.
Halfe man, halfe Goate, he seem'd to vs in show,
His vpper parts our humane shape doth beare,
But he's a very perfect Goat below,
His crooked Cambrils arm'd with hoofe and hayre.
Claia. Through his leane Chops a chattering he doth make
Which stirres his staring beastly driueld Beard,
And his sharpe hornes he seem'd at vs to shake,
Canst thou then blame vs though we are afeard.
Corbilus. Surely it seemes some Satyre this should be,
Come and goe back and guide me to the place,
Be not affraid, ye are safe enough with me,
Silly and harmlesse be their Siluan Race.
Claia. How Corbilus; a Satyre doe you say?
How should he ouer high Parnassus hit?
Since to these fields there's none can finde the way,
But onely those the Muses will permit.
Corbilus. 'Tis true; but oft, the sacred Sisters grace
The silly Satyre, by whose plainnesse, they
Are taught the worlds enormities to trace,
By beastly mens abhominable way;
Besyde he may be banisht his owne home
By this base time, or be so much distrest,
That he the craggy by-clift Hill hath clome
To finde out these more pleasant Fields of rest.
Naijs. Yonder he sits, and seemes himselfe to bow
At our approach, what doth our presence awe him?
Me thinks he seemes not halfe so vgly now,
As at the first, when I and Claia saw him.
Corbilus. 'Tis an old Satyre, Nimph, I now discerne,
Sadly he sits, as he were sick or lame,
His lookes would say, that we may easly learne
How, and from whence, he to Elizium came.
Satyre, these Fields, how cam'st thou first to finde?
What Fate first show'd thee this most happy store?
When neuer any of thy Siluan kinde
Set foot on the Elizian earth before?
Satyre. O neuer aske, how I came to this place,
What cannot strong necessity finde out?
Rather bemoane my miserable case,
Constrain'd to wander this wide world about:
With wild Silvanus and his woody crue,
In Forrests I, at liberty and free,
Liu'd in such pleasure as the world ne'r knew,
Nor any rightly can conceiue but we.
This iocond life we many a day enioy'd,
Till this last age, those beastly men forth brought,
That all those great and goodly Woods destroy'd.
Whose growth their Grandsyres, with such sufferance sought,
That faire Felicia which was but of late,
Earth's Paradice, that neuer had her Peere,
Stands now in that most lamentable state,
That not a Siluan will inhabit there;
Where in the soft and most delicious shade,
In heat of Summer we were wont to play,
When the long day too short for vs we made,
The slyding houres so slyly stole away;
By Cynthia's light, and on the pleasant Lawne,
The wanton Fayry we were wont to chase,
Which to the nimble clouen-footed Fawne,
Vpon the plaine durst boldly bid the base.
The sportiue Nimphes, with shouts and laughter shooke
The Hils and Valleyes in their wanton play,
Waking the Ecchoes, their last words that tooke,
Till at the last, they lowder were then they.
The lofty hie Wood, and the lower spring,
Sheltring the Deare, in many a suddaine shower;
Where Quires of Birds, oft wonted were to sing,
The flaming Furnace wholly doth deuoure;
Once faire Felicia, but now quite defac'd,
Those Braueries gone wherein she did abound,
With dainty Groues, when she was highly grac'd
With goodly Oake, Ashe, Elme, and Beeches croun'd:
But that from heauen their iudgement blinded is,
In humane Reason it could neuer be,
But that they might haue cleerly seene by this,
Those plagues their next posterity shall see.
The little Infant on the mothers Lap
For want of fire shall be so sore distrest,
That whilst it drawes the lanke and empty Pap,
The tender lips shall freese vnto the breast;
The quaking Cattle which their Warmstall want,
And with bleake winters Northerne winde opprest,
Their Browse and Stouer waxing thin and scant,
The hungry Groues shall with their Caryon feast.
Men wanting Timber wherewith they should build,
And not a Forrest in Felicia found,
Shall be enforc'd vpon the open Field,
To dig them caues for houses in the ground:
The Land thus rob'd, of all her rich Attyre,
Naked and bare her selfe to heauen doth show,
Begging from thence that Iove would dart his fire
Vpon those wretches that disrob'd her so;
This beastly Brood by no meanes may abide
The name of their braue Ancestors to heare,
By whom their sordid slauery is descry'd,
So vnlike them as though not theirs they were,
Nor yet they sense, nor vnderstanding haue,
Of those braue Muses that their Country song,
But with false Lips ignobly doe depraue
The right and honour that to them belong;
This cruell kinde thus Viper-like deuoure
That fruitfull soyle which them too fully fed;
The earth doth curse the Age, and euery houre
Againe, that it these viprous monsters bred.
I seeing the plagues that shortly are to come
Vpon this people cleerely them forsooke:
And thus am light into Elizium,
To whose straite search I wholly me betooke.
Naijs. Poore silly creature, come along with vs,
Thou shalt be free of the Elizian fields:
Be not dismaid, nor inly grieued thus,
This place content in all abundance yeelds.
We to the cheerefull presence will thee bring,
Of Ioues deare Daughters, where in shades they sit,
Where thou shalt heare those sacred Sisters sing,
Most heauenly Hymnes, the strength and life of wit:
Claia. Where to the Delphian God vpon their Lyres
His Priests seeme rauisht in his height of praise:
Whilst he is crowning his harmonious Quiers
With circling Garlands of immortall Bayes.
Corbilus. Here liue in blisse, till thou shalt see those slaues,
Who thus set vertue and desert at nought:
Some sacrific'd vpon their Grandsires graues,
And some like beasts in markets sold and bought.
Of fooles and madmen leaue thou then the care,
That haue no vnderstanding of their state:
For whom high heauen doth so iust plagues prepare,
That they to pitty shall conuert thy hate.
And to Elizium be thou welcome then,
Vntill those base Felicians thou shalt heare,
By that vile nation captiued againe,
That many a glorious age their captiues were.
|
Taking Orders. A Tale, Founded On Fact. | Thomas Gent | A parson once--and poorer he
Than ever parson ought to be;
Yet not so proud as some from College,
Who fancy they alone have knowledge;
Who only learn to dress and drink,
And, strange to say, still seem to think
That no real talent's to be found
Except within their classic ground;
Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains
Can't furnish empty skulls with brains.
But for my tale--Our churchman came,
And, in religion's honour'd name,
Sought Cam's delightful classic borders,
To be prefer'd to Holy Orders.
Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn,
Where living's cheap, and often whim
Enlivens many a weary soul,
And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl,
In spite of fogs, and threatening weather,
To drown both grief and gloom together:--
(Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue,
Soft cloud, in summer breaking through
A frowning one, and lighting it
Till darkness fadeth bit by bit;
And Whim to thee is near allied,
And follows closely at thy side;
So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she
By some folks is mista'en for thee;
Yet I may say unto my eyes,
Just whereabouts the difference lies;
One's diamond quite, and, to my taste,
The other is but Dovey's Paste.)--
He there a ready welcome found
From one who travell'd England round:
"Sir, your obedient--quite alone?
I'm truly happy you are come:
Pray, sir, be seated;--business dull;--
Or else this room had now been full;
Orders and cash are strangers here,
And every thing looks dev'lish queer;
Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth;
Must hope for better;--Sir, your health!"
Then added, with inquiring face,
"Come to take Orders in this place?"
"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest:
"With that intent I came at least."
"Ha! ha! I knew it very well;
We business-men can others tell:
Often before I've seen your face,
Though memory can't recal the place--
Ah! now I have it; head of mine!
You travel in the button line?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear
Some error has arisen here;
You have mista'en my trade divine,
But, sir, the worldly loss is mine--
I travel in a much worse line." |
Prologue. Spoken At The Opening Of The New House, March 26, 1674. | John Dryden | A plain-built[1] house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfied away;
When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
A bare convenience only is design'd.
You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire:
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live:
Unable to support their vast expense,
Who build and treat with such magnificence;
That, like the ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendour on the less.
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
The extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainness may be justly proud:
Our royal master will'd it should be so;
Whate'er he's pleased to own, can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass.
'Twere folly now a stately[2] pile to raise,
To build a playhouse, while you throw down plays;
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And for the pencil you the pen disdain:
While troops of famish'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at those upon whose alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To these new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you submit;
You're now grown vassals to them in your wit.
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops advance
The mighty merits of their men of France,
Keep time, cry _Bon_, and humour the cadence.
Well, please yourselves; but sure 'tis understood,
That French machines have ne'er done England good.
I would not prophesy our house's fate:
But while vain shows and scenes you over-rate,
Tis to be fear'd--
That as a fire the former house o'erthrew,
Machines and tempests will destroy the new. |
Memory | William Wordsworth | A pen, to register; a key
That winds through secret wards
Are well assigned to Memory
By allegoric Bards.
As aptly, also, might be given
A Pencil to her hand;
That, softening objects, sometimes even
Outstrips the heart's demand;
That smooths foregone distress, the lines
Of lingering care subdues,
Long-vanished happiness refines,
And clothes in brighter hues;
Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works
Those Spectres to dilate
That startle Conscience, as she lurks
Within her lonely seat.
Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,
In purity were such,
That not an image of the past
Should fear that pencil's touch!
Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;
With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening. |
The Lion Beaten By The Man. | Jean de La Fontaine | [1]
A picture once was shown,
In which one man, alone,
Upon the ground had thrown
A lion fully grown.
Much gloried at the sight the rabble.
A lion thus rebuked their babble: -
'That you have got the victory there,
There is no contradiction.
But, gentles, possibly you are
The dupes of easy fiction:
Had we the art of making pictures,
Perhaps our champion had beat yours!' |
Cabbage Soup | Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev | A peasant woman, a widow, had an only son, a young man of twenty, the best workman in the village, and he died.
The lady who was the owner of the village, hearing of the woman's trouble, went to visit her on the very day of the burial.
She found her at home.
Standing in the middle of her hut, before the table, she was, without haste, with a regular movement of the right arm (the left hung listless at her side), scooping up weak cabbage soup from the bottom of a blackened pot, and swallowing it spoonful by spoonful.
The woman's face was sunken and dark; her eyes were red and swollen ... but she held herself as rigid and upright as in church.
'Heavens!' thought the lady, 'she can eat at such a moment ... what coarse feelings they have really, all of them!'
And at that point the lady recollected that when, a few years before, she had lost her little daughter, nine months old, she had refused, in her grief, a lovely country villa near Petersburg, and had spent the whole summer in town! Meanwhile the woman went on swallowing cabbage soup.
The lady could not contain herself, at last. 'Tatiana!' she said ...
'Really! I'm surprised! Is it possible you didn't care for your son? How is it you've not lost your appetite? How can you eat that soup!'
'My Vasia's dead,' said the woman quietly, and tears of anguish ran once more down her hollow cheeks. 'It's the end of me too, of course; it's tearing the heart out of me alive. But the soup's not to be wasted; there's salt in it.'
The lady only shrugged her shoulders and went away. Salt did not cost her much.
May 1878.
|
How A Cat Was Annoyed And A Poet Was Booted | Guy Wetmore Carryl | A poet had a cat.
There is nothing odd in that--
(I might make a little pun about the Mews!)
But what is really more
Remarkable, she wore
A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.
And I doubt me greatly whether
E'er you heard the like of that:
Pointed shoes of patent-leather
On a cat!
His time he used to pass
Writing sonnets, on the grass--
(I might say something good on pen and sward!)
While the cat sat near at hand,
Trying hard to understand
The poems he occasionally roared.
(I myself possess a feline,
But when poetry I roar
He is sure to make a bee-line
For the door.)
The poet, cent by cent,
All his patrimony spent--
(I might tell how he went from werse to werse!)
Till the cat was sure she could,
By advising, do him good
So addressed him in a manner that was terse:
"We are bound toward the scuppers,
And the time has come to act,
Or we'll both be on our uppers
For a fact!"
On her boot she fixed her eye,
But the boot made no reply--
(I might say: "Couldn't speak to save its sole!")
And the foolish bard, instead
Of responding, only read
A verse that wasn't bad upon the whole:
And it pleased the cat so greatly,
Though she knew not what it meant,
That I'll quote approximately
How it went:--
"If I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree"--
(I might put in: "I think I'd just as leaf!")
"Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough"--
Well, he'd plagiarized it bodily, in brief!
But that cat of simple breeding
Couldn't read the lines between,
So she took it to a leading
Magazine.
She was jarred and very sore
When they showed her to the door.
(I might hit off the door that was a jar!)
To the spot she swift returned
Where the poet sighed and yearned,
And she told him that he'd gone a little far.
"Your performance with this rhyme has
Made me absolutely sick,"
She remarked. "I think the time has
Come to kick!"
I could fill up half the page
With descriptions of her rage--
(I might say that she went a bit too fur!)
When he smiled and murmured: "Shoo!"
"There is one thing I can do!"
She answered with a wrathful kind of purr.
"You may shoo me, and it suit you,
But I feel my conscience bid
Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!"
(Which she did.)
The Moral of the plot
(Though I say it, as should not!)
Is: An editor is difficult to suit.
But again there're other times
When the man who fashions rhymes
Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot! |
The Confiding Peasant And The Maladroit Bear | Guy Wetmore Carryl | A peasant had a docile bear,
A bear of manners pleasant,
And all the love she had to spare
She lavished on the peasant:
She proved her deep affection plainly
(The method was a bit ungainly).
The peasant had to dig and delve,
And, as his class are apt to,
When all the whistles blew at twelve
He ate his lunch, and napped, too,
The bear a careful outlook keeping
The while her master lay a-sleeping.
As thus the peasant slept one day,
The weather being torrid,
A gnat beheld him where he lay
And lit upon his forehead,
And thence, like all such winged creatures,
Proceeded over all his features.
The watchful bear, perceiving that
The gnat lit on her master,
Resolved to light upon the gnat
And plunge him in disaster;
She saw no sense in being lenient
When stones lay round her, most convenient.
And so a weighty rock she aimed
With much enthusiasm:
"Oh, lor'!" the startled gnat exclaimed,
And promptly had a spasm:
A natural proceeding this was,
Considering how close the miss was.
Now by his dumb companion's pluck,
Which caused the gnat to squall so,
The sleeping man was greatly struck
(And by the bowlder, also).
In fact, his friends who idolized him
Remarked they hardly recognized him.
Of course the bear was greatly grieved,
But, being just a dumb thing,
She only thought: "I was deceived,
But still, I did hit something!"
Which showed this masculine achievement
Had somewhat soothed her deep bereavement.
THE MORAL: If you prize your bones
Beware of females throwing stones. |
Things Should Be Judged By Merit. | James McIntyre | A picture hung in a public hall,
And it was much admired by all,
Painted by a true artist's hand,
The subject it was truly grand.
Its fame o'er the whole world resounds,
Valued at ten thousand pounds,
Beauteous lady none 'ere passed her,
She was the work of an old master.
At last a critic keen did gaze
And saw 'twas work of modern days,
Then quick it was pronounced a daub,
And artist but a money grab.
The true, the noble and the grand,
Will lend to struggling helping hand,
Then let no man of dues be shorn,
If he a subject doth adorn. |
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part I. - XXX - Canute | William Wordsworth | A pleasant music floats along the Mere,
From Monks in Ely chanting service high,
While-as Canute the King is rowing by:
"My Oarsmen," quoth the mighty King, "draw near,
"That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear!"
He listens (all past conquests, and all schemes
Of future, vanishing like empty dreams)
Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear.
The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still,
While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along,
Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme.
O suffering Earth! be thankful: sternest clime
And rudest age are subject to the thrill
Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. |
Epilogue To Amboyna. | John Dryden | A Poet once the Spartans led to fight,
And made them conquer in the muse's right;
So would our poet lead you on this day,
Showing your tortured fathers in his play.
To one well born the affront is worse, and more,
When he's abused and baffled by a boor:
With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,
They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
For they were bred ere manners were in fashion,
And their new commonwealth has set them free,
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;
Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches swell above their chin:
Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour,
And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.
As Cato did his Afric fruits display,
So we before your eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will, like him, conclude,
Let C'sar live, and Carthage be subdued! |
The Fable of the Peasant and his Landlord. | John Milton | A Peasant to his lord yearly court,
Presenting pippins of so rich a sort
That he, displeased to have a part alone,
Removed the tree, that all might be his own.
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, withered, and would yield no more.
The squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employed,
And "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!
My avarice has expensive proved to me,
Has cost me both my pippins and my tree." |
The Retired Cat. | William Cowper | A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick'
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple-tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering pot:
There, wanting nothing save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan
Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use,
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss, with delight beyond expression,
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held.
Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)
'Was ever cat attended thus?
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed.
How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!
O what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out.'
The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away
(With her indeed 'twas never day),
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening grey again ensued,
And Puss came into mind no more
Than if entomb'd the day before,
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.
That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said''What's that?'
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him and dispell'd his fears:
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:
moral.
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence:
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around, in all that's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
|
My Trust | John Greenleaf Whittier | A picture memory brings to me
I look across the years and see
Myself beside my mother's knee.
I feel her gentle hand restrain
My selfish moods, and know again
A child's blind sense of wrong and pain.
But wiser now, a man gray grown,
My childhood's needs are better known,
My mother's chastening love I own.
Gray grown, but in our Father's sight
A child still groping for the light
To read His works and ways aright.
I wait, in His good time to see
That as my mother dealt with me
So with His children dealeth He.
I bow myself beneath His hand
That pain itself was wisely planned
I feel, and partly understand.
The joy that comes in sorrow's guise,
The sweet pains of self-sacrifice,
I would not have them otherwise.
And what were life and death if sin
Knew not the dread rebuke within,
The pang of merciful discipline?
Not with thy proud despair of old,
Crowned stoic of Rome's noblest mould!
Pleasure and pain alike I hold.
I suffer with no vain pretence
Of triumph over flesh and sense,
Yet trust the grievous providence,
How dark soe'er it seems, may tend,
By ways I cannot comprehend,
To some unguessed benignant end;
That every loss and lapse may gain
The clear-aired heights by steps of pain,
And never cross is borne in vain. |
The Prism | George MacDonald | I.
A pool of broken sunbeams lay
Upon the passage-floor,
Radiant and rich, profound and gay
As ever diamond bore.
Small, flitting hands a handkerchief
Spread like a cunning trap:
Prone lay the gorgeous jewel-sheaf
In the glory-gleaner's lap!
Deftly she folded up the prize,
With lovely avarice;
Like one whom having had made wise,
She bore it off in bliss.
But ah, when for her prisoned gems
She peeped, to prove them there,
No glories broken from their stems
Lay in the kerchief bare!
For still, outside the nursery door,
The bright persistency,
A molten diadem on the floor,
Lay burning wondrously.
II.
How oft have I laid fold from fold
And peered into my mind--
To see of all the purple and gold
Not one gleam left behind!
The best of gifts will not be stored:
The manna of yesterday
Has filled no sacred miser-hoard
To keep new need away.
Thy grace, O Lord, it is thyself;
Thy presence is thy light;
I cannot lay it on my shelf,
Or take it from thy sight.
For daily bread we daily pray--
The want still breeds the cry;
And so we meet, day after day,
Thou, Father in heaven, and I.
Is my house dreary, wall and floor,
Will not the darkness flit,
I go outside my shadowy door
And in thy rainbow sit. |
The Pilgrim's Dream - Or, The Star And The Glow-Worm | William Wordsworth | A Pilgrim, when the summer day
Had closed upon his weary way,
A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
But him the haughty Warder spurned;
And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
To seek such covert as the field
Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
Or lofty wood, shower-proof.
He paced along; and, pensively,
Halting beneath a shady tree,
Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,
Fixed on a Star his upward eye;
Then, from the tenant of the sky
He turned, and watched with kindred look,
A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,
Apparent at his feet.
The murmur of a neighbouring stream
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
He recognised the earth-born Star,
And 'That' which glittered from afar;
And (strange to witness!) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb, there came
Intelligible sounds.
Much did it taunt the humble Light
That now, when day was fled, and night
Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,
A very reptile could presume
To show her taper in the gloom,
As if in rivalship with One
Who sate a ruler on his throne
Erected in the skies.
"Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,
"Abate this unbecoming pride,
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays
Are mastered by the breathing haze;
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,
Hath power to injure mine.
But not for this do I aspire
To match the spark of local fire,
That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
With thy acknowledged glories; No!
Yet, thus upbraided, I may show
What favours do attend me here,
Till, like thyself, I disappear
Before the purple dawn."
When this in modest guise was said,
Across the welkin seemed to spread
A boding sound, for aught but sleep unfit!
Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan;
And reeled with visionary stir
In the blue depth, like Lucifer
Cast headlong to the pit!
Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor
Of ancient ether was no more,
New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth:
And all the happy Souls that rode
Transfigured through that fresh abode,
Had heretofore, in humble trust,
Shone meekly 'mid their native dust,
The Glow-worms of the earth!
This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice
Of Him who slept upon the open lea:
Waking at morn he murmured not;
And, till life's journey closed, the spot
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,
Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree. |
Sonnet | Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell | A poet of one mood in all my lays,
Ranging all life to sing one only love,
Like a west wind across the world I move,
Sweeping my harp of floods mine own wild ways.
The countries change, but not the west-wind days
Which are my songs. My soft skies shine above,
And on all seas the colours of a dove,
And on all fields a flash of silver greys.
I make the whole world answer to my art
And sweet monotonous meanings. In your ears
I change not ever, bearing, for my part,
One thought that is the treasure of my years,
A small cloud full of rain upon my heart
And in mine arms, clasped, like a child in tears. |
The Jay In The Feathers Of The Peacock. | Jean de La Fontaine | [1]
A peacock moulted: soon a jay was seen
Bedeck'd with Argus tail of gold and green,[2]
High strutting, with elated crest,
As much a peacock as the rest.
His trick was recognized and bruited,
His person jeer'd at, hiss'd, and hooted.
The peacock gentry flock'd together,
And pluck'd the fool of every feather.
Nay more, when back he sneak'd to join his race,
They shut their portals in his face.
There is another sort of jay,
The number of its legs the same,
Which makes of borrow'd plumes display,
And plagiary is its name.
But hush! the tribe I'll not offend;
'Tis not my work their ways to mend. |
Faery Gold | Richard Le Gallienne | (TO MRS. PERCY DEARMER)
A poet hungered, as well he might -
Not a morsel since yesternight!
And sad he grew - good reason why -
For the poet had nought wherewith to buy.
'Are not two sparrows sold,' he cried,
'Sold for a farthing? and,' he sighed,
As he pushed his morning post away,
'Are not two sonnets more than they?'
Yet store of gold, great store had he, -
Of the gold that is known as 'faery.'
He had the gold of his burning dreams,
He had his golden rhymes - in reams,
He had the strings of his golden lyre,
And his own was that golden west on fire.
But the poet knew his world too well
To dream that such would buy or sell.
He had his poets, 'pure gold,' he said,
But the man at the bookstall shook his head,
And offered a grudging half-a-crown
For the five the poet had brought him down.
Ah, what a world we are in! we sigh,
Where a lunch costs more than a Keats can buy,
And even Shakespeare's hallowed line
Falls short of the requisite sum to dine.
Yet other gold had the poet got,
For see from that grey-blue Gouda pot
Three golden tulips spouting flame -
From his love, from his love, this morn, they came.
His love he loved even more than fame.
Three golden tulips thrice more fair
Than other golden tulips were -
'And yet,' he smiled as he took one up,
And feasted on its yellow cup, -
'I wonder how many eggs you'd buy!
By Bacchus, I've half a mind to try!
'One golden bloom for one golden yolk -
Nay, on my word, sir, I mean no joke -
Gold for gold is fair dealing, sir.'
Think of the grocer gaping there!
Or the baker, if I went and said,
- 'This tulip for a loaf of bread,
God's beauty for your kneaded grain;'
Or the vintner - 'For this flower of mine
A flagon, pray, of yellow wine,
And you shall keep the change for gain.'
Ah me, on what a different earth
I and these fellows had our birth,
Strange that these golden things should be
For them so poor, so rich for me.'
Ended his sigh, the poet searched his shelf -
Seeking another poet to feed himself;
Then sadly went, and, full of shame and grief,
Sold his last Swinburne for a plate of beef.
Thus poets too, to fill the hungry maw,
Must eat each other - 'tis the eternal law. |
The Waterfall | Ralph Waldo Emerson | A patch of meadow upland
Reached by a mile of road,
Soothed by the voice of waters,
With birds and flowers bestowed.
Hither I come for strength
Which well it can supply,
For Love draws might from terrene force
And potencies of sky.
The tremulous battery Earth
Responds to the touch of man;
It thrills to the antipodes,
From Boston to Japan.
The planets' child the planet knows
And to his joy replies;
To the lark's trill unfolds the rose,
Clouds flush their gayest dyes.
When Ali prayed and loved
Where Syrian waters roll,
Upward the ninth heaven thrilled and moved;
At the tread of the jubilant soul. |
The Rag-Picker | Madison Julius Cawein | A pond of filth a sewer flows into,
Around whose edge the evil ragweeds crowd,
Poison in every breath; and, cloud on cloud,
Insects that sing and sting, the pool's fierce spew:
All hideousness, from every street and stew,
And every stench weaves for the place a shroud;
And in its midst a figure, bent and bowed,
A woman who no girlhood ever knew.
Some offal of humanity she seems;
One with the rags she picks and scrapes among;
More soiled, in soul: the veriest rag
Of womankind, whose squalor looks and dreams
Of nothing higher than the cart that flung
Its last load here from which she crams her bag. |
The Fable of the Peasant and his Landlord.[1] | William Cowper | A Peasant to his lord yearly court,
Presenting pippins of so rich a sort
That he, displeased to have a part alone,
Removed the tree, that all might be his own.
The tree, too old to travel, though before
So fruitful, withered, and would yield no more.
The squire, perceiving all his labour void,
Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employed,
And "Oh," he cried, "that I had lived content
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!
My avarice has expensive proved to me,
Has cost me both my pippins and my tree." |
The Pencil Seller | Robert William Service | A pencil, sir; a penny - won't you buy?
I'm cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don't turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven't made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too;
I'm not a beggar, I'm a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue;
It's hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread,
A cup o' coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little - to be warm and fed,
A hole to kennel in - oh, one's all right . . .
Excuse me, you're a painter, are you not?
I saw you looking at that dealer's show,
The cro'tes he has for sale, a shabby lot -
What do I know of Art? What do I know . . .
Well, look! That David Strong so well displayed,
"White Sorcery" it's called, all gossamer,
And pale moon-magic and a dancing maid
(You like the little elfin face of her?) -
That's good; but still, the picture as a whole,
The values, - Pah! He never painted worse;
Perhaps because his fire was lacking coal,
His cupboard bare, no money in his purse.
Perhaps . . . they say he labored hard and long,
And see now, in the harvest of his fame,
When round his pictures people gape and throng,
A scurvy dealer sells this on his name.
A wretched rag, wrung out of want and woe;
A soulless daub, not David Strong a bit,
Unworthy of his art. . . . How should I know?
How should I know? I'm Strong - I painted it.
There now, I didn't mean to let that out.
It came in spite of me - aye, stare and stare.
You think I'm lying, crazy, drunk, no doubt -
Think what you like, it's neither here nor there.
It's hard to tell so terrible a truth,
To gain to glory, yet be such as I.
It's true; that picture's mine, done in my youth,
Up in a garret near the Paris sky.
The child's my daughter; aye, she posed for me.
That's why I come and sit here every night.
The painting's bad, but still - oh, still I see
Her little face all laughing in the light.
So now you understand. - I live in fear
Lest one like you should carry it away;
A poor, pot-boiling thing, but oh, how dear!
"Don't let them buy it, pitying God!" I pray!
And hark ye, sir - sometimes my brain's awhirl.
Some night I'll crash into that window pane
And snatch my picture back, my little girl,
And run and run. . . .
I'm talking wild again;
A crab can't run. I'm crippled, withered, lame,
Palsied, as good as dead all down one side.
No warning had I when the evil came:
It struck me down in all my strength and pride.
Triumph was mine, I thrilled with perfect power;
Honor was mine, Fame's laurel touched my brow;
Glory was mine - within a little hour
I was a god and . . . what you find me now.
My child, that little, laughing girl you see,
She was my nurse for all ten weary years;
Her joy, her hope, her youth she gave for me;
Her very smiles were masks to hide her tears.
And I, my precious art, so rich, so rare,
Lost, lost to me - what could my heart but break!
Oh, as I lay and wrestled with despair,
I would have killed myself but for her sake. . . .
By luck I had some pictures I could sell,
And so we fought the wolf back from the door;
She painted too, aye, wonderfully well.
We often dreamed of brighter days in store.
And then quite suddenly she seemed to fail;
I saw the shadows darken round her eyes.
So tired she was, so sorrowful, so pale,
And oh, there came a day she could not rise.
The doctor looked at her; he shook his head,
And spoke of wine and grapes and Southern air:
"If you can get her out of this," he said,
"She'll have a fighting chance with proper care."
"With proper care!" When he had gone away,
I sat there, trembling, twitching, dazed with grief.
Under my old and ragged coat she lay,
Our room was bare and cold beyond belief.
"Maybe," I thought, "I still can paint a bit,
Some lilies, landscape, anything at all."
Alas! My brush, I could not steady it.
Down from my fumbling hand I let it fall.
"With proper care" - how could I give her that,
Half of me dead? . . . I crawled down to the street.
Cowering beside the wall, I held my hat
And begged of every one I chanced to meet.
I got some pennies, bought her milk and bread,
And so I fought to keep the Doom away;
And yet I saw with agony of dread
My dear one sinking, sinking day by day.
And then I was awakened in the night:
"Please take my hands, I'm cold," I heard her sigh;
And soft she whispered, as she held me tight:
"Oh daddy, we've been happy, you and I!"
I do not think she suffered any pain,
She breathed so quietly . . . but though I tried,
I could not warm her little hands again:
And so there in the icy dark she died. . . .
The dawn came groping in with fingers gray
And touched me, sitting silent as a stone;
I kissed those piteous lips, as cold as clay -
I did not cry, I did not even moan.
At last I rose, groped down the narrow stair;
An evil fog was oozing from the sky;
Half-crazed I stumbled on, I knew not where,
Like phantoms were the folks that passed me by.
How long I wandered thus I do not know,
But suddenly I halted, stood stock-still -
Beside a door that spilled a golden glow
I saw a name, my name, upon a bill.
"A Sale of Famous Pictures," so it read,
"A Notable Collection, each a gem,
Distinguished Works of Art by painters dead."
The folks were going in, I followed them.
I stood upon the outskirts of the crowd,
I only hoped that none might notice me.
Soon, soon I heard them call my name aloud:
"A 'David Strong', his Fete in Brittany."
(A brave big picture that, the best I've done,
It glowed and kindled half the hall away,
With all its memories of sea and sun,
Of pipe and bowl, of joyous work and play.
I saw the sardine nets blue as the sky,
I saw the nut-brown fisher-boats put out.)
"Five hundred pounds!" rapped out a voice near by;
"Six hundred!" "Seven!" "Eight!" And then a shout:
"A thousand pounds!" Oh, how I thrilled to hear!
Oh, how the bids went up by leaps, by bounds!
And then a silence; then the auctioneer:
"It's going! Going! Gone! Three thousand pounds!"
Three thousand pounds! A frenzy leapt in me.
"That picture's mine," I cried; "I'm David Strong.
I painted it, this famished wretch you see;
I did it, I, and sold it for a song.
And in a garret three small hours ago
My daughter died for want of Christian care.
Look, look at me! . . . Is it to mock my woe
You pay three thousand for my picture there?" . . .
O God! I stumbled blindly from the hall;
The city crashed on me, the fiendish sounds
Of cruelty and strife, but over all
"Three thousand pounds!" I heard; "Three thousand pounds!"
There, that's my story, sir; it isn't gay.
Tales of the Poor are never very bright . . .
You'll look for me next time you pass this way . . .
I hope you'll find me, sir; good-night, good-night.
|
Fighting Mac" A Life Tragedy | Robert William Service | A pistol-shot rings round and round the world:
In pitiful defeat a warrior lies.
A last defiance to dark Death is hurled,
A last wild challenge shocks the sunlit skies.
Alone he falls with wide, wan, woeful eyes:
Eyes that could smile at death - could not face shame.
Alone, alone he paced his narrow room,
In the bright sunshine of that Paris day;
Saw in his thought the awful hand of doom;
Saw in his dream his glory pass away;
Tried in his heart, his weary heart, to pray:
"O God! who made me, give me strength to face
The spectre of this bitter, black disgrace."
* * * * *
The burn brawls darkly down the shaggy glen,
The bee-kissed heather blooms around the door;
He sees himself a barefoot boy again,
Bending o'er page of legendary lore.
He hears the pibroch, grips the red claymore,
Runs with the Fiery Cross a clansman true,
Sworn kinsman of Rob Roy and Roderick Dhu.
Eating his heart out with a wild desire,
One day, behind his counter trim and neat,
He hears a sound that sets his brain afire -
The Highlanders are marching down the street.
Oh, how the pipes shrill out, the mad drums beat!
"On to the gates of Hell, my Gordons gay!"
He flings his hated yardstick far away.
He sees the sullen pass, high-crowned with snow,
Where Afghans cower with eyes of gleaming hate.
He hurls himself against the hidden foe.
They try to rally - ah, too late, too late!
Again, defenceless, with fierce eyes that wait
For death, he stands, like baited bull at bay,
And flouts the Boers, that mad Majuba day.
He sees again the murderous Soudan,
Blood-slaked and rapine swept. He seems to stand
Upon the gory plain of Omdurman.
Then Magersfontein, and supreme command
Over his Highlanders. To shake his hand
A King is proud, and princes call him friend,
And glory crowns his life - and now the end.
The awful end. His eyes are dark with doom;
He hears the shrapnel shrieking overhead:
He sees the ravaged ranks, the flame-stabbed gloom.
Oh, to have fallen! the battle-field his bed,
With Wauchope and his glorious brother-dead.
Why was he saved for this, for this? And now
He raises the revolver to his brow.
* * * * *
In many a Highland home, framed with rude art,
You'll find his portrait, rough-hewn, stern and square:
It's graven in the Fuyam fellah's heart;
The Ghurka reads it at his evening prayer;
The raw lands know it, where the fierce suns glare;
The Dervish fears it. Honour to his name,
Who holds aloft the shield of England's fame.
Mourn for our hero, men of Northern race!
We do not know his sin; we only know
His sword was keen. He laughed death in the face,
And struck, for Empire's sake, a giant blow.
His arm was strong. Ah! well they learnt, the foe.
The echo of his deeds is ringing yet,
Will ring for aye. All else ... let us forget. |
A Plan The Muses Entertained. | Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | A plan the Muses entertain'd
Methodically to impart
To Psyche the poetic art;
Prosaic-pure her soul remain'd.
No wondrous sounds escaped her lyre
E'en in the fairest Summer night;
But Amor came with glance of fire,
The lesson soon was learn'd aright. |
Epitaph On Benjamin Tremlyn, An Old Soldier, Buried In Bremhill Churchyard At The Age Of 92. | William Lisle Bowles | A poor old soldier shall not lie unknown,
Without a verse, and this recording stone.
'Twas his in youth o'er distant lands to stray,
Danger and death companions of his way.
Here in his native village, drooping, age
Closed the lone evening of his pilgrimage.
Speak of the past, of names of high renown,
Or his brave comrades long to dust gone down,
His eye with instant animation glowed,
Though ninety winters on his head had snowed.
His country, whilst he lived, a boon supplied,
And faith her shield held o'er him when he died;
Hope, Christian, that his spirit lives with God,
And pluck the wild weeds from his lowly sod,
Where, dust to dust, beside the chancel's shade,
Till the last trumpet sounds, a brave man's bones are laid. |
Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 - I - 'A Poet'! He Hath Put His Heart To School | William Wordsworth | 'A poet'! He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which Art hath lodged within his hand must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveler sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its 'own' divine vitality. |
Sonnet | Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell | A poet of one mood in all my lays,
Ranging all life to sing one only love,
Like a west wind across the world I move,
Sweeping my harp of floods mine own wild ways.
The countries change, but not the west-wind days
Which are my songs. My soft skies shine above,
And on all seas the colours of a dove,
And on all fields a flash of silver greys.
I make the whole world answer to my art
And sweet monotonous meanings. In your ears
I change not ever, bearing, for my part,
One thought that is the treasure of my years,
A small cloud full of rain upon my heart
And in mine arms, clasped, like a child in tears. |
The Sun-Shower. | George Parsons Lathrop | A penciled shade the sky doth sweep,
And transient glooms creep in to sleep
Amid the orchard;
Fantastic breezes pull the trees
Hither and yon, to vagaries
Of aspect tortured.
Then, like the downcast dreamy fringe
Of eyelids, when dim gates unhinge
That locked their tears,
Falls on the hills a mist of rain, -
So faint, it seems to fade again;
Yet swiftly nears.
Now sparkles the air, all steely-bright,
With drops swept down in arrow-flight,
Keen, quivering lines.
Ceased in a breath the showery sound;
And teasingly, now, as I look around,
Sweet sunlight shines! |
Primavera | Paul Cameron Brown | A poem is perishable and,
like it,
so much of life is spent
in intervals -
the jarring second
regaining consciousness,
a post-mortem flick
of the lank equestrian eyelid
that signals morning's first crepuscular move.
... a little salad consciousness
about the tumescent room
with the sentient purr of a cat;
her musky oils
a green verdure
lapping primordial scent
to engross a little readiness
as the day progresses
to its Oedipal stage
and arrested development.
|
Pleasures of Fancy | John Clare | A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,
And through this little gate that claps and bangs
Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?
Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs
Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
That's slept half an eternity; in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away;
And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,
Here sat and mused half some long summer day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay. |
In Sight Of The Town Of Cockermouth | William Wordsworth | A point of life between my Parent's dust,
And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:
And You, my Offspring! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place. |
The Victim | Alfred Lord Tennyson | I.
A plague upon the people fell,
A famine after laid them low;
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire,
For on them brake the sudden foe;
So thick they died the people cried,
'The Gods are moved against the land.'
The Priest in horror about his altar
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand:
'Help us from famine
And plague and strife!
What would you have of us?
Human life?
Were it our nearest,
Were it our dearest,'
Answer, O answer!'
We give you his life.'
II.
But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd,
And cattle died, and deer in wood,
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd
And whiten'd all the rolling flood;
And dead men lay all over the way,
Or down in a furrow scathed with flame;
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan'd,
Till at last it seem'd that an answer came:
'The King is happy
In child and wife;
Take you his dearest,
Give us a life.'
III.
The Priest went out by heath and hill;
The King was hunting in the wild;
They found the mother sitting still;
She cast her arms about the child.
The child was only eight summers old,
His beauty still with his years increased,
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold;
He seem'd a victim due to the priest.
The Priest beheld him,
And cried with joy,
'The Gods have answer'd;
We give them the boy.'
IV.
The King return'd from out the wild,
He bore but little game in hand;
The mother said, 'They have taken the child
To spill his blood and heal the land.
The land is sick, the people diseased,
And blight and famine on all the lea;
The holy Gods, they must be appeased,
So I pray you tell the truth to me.
They have taken our son,
They will have his life.
Is he your dearest?
Or I, the wife?'
V.
The King bent low, with hand on brow,
He stay'd his arms upon his knee:
'O wife, what use to answer now?
For now the Priest has judged for me.'
The King was shaken with holy fear;
'The Gods,' he said, 'would have chosen well;
Yet both are near, and both are dear,
And which the dearest I cannot tell!'
But the Priest was happy,
His victim won:
'We have his dearest,
His only son!'
VI.
The rites prepared, the victim bared,
The knife uprising toward the blow,
To the altar-stone she sprang alone:
'Me, not my darling, no!'
He caught her away with a sudden cry;
Suddenly from him brake his wife,
And shrieking, 'I am his dearest, I'
I am his dearest!' rush'd on the knife.
And the Priest was happy:
'O Father Odin,
We give you a life.
Which was his nearest?
Who was his dearest?
The Gods have answer'd;
We give them the wife!'
|
Lines On Methodist Union, September, 1883. | James McIntyre | A pleasing sight to-day we see,
Four churches joined in harmony,
There difference was but trivial,
But strove each other to outrival.
In friendship now they do unite,
And Satan only they do fight,
And they'll plant churches in North West,
Where they can serve the Lord the best. |
Lord Tennyson. | Ramakrishna, T. | A poet of my native land has said -
The life the good and virtuous lead on earth
Is like the black-eyed maiden of the East,
Who paints the lids to look more bright and fair.
The eyes may smart and water, but withal
She loves to please them that behold her face.
E'en so, my Master, thine own life has been.
Thy songs have pleased the world, thy thoughts divine
Have purified, likewise ennobled man.
And what are they, those songs and thoughts divine,
But sad experience of thy life, dipt deep
In thine own tears, and traced on nature's page?
To please and teach the world for two dear ones
You mourned - a friend in youth, a son in age
'Tis said the life that gives one moment's joy
To one lone mortal is not lived in vain;
But lives like thine God grants as shining lights
That we in darkness Him aright may see.
Nay more, such lives the more by ills beset
Do shine the more and better teach His ways.
Alas! thou'rt gone that wert so kind to one
Obscure - a stranger in a distant land.
Accept from him this wreath uncouth of words
Which do but half express the grief he feels. |
Help In Need. | James McIntyre | A poor man's horse it ran away,
Soon man upon the roadside lay,
With his leg all badly broken,
Of sympathy some gave token.
One said your trouble grieves my heart,
But with his money would not part,
Another said, while heaving sighs,
It brings the tears into mine eyes.
But a good true hearted man,
His heart with kindness it o'er ran,
The poorest man among the three,
A pound he did contribute free.
Others gave in empty feeling,
But this poor man he did bring healing,
The giver only Lord doth prize,
Who helps afflicted for to rise.
|
Tom Johnson's Quit. | James Whitcomb Riley | A passel o' the boys last night -
An' me amongst 'em - kindo got
To talkin' Temper'nce left an' right,
An' workin' up "blue-ribbon," hot;
An' while we was a-countin' jes'
How many bed gone into hit
An' signed the pledge, some feller says, -
"Tom Johnson's quit!"
We laughed, of course - 'cause Tom, you know,
He's spiled more whisky, boy an' man,
And seed more trouble, high an' low,
Than any chap but Tom could stand:
And so, says I "He's too nigh dead.
Far Temper'nce to benefit!"
The feller sighed agin, and said -
"Tom Johnson's quit!"
We all liked Tom, an' that was why
We sorto simmered down agin,
And ast the feller ser'ously
Ef he wa'n't tryin' to draw us in:
He shuck his head - tuck off his hat -
Helt up his hand an' opened hit,
An' says, says he, "I'll swear to that -
Tom Johnson's quit!"
Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled too, -
Because we knowed ef Tom had signed
Ther wa'n't no man 'at wore the "blue"
'At was more honester inclined:
An' then and there we kindo riz, -
The hull dern gang of us 'at bit -
An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whizz, -
"Tom Johnson's quit!"
I've heerd 'em holler when the balls
Was buzzin' 'round us wus 'n bees,
An' when the ole flag on the walls
Was flappin' o'er the enemy's,
I've heerd a-many a wild "hooray"
'At made my heart git up an' git -
But Lord! - to hear 'em shout that way! -
"Tom Johnson's quit!"
But when we saw the chap 'at fetched
The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer,
But stood there solemn-like, an' reched
An' kindo wiped away a tear,
We someway sorto' stilled agin,
And listened - I kin hear him yit,
His voice a-wobblin' with his chin, -
"Tom Johnson's quit -
"I hain't a-givin' you no game -
I wisht I was!... An hour ago,
This operator - what's his name -
The one 'at works at night, you know? -
Went out to flag that Ten Express,
And sees a man in front of hit
Th'ow up his hands an' stagger - yes, -
Tom Johnson's quit." |
The Song Of A Comet | Clark Ashton Smith | A plummet of the changing universe,
Far-cast, I flare
Through gulfs the sun's uncharted orbits bind,
And spaces bare
That intermediate darks immerse
By road of sun nor world confined.
Upon my star-undominated gyre
I mark the systems vanish one by one;
Among the swarming worlds I lunge,
And sudden plunge
Close to the zones of solar fire;
Or 'mid the mighty wrack of stars undone,
Flash, and with momentary rays
Compel the dark to yield
Their aimless forms, whose once far-potent blaze
In ashes chill is now inurned.
A space revealed,
I see their planets turned,
Where holders of the heritage of breath
Exultant rose, and sank to barren death
Beneath the stars' unheeding eyes.
Adown contiguous skies
I pass the thickening brume
Of systems yet unshaped, that hang immense
Along mysterious shores of gloom;
Or see - unimplicated in their doom -
The final and disastrous gyre
Of blinded suns that meet,
And from their mingled heat,
And battle-clouds intense,
O'erspread the deep with fire.
Through stellar labyrinths I thrid
Mine orbit placed amid
The multiple and irised stars, or hid,
Unsolved and intricate,
In many a planet-swinging sun's estate.
Ofttimes I steal in solitary flight
Along the rim of the exterior night
That grips the universe;
And then return,
Past outer footholds of sidereal light,
To where the systems gather and disperse;
And dip again into the web of things,
To watch it shift and burn,
Hearted with stars. On peaceless wings
I pierce, where deep-outstripping all surmise,
The nether heavens drop unsunned,
By stars and planets shunned.
And then I rise
Through vaulting gloom, to watch the dark
Snatch at the flame of failing suns;
Or mark
The heavy-dusked and silent skies,
Strewn thick with wrecked and broken stars,
Where many a fated orbit runs.
An arrow sped from some eternal bow,
Through change of firmaments and systems sent,
And finding bourn nor bars,
I flee, nor know
For what eternal mark my flight is meant. |
Nursery Rhyme. DXIX. Natural History. | Unknown | A pie sate on a pear-tree,
A pie sate on a pear-tree,
A pie sate on a pear-tree,
Heigh O, heigh O, heigh O!
Once so merrily hopp'd she,
Twice so merrily hopp'd she,
Thrice so merrily hopp'd she,
Heigh O, heigh O, heigh O! |
Official Piety | John Greenleaf Whittier | A pious magistrate! sound his praise throughout
The wondering churches. Who shall henceforth doubt
That the long-wished millennium draweth nigh?
Sin in high places has become devout,
Tithes mint, goes painful-faced, and prays its lie
Straight up to Heaven, and calls it piety!
The pirate, watching from his bloody deck
The weltering galleon, heavy with the gold
Of Acapulco, holding death in check
While prayers are said, brows crossed, and beads are told;
The robber, kneeling where the wayside cross
On dark Abruzzo tells of life's dread loss
From his own carbine, glancing still abroad
For some new victim, offering thanks to God!
Rome, listening at her altars to the cry
Of midnight Murder, while her hounds of hell
Scour France, from baptized cannon and holy bell
And thousand-throated priesthood, loud and high,
Pealing Te Deums to the shuddering sky,
"Thanks to the Lord, who giveth victory!"
What prove these, but that crime was ne'er so black
As ghostly cheer and pious thanks to lack?
Satan is modest. At Heaven's door he lays
His evil offspring, and, in Scriptural phrase
And saintly posture, gives to God the praise
And honor of the monstrous progeny.
What marvel, then, in our own time to see
His old devices, smoothly acted o'er,
Official piety, locking fast the door
Of Hope against three million souls of men,
Brothers, God's children, Christ's redeemed, and then,
With uprolled eyeballs and on bended knee,
Whining a prayer for help to hide the key |
Bird Sent By Providence. | James McIntyre | A poor man stood beside his door,
His sad fate for to deplore,
For landlord's heart would not relent,
And seized his furniture for rent.
He hears song sweet as from fairy,
And soon he sees a canary,
Into his cage it did alight
And poured forth notes sweet and bright.
But owner of the bird did mourn,
And sadly longed for its return,
Without it she found no delight,
So she did landlord's bill requite.
The poor man thinks the bird was sent
By the Lord to pay up his rent,
And he now stout maintains from thence
That there is a kind Providence. |
Written In Germany, On One Of The Coldest Days Of The Century | William Wordsworth | A plague on your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
See that Fly, a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;
And, sorrow for him! the dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ!
He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, then in search of the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed:
The best of his skill he has tried;
His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth
To the east and the west, to the south and the north;
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh!
His eyesight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.
No brother, no mate has he near him while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;
As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom,
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds,
And back to the forests again! |
In Memoriam. - Rev. Dr. F. W. Hatch, | Lydia Howard Sigourney | Died at Sacramento, California, January 16th, 1860, aged 70.
A pleasant theme it is to think of him
That parted friend, whose noble heart and mind
Were ever active to the highest ends.
Even sceptics paid him homage 'mid their doubts,
Perceiving that his life made evident
A goodness not of earth.
His radiant brow
And the warm utterance of his lustrous eye
Told how the good of others triumph'd o'er
All narrowness of self. He deem'd it not
A worthy aim of Christ's true ministry
To chaffer for the gold that perisheth
Or waste its God-given powers on lifeless forms;
But love of souls, and love of Him who died
That they might live, gave impulse to his zeal.
--And so, while half a century chronicled
The change of empires, and the fall of kings
And death of generations like the leaves
That strew the forest 'neath autumnal skies,
He toil'd unswerving in that One Great Cause
To which the vigor of his youth was given.
--And as his life, its varied tasks well done
Shrouded its head and trustful went to Him
Who giveth rest and peace and rich reward
Unto his faithful servants, it behooves
Us to rejoice who have so long beheld
His pure example.
From it may we learn
Oh sainted Friend, wherever duty calls
With fervent hearts to seek for others' good,
And wear thy spirit-smile, and win even here
Some foretaste of the bliss that ne'er shall end. |
The Mice and the Owl. | Jean de La Fontaine | A pine was by a woodman fell'd,
Which ancient, huge, and hollow tree
An owl had for his palace held -
A bird the Fates had kept in fee,
Interpreter to such as we.
Within the caverns of the pine,
With other tenants of that mine,
Were found full many footless mice,
But well provision'd, fat, and nice.
The bird had bit off all their feet,
And fed them there with heaps of wheat.
That this owl reason'd, who can doubt?
When to the chase he first went out,
And home alive the vermin brought,
Which in his talons he had caught,
The nimble creatures ran away.
Next time, resolved to make them stay,
He cropp'd their legs, and found, with pleasure,
That he could eat them at his leisure;
It were impossible to eat
Them all at once, did health permit.
His foresight, equal to our own,
In furnishing their food was shown.
Now, let Cartesians, if they can,
Pronounce this owl a mere machine.
Could springs originate the plan
Of maiming mice when taken lean,
To fatten for his soup-tureen?
If reason did no service there,
I do not know it anywhere.
Observe the course of argument:
These vermin are no sooner caught than gone:
They must be used as soon, 'tis evident;
But this to all cannot be done.
Hence, while their ribs I lard,
I must from their elopement guard.
But how? - A plan complete! -
I'll clip them of their feet!
Now, find me, in your human schools,
A better use of logic's tools! |
Lear. | Thomas Hood | A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown,
Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind -
For pity, my own tears have made me blind
That I might never see my children's frown;
And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown
A folded fillet over my dark mind,
So that unkindly speech may sound for kind -
Albeit I know not. - I am childish grown -
And have not gold to purchase wit withal -
I that have once maintain'd most royal state -
A very bankrupt now that may not call
My child, my child - all beggar'd save in tears,
Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate,
Foolish - and blind - and overcome with years! |
Pin And Needle. | John Gay | A pin which long had done its duty,
Attendant on a reigning beauty, -
Had held her muffler, fixed her hair,
And made its mistress _debonnaire_, -
Now near her heart in honour placed,
Now banished to the rear disgraced;
From whence, as partners of her shame,
She saw the lovers served the same.
From whence, thro' various turns of life,
She saw its comforts and its strife:
With tailors warm, with beggars cold,
Or clutched within a miser's hold.
His maxim racked her wearied ear:
"A pin a day's a groat a year."
Restored to freedom by the proctor,
She paid some visits with a doctor;
She pinned a bandage that was crossed,
And thence, at Gresham Hall, was lost.
Charmed with its wonders, she admires,
And now of this, now that inquires -
'Twas plain, in noticing her mind,
She was of virtuoso kind.
"What's this thing in this box, dear sir?"
"A needle," said the interpreter.
"A needle shut up in a box?
Good gracious me, why sure it locks!
And why is it beside that flint?
I could give her now a good hint:
If she were handed to a sempstress,
She would hem more and she would clem less."
"Pin!" said the needle, "cease to blunder:
Stupid alike your hints and wonder.
This is a loadstone, and its virtue -
Though insufficient to convert you -
Makes me a magnet; and afar
True am I to my polar star.
The pilot leaves the doubtful skies,
And trusts to me with watchful eyes;
By me the distant world is known,
And both the Indies made our own.
I am the friend and guide of sailors,
And you of sempstresses and tailors."
|
Epitaph II. On Sir William Trumbull.[1] | Alexander Pope | A pleasing form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd:
Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd,
Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest:
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince, and to his country true:
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth;
A generous faith, from superstition free:
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny;
Such this man was; who now, from earth removed,
At length enjoys that liberty he loved. |
The Alien | Aldous Leonard Huxley | A petal drifted loose
From a great magnolia bloom,
Your face hung in the gloom,
Floating, white and close.
We seemed alone: but another
Bent o'er you with lips of flame,
Unknown, without a name,
Hated, and yet my brother.
Your one short moan of pain
Was an exorcising spell:
The devil flew back to hell;
We were alone again. |
The Blind Doe | Walter Crane | A poor half-blind Doe her one eye
Kept shoreward, all danger to spy,
As she fed by the sea,
Poor innocent! she
Was shot from a boat passing by.
Watch On All Sides |
A Poet! He Hath Put His Heart To School | William Wordsworth | A poet! He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand'must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality. |
In The Days Of Crinoline | Thomas Hardy | A plain tilt-bonnet on her head
She took the path across the leaze.
- Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,
"Too dowdy that, for coquetries,
So I can hoe at ease.
But when she had passed into the heath,
And gained the wood beyond the flat,
She raised her skirts, and from beneath
Unpinned and drew as from a sheath
An ostrich-feathered hat.
And where the hat had hung she now
Concealed and pinned the dowdy hood,
And set the hat upon her brow,
And thus emerging from the wood
Tripped on in jaunty mood.
The sun was low and crimson-faced
As two came that way from the town,
And plunged into the wood untraced . . .
When separately therefrom they paced
The sun had quite gone down.
The hat and feather disappeared,
The dowdy hood again was donned,
And in the gloom the fair one neared
Her home and husband dour, who conned
Calmly his blue-eyed blonde.
"To-day," he said, "you have shown good sense,
A dress so modest and so meek
Should always deck your goings hence
Alone." And as a recompense
He kissed her on the cheek. |
The Frogs. | Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | A Pool was once congeal'd with frost;
The frogs, in its deep waters lost,
No longer dared to croak or spring;
But promised, being half asleep,
If suffer'd to the air to creep,
As very nightingales to sing.
A thaw dissolved the ice so strong,
They proudly steer'd themselves along,
When landed, squatted on the shore,
And croak'd as loudly as before. |