Chapter 19

141

THE HUNT IS UPThe hunt is up, the hunt is up,And it is well nigh day;And Harry our King is gone huntingTo bring his deer to bay.The east is bright with morning light,And darkness it is fled;And the merry horn wakes up the mornTo leave his idle bed.Behold the skies with golden dyesAre glowing all around;The grass is green, and so are the treenAll laughing at the sound.The horses snort to be at sport,The dogs are running free,The woods rejoice at the merry noiseOfHey tantara tee ree!The sun is glad to see us cladAll in our lusty green,And smiles in the sky as he riseth highTo see and to be seen.Awake all men, I say again,Be merry as you may;For Harry our King is gone hunting,To bring his deer to bay.

The hunt is up, the hunt is up,And it is well nigh day;And Harry our King is gone huntingTo bring his deer to bay.The east is bright with morning light,And darkness it is fled;And the merry horn wakes up the mornTo leave his idle bed.Behold the skies with golden dyesAre glowing all around;The grass is green, and so are the treenAll laughing at the sound.The horses snort to be at sport,The dogs are running free,The woods rejoice at the merry noiseOfHey tantara tee ree!The sun is glad to see us cladAll in our lusty green,And smiles in the sky as he riseth highTo see and to be seen.Awake all men, I say again,Be merry as you may;For Harry our King is gone hunting,To bring his deer to bay.

The hunt is up, the hunt is up,And it is well nigh day;And Harry our King is gone huntingTo bring his deer to bay.

The hunt is up, the hunt is up,

And it is well nigh day;

And Harry our King is gone hunting

To bring his deer to bay.

The east is bright with morning light,And darkness it is fled;And the merry horn wakes up the mornTo leave his idle bed.

The east is bright with morning light,

And darkness it is fled;

And the merry horn wakes up the morn

To leave his idle bed.

Behold the skies with golden dyesAre glowing all around;The grass is green, and so are the treenAll laughing at the sound.

Behold the skies with golden dyes

Are glowing all around;

The grass is green, and so are the treen

All laughing at the sound.

The horses snort to be at sport,The dogs are running free,The woods rejoice at the merry noiseOfHey tantara tee ree!

The horses snort to be at sport,

The dogs are running free,

The woods rejoice at the merry noise

OfHey tantara tee ree!

The sun is glad to see us cladAll in our lusty green,And smiles in the sky as he riseth highTo see and to be seen.

The sun is glad to see us clad

All in our lusty green,

And smiles in the sky as he riseth high

To see and to be seen.

Awake all men, I say again,Be merry as you may;For Harry our King is gone hunting,To bring his deer to bay.

Awake all men, I say again,

Be merry as you may;

For Harry our King is gone hunting,

To bring his deer to bay.

142

THE CHEERFUL HORNThe cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,And we'll a-'untin' goo;The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,And we'll a-'untin' goo,And we'll a-'untin' goo,And we'll a-'untin' goo ...Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!The vox jumps awer the 'edge zo 'igh,An' the 'ouns all atter un goo;Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Then never despoise the soldjer lod,Thof 'is ztaition be boot low;Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Then push about the coop, my bwoys,An' we will wumwards goo,Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!If you áx me the zénze of this zóng vur to téll,Or the reäzon vur to zhow;Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo,Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo:Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!

The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,And we'll a-'untin' goo;The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,And we'll a-'untin' goo,And we'll a-'untin' goo,And we'll a-'untin' goo ...Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!The vox jumps awer the 'edge zo 'igh,An' the 'ouns all atter un goo;Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Then never despoise the soldjer lod,Thof 'is ztaition be boot low;Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Then push about the coop, my bwoys,An' we will wumwards goo,Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!If you áx me the zénze of this zóng vur to téll,Or the reäzon vur to zhow;Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo,Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo:Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!

The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,

And we'll a-'untin' goo;

The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,

And we'll a-'untin' goo,

And we'll a-'untin' goo ...

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

The vox jumps awer the 'edge zo 'igh,An' the 'ouns all atter un goo;Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!

The vox jumps awer the 'edge zo 'igh,

An' the 'ouns all atter un goo;

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

Then never despoise the soldjer lod,Thof 'is ztaition be boot low;Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!

Then never despoise the soldjer lod,

Thof 'is ztaition be boot low;

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

Then push about the coop, my bwoys,An' we will wumwards goo,Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!

Then push about the coop, my bwoys,

An' we will wumwards goo,

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

If you áx me the zénze of this zóng vur to téll,Or the reäzon vur to zhow;Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo,Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo:Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,And I'll zing Tally ho!

If you áx me the zénze of this zóng vur to téll,

Or the reäzon vur to zhow;

Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo,

Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo:

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,

And I'll zing Tally ho!

143

JOHN PEELD'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,With his hounds and his horn in the morning?'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the dead,Or a fox from his lair in the morning.D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?D'ye ken that a fox with his last breathCursed them all as he died in the morning?Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby tooRanter and Royal and Bellman as true;From the drag to the chase, from the chase to a view,From a view to the death in the morning.And I've followed John Peel both often and farO'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere Scar,When we vied for the brush in the morning.Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul,Come fill—fill to him another strong bowl:And we'll follow John Peel through fair and through foul,While we're waked by his horn in the morning.'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the deadOr a fox from his lair in the morning.John Woodcock Graves

D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,With his hounds and his horn in the morning?'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the dead,Or a fox from his lair in the morning.D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?D'ye ken that a fox with his last breathCursed them all as he died in the morning?Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby tooRanter and Royal and Bellman as true;From the drag to the chase, from the chase to a view,From a view to the death in the morning.And I've followed John Peel both often and farO'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere Scar,When we vied for the brush in the morning.Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul,Come fill—fill to him another strong bowl:And we'll follow John Peel through fair and through foul,While we're waked by his horn in the morning.'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the deadOr a fox from his lair in the morning.John Woodcock Graves

D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?

D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?

D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,

With his hounds and his horn in the morning?

'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,

And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,

For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the dead,

Or a fox from his lair in the morning.

D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?D'ye ken that a fox with his last breathCursed them all as he died in the morning?

D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?

D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?

D'ye ken that a fox with his last breath

Cursed them all as he died in the morning?

Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby tooRanter and Royal and Bellman as true;From the drag to the chase, from the chase to a view,From a view to the death in the morning.

Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby too

Ranter and Royal and Bellman as true;

From the drag to the chase, from the chase to a view,

From a view to the death in the morning.

And I've followed John Peel both often and farO'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere Scar,When we vied for the brush in the morning.

And I've followed John Peel both often and far

O'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,

From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere Scar,

When we vied for the brush in the morning.

Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul,Come fill—fill to him another strong bowl:And we'll follow John Peel through fair and through foul,While we're waked by his horn in the morning.'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the deadOr a fox from his lair in the morning.John Woodcock Graves

Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul,

Come fill—fill to him another strong bowl:

And we'll follow John Peel through fair and through foul,

While we're waked by his horn in the morning.

'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,

And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,

For Peel'sView-hollowould awaken the dead

Or a fox from his lair in the morning.

John Woodcock Graves

144

THE SCHOOLBOYI love to rise in a summer mornWhen the birds sing on every tree;The distant huntsman winds his horn,And the skylark sings with me.O! what sweet company.But to go to school in a summer morn,O! it drives all joy away;Under a cruel eye outworn,The little ones spend the dayIn sighing and dismay.Ah! then at times I drooping sit,And spend many an anxious hour,Nor in my book can I take delight,Nor sit in learning's bower,Worn thro' with the dreary shower.How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?O! father and mother, if buds are nipped,And blossoms blown away,And if the tender plants are strippedOf their joy in the springing day,By sorrow and care's dismay,How shall the summer arise in joy,Or the summer fruits appear?Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,Or bless the mellowing year,When the blasts of winter appear?William Blake

I love to rise in a summer mornWhen the birds sing on every tree;The distant huntsman winds his horn,And the skylark sings with me.O! what sweet company.But to go to school in a summer morn,O! it drives all joy away;Under a cruel eye outworn,The little ones spend the dayIn sighing and dismay.Ah! then at times I drooping sit,And spend many an anxious hour,Nor in my book can I take delight,Nor sit in learning's bower,Worn thro' with the dreary shower.How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?O! father and mother, if buds are nipped,And blossoms blown away,And if the tender plants are strippedOf their joy in the springing day,By sorrow and care's dismay,How shall the summer arise in joy,Or the summer fruits appear?Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,Or bless the mellowing year,When the blasts of winter appear?William Blake

I love to rise in a summer mornWhen the birds sing on every tree;The distant huntsman winds his horn,And the skylark sings with me.O! what sweet company.

I love to rise in a summer morn

When the birds sing on every tree;

The distant huntsman winds his horn,

And the skylark sings with me.

O! what sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer morn,O! it drives all joy away;Under a cruel eye outworn,The little ones spend the dayIn sighing and dismay.

But to go to school in a summer morn,

O! it drives all joy away;

Under a cruel eye outworn,

The little ones spend the day

In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,And spend many an anxious hour,Nor in my book can I take delight,Nor sit in learning's bower,Worn thro' with the dreary shower.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,

And spend many an anxious hour,

Nor in my book can I take delight,

Nor sit in learning's bower,

Worn thro' with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?

How can the bird that is born for joy

Sit in a cage and sing?

How can a child, when fears annoy,

But droop his tender wing,

And forget his youthful spring?

O! father and mother, if buds are nipped,And blossoms blown away,And if the tender plants are strippedOf their joy in the springing day,By sorrow and care's dismay,

O! father and mother, if buds are nipped,

And blossoms blown away,

And if the tender plants are stripped

Of their joy in the springing day,

By sorrow and care's dismay,

How shall the summer arise in joy,Or the summer fruits appear?Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,Or bless the mellowing year,When the blasts of winter appear?William Blake

How shall the summer arise in joy,

Or the summer fruits appear?

Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,

Or bless the mellowing year,

When the blasts of winter appear?

William Blake

145

A BOY'S SONGWhere the pools are bright and deep,Where the grey trout lies asleep,Up the river and over the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the blackbird sings the latest,Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,Where the nestlings chirp and flee,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the mowers mow the cleanest,Where the hay lies thick and greenest,There to track the homeward bee,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the hazel bank is steepest,Where the shadow falls the deepest,Where the clustering nuts fall free,That's the way for Billy and me.Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from their play,Or love to banter and fight so well,That's the thing I never could tell.But this I know, I love to playThrough the meadow, among the hay;Up the water and over the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.James Hogg

Where the pools are bright and deep,Where the grey trout lies asleep,Up the river and over the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the blackbird sings the latest,Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,Where the nestlings chirp and flee,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the mowers mow the cleanest,Where the hay lies thick and greenest,There to track the homeward bee,That's the way for Billy and me.Where the hazel bank is steepest,Where the shadow falls the deepest,Where the clustering nuts fall free,That's the way for Billy and me.Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from their play,Or love to banter and fight so well,That's the thing I never could tell.But this I know, I love to playThrough the meadow, among the hay;Up the water and over the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.James Hogg

Where the pools are bright and deep,Where the grey trout lies asleep,Up the river and over the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the pools are bright and deep,

Where the grey trout lies asleep,

Up the river and over the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,Where the nestlings chirp and flee,That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,

Where the nestlings chirp and flee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,Where the hay lies thick and greenest,There to track the homeward bee,That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,

Where the hay lies thick and greenest,

There to track the homeward bee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,Where the shadow falls the deepest,Where the clustering nuts fall free,That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,

Where the shadow falls the deepest,

Where the clustering nuts fall free,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from their play,Or love to banter and fight so well,That's the thing I never could tell.

Why the boys should drive away

Little sweet maidens from their play,

Or love to banter and fight so well,

That's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to playThrough the meadow, among the hay;Up the water and over the lea,That's the way for Billy and me.James Hogg

But this I know, I love to play

Through the meadow, among the hay;

Up the water and over the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

James Hogg

146

MARKET DAYWho'll walk the fields with us to town,In an old coat and a faded gown?We take our roots and country sweets,Where high walls shade the steep old streets,And golden bells and silver chimesRing up and down the sleepy times.The morning mountains smoke like fires;The sun spreads out his shining wires;The mower in the half-mown lezzaSips his tea and takes his pleasure.Along the lane slow waggons amble.The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble;The foal that lay so sorrowfulIs playing in the grasses cool.By slanting ways, in slanting sun,Through startled lapwings now we runAlong the pale green hazel-path,Through April's lingering aftermathOf lady's smock and lady's slipper;We stay to watch a nesting dipper.The rabbits eye us while we pass,Out of the sorrel-crimson grass;The blackbird sings, without a fear,Where honeysuckle horns blow clear—Cool ivory stained with true vermilion,And here, within a silk pavilion,Small caterpillars lie at ease.The endless shadows of the treesAre painted purple and cobalt;Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt,Each one aware of you and me,And full of conscious dignity.Our shoes are golden as we passWith pollen from the pansied grass.Beneath an elder—set anewWith large clean plates to catch the dew—On fine white cheese and bread we dine.The clear brook-water tastes like wine.If all folk lived with labour sweetOf their own busy hands and feet,Such marketing, it seems to me,Would make an end of poverty.Mary Webb

Who'll walk the fields with us to town,In an old coat and a faded gown?We take our roots and country sweets,Where high walls shade the steep old streets,And golden bells and silver chimesRing up and down the sleepy times.The morning mountains smoke like fires;The sun spreads out his shining wires;The mower in the half-mown lezzaSips his tea and takes his pleasure.Along the lane slow waggons amble.The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble;The foal that lay so sorrowfulIs playing in the grasses cool.By slanting ways, in slanting sun,Through startled lapwings now we runAlong the pale green hazel-path,Through April's lingering aftermathOf lady's smock and lady's slipper;We stay to watch a nesting dipper.The rabbits eye us while we pass,Out of the sorrel-crimson grass;The blackbird sings, without a fear,Where honeysuckle horns blow clear—Cool ivory stained with true vermilion,And here, within a silk pavilion,Small caterpillars lie at ease.The endless shadows of the treesAre painted purple and cobalt;Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt,Each one aware of you and me,And full of conscious dignity.Our shoes are golden as we passWith pollen from the pansied grass.Beneath an elder—set anewWith large clean plates to catch the dew—On fine white cheese and bread we dine.The clear brook-water tastes like wine.If all folk lived with labour sweetOf their own busy hands and feet,Such marketing, it seems to me,Would make an end of poverty.Mary Webb

Who'll walk the fields with us to town,

In an old coat and a faded gown?

We take our roots and country sweets,

Where high walls shade the steep old streets,

And golden bells and silver chimes

Ring up and down the sleepy times.

The morning mountains smoke like fires;

The sun spreads out his shining wires;

The mower in the half-mown lezza

Sips his tea and takes his pleasure.

Along the lane slow waggons amble.

The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble;

The foal that lay so sorrowful

Is playing in the grasses cool.

By slanting ways, in slanting sun,

Through startled lapwings now we run

Along the pale green hazel-path,

Through April's lingering aftermath

Of lady's smock and lady's slipper;

We stay to watch a nesting dipper.

The rabbits eye us while we pass,

Out of the sorrel-crimson grass;

The blackbird sings, without a fear,

Where honeysuckle horns blow clear—

Cool ivory stained with true vermilion,

And here, within a silk pavilion,

Small caterpillars lie at ease.

The endless shadows of the trees

Are painted purple and cobalt;

Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt,

Each one aware of you and me,

And full of conscious dignity.

Our shoes are golden as we pass

With pollen from the pansied grass.

Beneath an elder—set anew

With large clean plates to catch the dew—

On fine white cheese and bread we dine.

The clear brook-water tastes like wine.

If all folk lived with labour sweet

Of their own busy hands and feet,

Such marketing, it seems to me,

Would make an end of poverty.

Mary Webb

147

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREEUnder the greenewood tree,Who loves to lye with me,And turne his merrie NoteUnto the sweet Bird's throte:Come hither, come hither, come hither,Heere shall he see no enemieBut Winter and rough Weather.Who doth ambition shunneAnd loves to live i' the Sunne,Seeking the food he eatesAnd pleased with what he gets:Come hither, come hither, come hither,Here shall he see no enemieBut Winter and rough Weather.William Shakespeare

Under the greenewood tree,Who loves to lye with me,And turne his merrie NoteUnto the sweet Bird's throte:Come hither, come hither, come hither,Heere shall he see no enemieBut Winter and rough Weather.Who doth ambition shunneAnd loves to live i' the Sunne,Seeking the food he eatesAnd pleased with what he gets:Come hither, come hither, come hither,Here shall he see no enemieBut Winter and rough Weather.William Shakespeare

Under the greenewood tree,

Who loves to lye with me,

And turne his merrie Note

Unto the sweet Bird's throte:

Come hither, come hither, come hither,

Heere shall he see no enemie

But Winter and rough Weather.

Who doth ambition shunneAnd loves to live i' the Sunne,Seeking the food he eatesAnd pleased with what he gets:Come hither, come hither, come hither,Here shall he see no enemieBut Winter and rough Weather.William Shakespeare

Who doth ambition shunne

And loves to live i' the Sunne,

Seeking the food he eates

And pleased with what he gets:

Come hither, come hither, come hither,

Here shall he see no enemie

But Winter and rough Weather.

William Shakespeare

148

IN SUMMERIn somer when the shawes be sheyne,[75]And leves be large and long,Hit[76]is full merry in feyre foresteTo here the foulys[77]song.To se the dere draw to the daleAnd leve the hillės hee,And shadow him in the levės greneUnder the green-wode tree.Hit befell on WhitsontideEarly in a May mornyng,The Sonne up fairė gan shyne,And the briddis mery gan syng."This is a mery mornyng," said Litulle Johne,"By Hym that dyed on tree;A more mery man than I am oneLyves not in Christiantė."Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,"Litulle Johne can say,"And thank hit is a fulle fayre tymeIn a mornynge of May."

In somer when the shawes be sheyne,[75]And leves be large and long,Hit[76]is full merry in feyre foresteTo here the foulys[77]song.To se the dere draw to the daleAnd leve the hillės hee,And shadow him in the levės greneUnder the green-wode tree.Hit befell on WhitsontideEarly in a May mornyng,The Sonne up fairė gan shyne,And the briddis mery gan syng."This is a mery mornyng," said Litulle Johne,"By Hym that dyed on tree;A more mery man than I am oneLyves not in Christiantė."Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,"Litulle Johne can say,"And thank hit is a fulle fayre tymeIn a mornynge of May."

In somer when the shawes be sheyne,[75]And leves be large and long,Hit[76]is full merry in feyre foresteTo here the foulys[77]song.

In somer when the shawes be sheyne,[75]

And leves be large and long,

Hit[76]is full merry in feyre foreste

To here the foulys[77]song.

To se the dere draw to the daleAnd leve the hillės hee,And shadow him in the levės greneUnder the green-wode tree.

To se the dere draw to the dale

And leve the hillės hee,

And shadow him in the levės grene

Under the green-wode tree.

Hit befell on WhitsontideEarly in a May mornyng,The Sonne up fairė gan shyne,And the briddis mery gan syng.

Hit befell on Whitsontide

Early in a May mornyng,

The Sonne up fairė gan shyne,

And the briddis mery gan syng.

"This is a mery mornyng," said Litulle Johne,"By Hym that dyed on tree;A more mery man than I am oneLyves not in Christiantė.

"This is a mery mornyng," said Litulle Johne,

"By Hym that dyed on tree;

A more mery man than I am one

Lyves not in Christiantė.

"Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,"Litulle Johne can say,"And thank hit is a fulle fayre tymeIn a mornynge of May."

"Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,"

Litulle Johne can say,

"And thank hit is a fulle fayre tyme

In a mornynge of May."

149

LUBBER BREEZEThe four sails of the millLike stocks stand still;Their lantern-length is whiteOn blue more bright.Unruffled is the mead,Where lambkins feedAnd sheep and cattle browseAnd donkeys drowse.Never the least breeze willThe wet thumb chillThat the anxious miller lifts,Till the vane shifts.The breeze in the great flour-binIs snug tucked in;The lubber, while rats thieve,Laughs in his sleeve.T. Sturge Moore

The four sails of the millLike stocks stand still;Their lantern-length is whiteOn blue more bright.Unruffled is the mead,Where lambkins feedAnd sheep and cattle browseAnd donkeys drowse.Never the least breeze willThe wet thumb chillThat the anxious miller lifts,Till the vane shifts.The breeze in the great flour-binIs snug tucked in;The lubber, while rats thieve,Laughs in his sleeve.T. Sturge Moore

The four sails of the millLike stocks stand still;Their lantern-length is whiteOn blue more bright.

The four sails of the mill

Like stocks stand still;

Their lantern-length is white

On blue more bright.

Unruffled is the mead,Where lambkins feedAnd sheep and cattle browseAnd donkeys drowse.

Unruffled is the mead,

Where lambkins feed

And sheep and cattle browse

And donkeys drowse.

Never the least breeze willThe wet thumb chillThat the anxious miller lifts,Till the vane shifts.

Never the least breeze will

The wet thumb chill

That the anxious miller lifts,

Till the vane shifts.

The breeze in the great flour-binIs snug tucked in;The lubber, while rats thieve,Laughs in his sleeve.T. Sturge Moore

The breeze in the great flour-bin

Is snug tucked in;

The lubber, while rats thieve,

Laughs in his sleeve.

T. Sturge Moore

150

A SUMMER'S DAY"The ample heaven of fabrik sure,In cleannes dois surpasThe chrystall and the silver pure,Or clearest poleist[78]glas.The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawės by,Sine in the east, when it is gon,Appears a clearer sky.Quhilk sune[79]perceives the little larks,The lapwing and the snyp,And tune their sangs, like Nature's clarksOur medow, mure and stryp.[80]The time sa tranquil is and still,That na where sall ye find,Saife on ane high and barren hill,Ane aire of peeping wind.All trees and simples[81]great and small,That balmie leife do beir,Nor thay were painted on a wall,Na mair they move or steir[82]...."Alexander Hume

"The ample heaven of fabrik sure,In cleannes dois surpasThe chrystall and the silver pure,Or clearest poleist[78]glas.The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawės by,Sine in the east, when it is gon,Appears a clearer sky.Quhilk sune[79]perceives the little larks,The lapwing and the snyp,And tune their sangs, like Nature's clarksOur medow, mure and stryp.[80]The time sa tranquil is and still,That na where sall ye find,Saife on ane high and barren hill,Ane aire of peeping wind.All trees and simples[81]great and small,That balmie leife do beir,Nor thay were painted on a wall,Na mair they move or steir[82]...."Alexander Hume

"The ample heaven of fabrik sure,In cleannes dois surpasThe chrystall and the silver pure,Or clearest poleist[78]glas.

"The ample heaven of fabrik sure,

In cleannes dois surpas

The chrystall and the silver pure,

Or clearest poleist[78]glas.

The shadow of the earth anonRemoves and drawės by,Sine in the east, when it is gon,Appears a clearer sky.

The shadow of the earth anon

Removes and drawės by,

Sine in the east, when it is gon,

Appears a clearer sky.

Quhilk sune[79]perceives the little larks,The lapwing and the snyp,And tune their sangs, like Nature's clarksOur medow, mure and stryp.[80]

Quhilk sune[79]perceives the little larks,

The lapwing and the snyp,

And tune their sangs, like Nature's clarks

Our medow, mure and stryp.[80]

The time sa tranquil is and still,That na where sall ye find,Saife on ane high and barren hill,Ane aire of peeping wind.

The time sa tranquil is and still,

That na where sall ye find,

Saife on ane high and barren hill,

Ane aire of peeping wind.

All trees and simples[81]great and small,That balmie leife do beir,Nor thay were painted on a wall,Na mair they move or steir[82]...."Alexander Hume

All trees and simples[81]great and small,

That balmie leife do beir,

Nor thay were painted on a wall,

Na mair they move or steir[82]...."

Alexander Hume

151

LEISUREWhat is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare?No time to stand beneath the boughsAnd stare as long as sheep or cows.No time to see, when woods we pass,Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.No time to see, in broad daylight,Streams full of stars, like skies at night.No time to turn at Beauty's glance,And watch her feet, how they can dance.No time to wait till her mouth canEnrich that smile her eyes began.A poor life this if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.William H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare?No time to stand beneath the boughsAnd stare as long as sheep or cows.No time to see, when woods we pass,Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.No time to see, in broad daylight,Streams full of stars, like skies at night.No time to turn at Beauty's glance,And watch her feet, how they can dance.No time to wait till her mouth canEnrich that smile her eyes began.A poor life this if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.William H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare?

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughsAnd stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth canEnrich that smile her eyes began.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare.William H. Davies

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William H. Davies

152

THE HAPPY COUNTRYMANWho can live in heart so gladAs the merry country lad?Who upon a fair green balk[83]May at pleasure sit and walk,And amid the azure skiesSee the morning sun arise,—While he hears in every springHow the birds do chirp and sing:Or before the hounds in crySee the hare go stealing by:Or along the shallow brook,Angling with a baited hook,See the fishes leap and playIn a blessèd sunny day:Or to hear the partridge call,Till she have her covey all:Or to see the subtle fox,How the villain plies the box:After feeding on his prey,How he closely sneaks away,Through the hedge and down the furrowTill he gets into his burrow:Then the bee to gather honey,And the little black-haired coney,On a bank for sunny place,With her forefeet wash her face:Are not these, with thousands moe[84]Than the courts of kings do know,The true pleasing spirit's sightsThat may breed true love's delights?...Nicholas Breton

Who can live in heart so gladAs the merry country lad?Who upon a fair green balk[83]May at pleasure sit and walk,And amid the azure skiesSee the morning sun arise,—While he hears in every springHow the birds do chirp and sing:Or before the hounds in crySee the hare go stealing by:Or along the shallow brook,Angling with a baited hook,See the fishes leap and playIn a blessèd sunny day:Or to hear the partridge call,Till she have her covey all:Or to see the subtle fox,How the villain plies the box:After feeding on his prey,How he closely sneaks away,Through the hedge and down the furrowTill he gets into his burrow:Then the bee to gather honey,And the little black-haired coney,On a bank for sunny place,With her forefeet wash her face:Are not these, with thousands moe[84]Than the courts of kings do know,The true pleasing spirit's sightsThat may breed true love's delights?...Nicholas Breton

Who can live in heart so glad

As the merry country lad?

Who upon a fair green balk[83]

May at pleasure sit and walk,

And amid the azure skies

See the morning sun arise,—

While he hears in every spring

How the birds do chirp and sing:

Or before the hounds in cry

See the hare go stealing by:

Or along the shallow brook,

Angling with a baited hook,

See the fishes leap and play

In a blessèd sunny day:

Or to hear the partridge call,

Till she have her covey all:

Or to see the subtle fox,

How the villain plies the box:

After feeding on his prey,

How he closely sneaks away,

Through the hedge and down the furrow

Till he gets into his burrow:

Then the bee to gather honey,

And the little black-haired coney,

On a bank for sunny place,

With her forefeet wash her face:

Are not these, with thousands moe[84]

Than the courts of kings do know,

The true pleasing spirit's sights

That may breed true love's delights?...

Nicholas Breton

153

"O FOR A BOOKE"O for a Booke and a shadie nooke,eyther in-a-doore or out;With the grene leaves whispering overhede,or the Streete cryes all about.Where I maie Reade all at my ease,both of the Newe and Olde;For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke,is better to me than Golde.

O for a Booke and a shadie nooke,eyther in-a-doore or out;With the grene leaves whispering overhede,or the Streete cryes all about.Where I maie Reade all at my ease,both of the Newe and Olde;For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke,is better to me than Golde.

O for a Booke and a shadie nooke,

eyther in-a-doore or out;

With the grene leaves whispering overhede,

or the Streete cryes all about.

Where I maie Reade all at my ease,

both of the Newe and Olde;

For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke,

is better to me than Golde.

154

GREEN BROOMThere was an old man lived out in the wood,His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom;He had but one son without thrift, without good,Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon bright noon.The old man awoke, one morning and spoke,He swore he would fire the room, that room,If his John would not rise and open his eyes,And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes,And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom,He sharpened his knives, for once he contrivesTo cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house,Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room,She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said,"Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."When Johnny came in to the lady's fine house,And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room;"Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade,And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went,And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom,At market and fair, all folks do declare,There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.

There was an old man lived out in the wood,His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom;He had but one son without thrift, without good,Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon bright noon.The old man awoke, one morning and spoke,He swore he would fire the room, that room,If his John would not rise and open his eyes,And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes,And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom,He sharpened his knives, for once he contrivesTo cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house,Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room,She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said,"Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."When Johnny came in to the lady's fine house,And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room;"Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade,And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went,And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom,At market and fair, all folks do declare,There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.

There was an old man lived out in the wood,His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom;He had but one son without thrift, without good,Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon bright noon.

There was an old man lived out in the wood,

His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom;

He had but one son without thrift, without good,

Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon bright noon.

The old man awoke, one morning and spoke,He swore he would fire the room, that room,If his John would not rise and open his eyes,And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.

The old man awoke, one morning and spoke,

He swore he would fire the room, that room,

If his John would not rise and open his eyes,

And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.

So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes,And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom,He sharpened his knives, for once he contrivesTo cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.

So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes,

And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom,

He sharpened his knives, for once he contrives

To cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.

When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house,Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room,She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said,"Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."

When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house,

Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room,

She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said,

"Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."

When Johnny came in to the lady's fine house,And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room;"Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade,And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"

When Johnny came in to the lady's fine house,

And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room;

"Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade,

And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"

Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went,And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom,At market and fair, all folks do declare,There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.

Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went,

And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom,

At market and fair, all folks do declare,

There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.

155

THE TWELVE OXENI have twelfė oxen that be faire and brown,And they go a grasing down by the town.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and white,And they go a grasing down by the dyke.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and blak,And they go a grasing down by the lake.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and rede,And they go a grasing down by the medeWith hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen that be faire and brown,And they go a grasing down by the town.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and white,And they go a grasing down by the dyke.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and blak,And they go a grasing down by the lake.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and rede,And they go a grasing down by the medeWith hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen that be faire and brown,And they go a grasing down by the town.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen that be faire and brown,

And they go a grasing down by the town.

With hey! with how! with hoy!

Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and white,And they go a grasing down by the dyke.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and white,

And they go a grasing down by the dyke.

With hey! with how! with hoy!

Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and blak,And they go a grasing down by the lake.With hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and blak,

And they go a grasing down by the lake.

With hey! with how! with hoy!

Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and rede,And they go a grasing down by the medeWith hey! with how! with hoy!Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and rede,

And they go a grasing down by the mede

With hey! with how! with hoy!

Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?

156

LAVENDER'S BLUELavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queenWho told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?'Twas mine one heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work,Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork,Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn,Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm....

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queenWho told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?'Twas mine one heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work,Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork,Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn,Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm....

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queenWho told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?'Twas mine one heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,

When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen

Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?

'Twas mine one heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.

Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work,Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork,Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn,Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm....

Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work,

Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork,

Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn,

Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm....

157

THE GARDEN... What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,Withdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds and other seas,Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide:There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets[85]and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light....Such was the happy Garden-stateWhile man there walked without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone....Andrew Marvell

... What wondrous life is this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,Withdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds and other seas,Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide:There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets[85]and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light....Such was the happy Garden-stateWhile man there walked without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone....Andrew Marvell

... What wondrous life is this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head;

The luscious clusters of the vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

The nectarine and curious peach

Into my hands themselves do reach;

Stumbling on melons, as I pass,

Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,Withdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds and other seas,Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,

Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind

Does straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it creates, transcending these,

Far other worlds and other seas,

Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide:There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets[85]and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light....

Here at the fountain's sliding foot

Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,

Casting the body's vest aside

My soul into the boughs does glide:

There, like a bird, it sits and sings,

Then whets[85]and claps its silver wings,

And, till prepared for longer flight,

Waves in its plumes the various light....

Such was the happy Garden-stateWhile man there walked without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises 'twere in one,To live in Paradise alone....Andrew Marvell

Such was the happy Garden-state

While man there walked without a mate:

After a place so pure and sweet,

What other help could yet be meet!

But 'twas beyond a mortal's share

To wander solitary there:

Two paradises 'twere in one,

To live in Paradise alone....

Andrew Marvell

158

CHERRY-RIPECherrie Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry,Full and faire ones; come and buy:If so be you ask me whereThey doe grow? I answer, There,Where myJulia'slips doe smile;There's the Land, or Cherrie Ile:Whose Plantations fully showAll the yeare, where Cherries grow.Robert Herrick

Cherrie Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry,Full and faire ones; come and buy:If so be you ask me whereThey doe grow? I answer, There,Where myJulia'slips doe smile;There's the Land, or Cherrie Ile:Whose Plantations fully showAll the yeare, where Cherries grow.Robert Herrick

Cherrie Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry,

Full and faire ones; come and buy:

If so be you ask me where

They doe grow? I answer, There,

Where myJulia'slips doe smile;

There's the Land, or Cherrie Ile:

Whose Plantations fully show

All the yeare, where Cherries grow.

Robert Herrick

159

CHERRY-RIPEThere is a Garden in her faceWhere Roses and white Lillies grow;A heav'nly paradice is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.There Cherries grow, which none may buy,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Those Cherries fayrely doe encloseOf Orient Pearle a double row,Which when her lovely laughter showes,They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,Threat'ning with piercing frownes to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred Cherries to come nigh,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Thomas Campion

There is a Garden in her faceWhere Roses and white Lillies grow;A heav'nly paradice is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.There Cherries grow, which none may buy,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Those Cherries fayrely doe encloseOf Orient Pearle a double row,Which when her lovely laughter showes,They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,Threat'ning with piercing frownes to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred Cherries to come nigh,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Thomas Campion

There is a Garden in her face

Where Roses and white Lillies grow;

A heav'nly paradice is that place,

Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.

There Cherries grow, which none may buy,

TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.

Those Cherries fayrely doe encloseOf Orient Pearle a double row,Which when her lovely laughter showes,They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.

Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose

Of Orient Pearle a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter showes,

They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.

Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,

TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.

Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,Threat'ning with piercing frownes to killAll that approach with eye or handThese sacred Cherries to come nigh,TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.Thomas Campion

Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;

Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,

Threat'ning with piercing frownes to kill

All that approach with eye or hand

These sacred Cherries to come nigh,

TillCherry Ripethemselves doe cry.

Thomas Campion

160

SONGWhat is there hid in the heart of a rose,Mother-mine?Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?A Man that died on a lonely hillMay tell you, perhaps, but none other will,Little child.What does it take to make a rose,Mother-mine?The God that died to make it knowsIt takes the world's eternal wars,It takes the moon and all the stars,It takes the might of heaven and hellAnd the everlasting Love as well,Little child.Alfred Noyes

What is there hid in the heart of a rose,Mother-mine?Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?A Man that died on a lonely hillMay tell you, perhaps, but none other will,Little child.What does it take to make a rose,Mother-mine?The God that died to make it knowsIt takes the world's eternal wars,It takes the moon and all the stars,It takes the might of heaven and hellAnd the everlasting Love as well,Little child.Alfred Noyes

What is there hid in the heart of a rose,Mother-mine?Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?A Man that died on a lonely hillMay tell you, perhaps, but none other will,Little child.

What is there hid in the heart of a rose,

Mother-mine?

Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?

A Man that died on a lonely hill

May tell you, perhaps, but none other will,

Little child.

What does it take to make a rose,Mother-mine?The God that died to make it knowsIt takes the world's eternal wars,It takes the moon and all the stars,It takes the might of heaven and hellAnd the everlasting Love as well,Little child.Alfred Noyes

What does it take to make a rose,

Mother-mine?

The God that died to make it knows

It takes the world's eternal wars,

It takes the moon and all the stars,

It takes the might of heaven and hell

And the everlasting Love as well,

Little child.

Alfred Noyes

161

THE MYSTERYHe came and took me by the handUp to a red rose tree,He kept His meaning to HimselfBut gave a rose to me.I did not pray Him to lay bareThe mystery to me,Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,And His own face to see.Ralph Hodgson

He came and took me by the handUp to a red rose tree,He kept His meaning to HimselfBut gave a rose to me.I did not pray Him to lay bareThe mystery to me,Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,And His own face to see.Ralph Hodgson

He came and took me by the hand

Up to a red rose tree,

He kept His meaning to Himself

But gave a rose to me.

I did not pray Him to lay bare

The mystery to me,

Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,

And His own face to see.

Ralph Hodgson

162

THE ROSEA Rose, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:The maidens danced about it morn and noon,And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWatered the root and kissed her pretty shade.But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray.God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,The fairest blossom of the garden dies.William Browne

A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:The maidens danced about it morn and noon,And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWatered the root and kissed her pretty shade.But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray.God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,The fairest blossom of the garden dies.William Browne

A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:

A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North,

Grew in a little garden all alone;

A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,

Nor fairer garden yet was never known:

The maidens danced about it morn and noon,And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWatered the root and kissed her pretty shade.

The maidens danced about it morn and noon,

And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;

The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon

Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.

But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray.

But well-a-day!—the gardener careless grew;

The maids and fairies both were kept away,

And in a drought the caterpillars threw

Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,The fairest blossom of the garden dies.William Browne

God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,

The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

William Browne

163

SONGAsk me no more, where Jove bestowsWhen June is past the fading rose;For in your beauty's orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.Ask me no more, whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters and keeps warm her note.Ask me no more, where those stars light[86]That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit and thereFixèd become as in their sphere.Ask me no more if east or westThe Phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.Thomas Carew

Ask me no more, where Jove bestowsWhen June is past the fading rose;For in your beauty's orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.Ask me no more, whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters and keeps warm her note.Ask me no more, where those stars light[86]That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit and thereFixèd become as in their sphere.Ask me no more if east or westThe Phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.Thomas Carew

Ask me no more, where Jove bestowsWhen June is past the fading rose;For in your beauty's orient deepThese flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, where Jove bestows

When June is past the fading rose;

For in your beauty's orient deep

These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more, whither do strayThe golden atoms of the day;For in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither do stray

The golden atoms of the day;

For in pure love heaven did prepare

Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more, whither doth hasteThe nightingale when May is past;For in your sweet dividing throatShe winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, whither doth haste

The nightingale when May is past;

For in your sweet dividing throat

She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more, where those stars light[86]That downwards fall in dead of night;For in your eyes they sit and thereFixèd become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more, where those stars light[86]

That downwards fall in dead of night;

For in your eyes they sit and there

Fixèd become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or westThe Phœnix builds her spicy nest;For unto you at last she flies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.Thomas Carew

Ask me no more if east or west

The Phœnix builds her spicy nest;

For unto you at last she flies,

And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Thomas Carew

164

THE BOWER OF BLISS(The "daintie Paradise of the Enchauntresse" whereinto the Palmer brought Sir Guyon.)... And in the midst of all, a fountaine stood,Of richest substaunce that on earth might bee,So pure and shiny, that the silver floodThrough every channell running, one might see;Most goodly it with pure imagereeWas over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes,Of which some seemed with lively jolliteeTo fly about, playing their wanton toyes,Whiles others did them selves embay in liquid joyes.And over all, of purest gold was spredA trayle of yvie in his native hew:For the rich mettall was so colouréd,That wight, who did not well-advised it vew,Would surely deeme it to be yvie treu.Lowe his lascivious arms adown did creepe,That themselves dipping in the silver dew,Their fleecy flowres they tenderly did steepe,Which drops of Cristall seemd for wantonnes to weepe.Infinit streames continually did wellOut of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,The which into an ample laver fell,And shortly grew to so great quantitie,That like a little lake it seemed to bee;Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,That through the waves one might the bottom see,All paved beneath with Jaspar shining brightThat seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.And all the margent round about was setWith shady lawrell-trees, thence to defendThe sunny beames, which on the billows bet,And those which therein bathèd, mote[87]offend....Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,Such as att once might not on living ground,Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere:Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare,To read, what manner musicke that mote bee:For all that pleasing is to living care,Was there consorted in one harmonie,Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheareful shade,Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces madeTo th' instruments divine respondence meet:The silver sounding instruments did meetWith the base murmure of the waters fall:The waters fall with difference discreet,Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call:The gentle warbling wind low answerèd to all.Edmund Spenser

(The "daintie Paradise of the Enchauntresse" whereinto the Palmer brought Sir Guyon.)

... And in the midst of all, a fountaine stood,Of richest substaunce that on earth might bee,So pure and shiny, that the silver floodThrough every channell running, one might see;Most goodly it with pure imagereeWas over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes,Of which some seemed with lively jolliteeTo fly about, playing their wanton toyes,Whiles others did them selves embay in liquid joyes.And over all, of purest gold was spredA trayle of yvie in his native hew:For the rich mettall was so colouréd,That wight, who did not well-advised it vew,Would surely deeme it to be yvie treu.Lowe his lascivious arms adown did creepe,That themselves dipping in the silver dew,Their fleecy flowres they tenderly did steepe,Which drops of Cristall seemd for wantonnes to weepe.Infinit streames continually did wellOut of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,The which into an ample laver fell,And shortly grew to so great quantitie,That like a little lake it seemed to bee;Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,That through the waves one might the bottom see,All paved beneath with Jaspar shining brightThat seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.And all the margent round about was setWith shady lawrell-trees, thence to defendThe sunny beames, which on the billows bet,And those which therein bathèd, mote[87]offend....Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,Such as att once might not on living ground,Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere:Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare,To read, what manner musicke that mote bee:For all that pleasing is to living care,Was there consorted in one harmonie,Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheareful shade,Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces madeTo th' instruments divine respondence meet:The silver sounding instruments did meetWith the base murmure of the waters fall:The waters fall with difference discreet,Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call:The gentle warbling wind low answerèd to all.Edmund Spenser

... And in the midst of all, a fountaine stood,

Of richest substaunce that on earth might bee,

So pure and shiny, that the silver flood

Through every channell running, one might see;

Most goodly it with pure imageree

Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes,

Of which some seemed with lively jollitee

To fly about, playing their wanton toyes,

Whiles others did them selves embay in liquid joyes.

And over all, of purest gold was spredA trayle of yvie in his native hew:For the rich mettall was so colouréd,That wight, who did not well-advised it vew,Would surely deeme it to be yvie treu.Lowe his lascivious arms adown did creepe,That themselves dipping in the silver dew,Their fleecy flowres they tenderly did steepe,Which drops of Cristall seemd for wantonnes to weepe.

And over all, of purest gold was spred

A trayle of yvie in his native hew:

For the rich mettall was so colouréd,

That wight, who did not well-advised it vew,

Would surely deeme it to be yvie treu.

Lowe his lascivious arms adown did creepe,

That themselves dipping in the silver dew,

Their fleecy flowres they tenderly did steepe,

Which drops of Cristall seemd for wantonnes to weepe.

Infinit streames continually did wellOut of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,The which into an ample laver fell,And shortly grew to so great quantitie,That like a little lake it seemed to bee;Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,That through the waves one might the bottom see,All paved beneath with Jaspar shining brightThat seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.

Infinit streames continually did well

Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,

The which into an ample laver fell,

And shortly grew to so great quantitie,

That like a little lake it seemed to bee;

Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,

That through the waves one might the bottom see,

All paved beneath with Jaspar shining bright

That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.

And all the margent round about was setWith shady lawrell-trees, thence to defendThe sunny beames, which on the billows bet,And those which therein bathèd, mote[87]offend....

And all the margent round about was set

With shady lawrell-trees, thence to defend

The sunny beames, which on the billows bet,

And those which therein bathèd, mote[87]offend....

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,Such as att once might not on living ground,Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere:Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare,To read, what manner musicke that mote bee:For all that pleasing is to living care,Was there consorted in one harmonie,Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,

Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,

Such as att once might not on living ground,

Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere:

Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare,

To read, what manner musicke that mote bee:

For all that pleasing is to living care,

Was there consorted in one harmonie,

Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.

The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheareful shade,Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces madeTo th' instruments divine respondence meet:The silver sounding instruments did meetWith the base murmure of the waters fall:The waters fall with difference discreet,Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call:The gentle warbling wind low answerèd to all.Edmund Spenser

The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheareful shade,

Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;

Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces made

To th' instruments divine respondence meet:

The silver sounding instruments did meet

With the base murmure of the waters fall:

The waters fall with difference discreet,

Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call:

The gentle warbling wind low answerèd to all.

Edmund Spenser

165

SMALL FOUNTAINS... Jarring the air with rumour cool,Small fountains played into a poolWith sound as soft as the barley's hissWhen its beard just sprouting is;Whence a young stream, that trod on moss,Prettily rimpled the court across.And in the pool's clear idleness,Moving like dreams through happiness,Shoals of small bright fishes were;In and out weed-thickets bentPerch and carp, and sauntering wentWith mounching jaws and eyes a-stare;Or on a lotus leaf would crawl,A brinded loach to bask and sprawl,Tasting the warm sun ere it diptInto the water; but quick as fearBack his shining brown head sliptTo crouch on the gravel of his lair,Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack,Spilt shattered gold about his back....Lascelles Abercrombie

... Jarring the air with rumour cool,Small fountains played into a poolWith sound as soft as the barley's hissWhen its beard just sprouting is;Whence a young stream, that trod on moss,Prettily rimpled the court across.And in the pool's clear idleness,Moving like dreams through happiness,Shoals of small bright fishes were;In and out weed-thickets bentPerch and carp, and sauntering wentWith mounching jaws and eyes a-stare;Or on a lotus leaf would crawl,A brinded loach to bask and sprawl,Tasting the warm sun ere it diptInto the water; but quick as fearBack his shining brown head sliptTo crouch on the gravel of his lair,Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack,Spilt shattered gold about his back....Lascelles Abercrombie

... Jarring the air with rumour cool,

Small fountains played into a pool

With sound as soft as the barley's hiss

When its beard just sprouting is;

Whence a young stream, that trod on moss,

Prettily rimpled the court across.

And in the pool's clear idleness,

Moving like dreams through happiness,

Shoals of small bright fishes were;

In and out weed-thickets bent

Perch and carp, and sauntering went

With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare;

Or on a lotus leaf would crawl,

A brinded loach to bask and sprawl,

Tasting the warm sun ere it dipt

Into the water; but quick as fear

Back his shining brown head slipt

To crouch on the gravel of his lair,

Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack,

Spilt shattered gold about his back....

Lascelles Abercrombie

166

THE INVITATION, TO JANEBest and brightest, come away!Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee to those in sorrow,Comes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough Year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn Spring,Through the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon MornTo hoar February born;Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,It kissed the forehead of the Earth,And smiled upon the silent sea,And bade the frozen streams be free.And waked to music all their fountains,And breathed upon the frozen mountains,And like a prophetess of MayStrewed flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear....Radiant sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains,And the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sand-hills of the sea;—Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,The wind-flowers, and violets,Which yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feet,Where the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.Percy Bysshe Shelley

Best and brightest, come away!Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee to those in sorrow,Comes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough Year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn Spring,Through the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon MornTo hoar February born;Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,It kissed the forehead of the Earth,And smiled upon the silent sea,And bade the frozen streams be free.And waked to music all their fountains,And breathed upon the frozen mountains,And like a prophetess of MayStrewed flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear....Radiant sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains,And the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sand-hills of the sea;—Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,The wind-flowers, and violets,Which yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feet,Where the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.Percy Bysshe Shelley

Best and brightest, come away!

Fairer far than this fair Day,

Which, like thee to those in sorrow,

Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow

To the rough Year just awake

In its cradle on the brake.

The brightest hour of unborn Spring,

Through the winter wandering,

Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn

To hoar February born;

Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,

It kissed the forehead of the Earth,

And smiled upon the silent sea,

And bade the frozen streams be free.

And waked to music all their fountains,

And breathed upon the frozen mountains,

And like a prophetess of May

Strewed flowers upon the barren way,

Making the wintry world appear

Like one on whom thou smilest, dear....

Radiant sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains,And the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sand-hills of the sea;—Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,The wind-flowers, and violets,Which yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feet,Where the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.Percy Bysshe Shelley

Radiant sister of the Day,

Awake! arise! and come away!

To the wild woods and the plains,

And the pools where winter rains

Image all their roof of leaves,

Where the pine its garland weaves

Of sapless green and ivy dun

Round stems that never kiss the sun;

Where the lawns and pastures be,

And the sand-hills of the sea;—

Where the melting hoar-frost wets

The daisy-star that never sets,

The wind-flowers, and violets,

Which yet join not scent to hue,

Crown the pale year weak and new;

When the night is left behind

In the deep east, dun and blind,

And the blue noon is over us,

And the multitudinous

Billows murmur at our feet,

Where the earth and ocean meet,

And all things seem only one

In the universal sun.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

167

THE RECOLLECTION... We wandered to the Pine ForestThat skirts the Ocean's foam;The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.The whispering waves were half asleep,The clouds were gone to play,And on the bosom of the deepThe smile of Heaven lay;It seemed as if the hour were oneSent from beyond the skies,Which scattered from above the sunA light of Paradise!We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced,And soothed by every azure breath,That under heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own:Now all the tree-tops lay asleepLike green waves on the sea,As still as in the silent deepThe ocean woods may be.How calm it was!—The silence thereBy such a chain was boundThat even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller with her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.There seemed, from the remotest seatOf the white mountain wasteTo the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced,—A spirit interfused around,A thrilling, silent life—To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature's strife;—And still I felt the centre ofThe magic circle thereWas one fair form that filled with loveThe lifeless atmosphere....Percy Bysshe Shelley

... We wandered to the Pine ForestThat skirts the Ocean's foam;The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.The whispering waves were half asleep,The clouds were gone to play,And on the bosom of the deepThe smile of Heaven lay;It seemed as if the hour were oneSent from beyond the skies,Which scattered from above the sunA light of Paradise!We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced,And soothed by every azure breath,That under heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own:Now all the tree-tops lay asleepLike green waves on the sea,As still as in the silent deepThe ocean woods may be.How calm it was!—The silence thereBy such a chain was boundThat even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller with her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.There seemed, from the remotest seatOf the white mountain wasteTo the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced,—A spirit interfused around,A thrilling, silent life—To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature's strife;—And still I felt the centre ofThe magic circle thereWas one fair form that filled with loveThe lifeless atmosphere....Percy Bysshe Shelley

... We wandered to the Pine Forest

That skirts the Ocean's foam;

The lightest wind was in its nest,

The tempest in its home.

The whispering waves were half asleep,

The clouds were gone to play,

And on the bosom of the deep

The smile of Heaven lay;

It seemed as if the hour were one

Sent from beyond the skies,

Which scattered from above the sun

A light of Paradise!

We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced,And soothed by every azure breath,That under heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own:Now all the tree-tops lay asleepLike green waves on the sea,As still as in the silent deepThe ocean woods may be.

We paused amid the pines that stood

The giants of the waste,

Tortured by storms to shapes as rude

As serpents interlaced,

And soothed by every azure breath,

That under heaven is blown,

To harmonies and hues beneath,

As tender as its own:

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep

Like green waves on the sea,

As still as in the silent deep

The ocean woods may be.

How calm it was!—The silence thereBy such a chain was boundThat even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller with her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.There seemed, from the remotest seatOf the white mountain wasteTo the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced,—A spirit interfused around,A thrilling, silent life—To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature's strife;—And still I felt the centre ofThe magic circle thereWas one fair form that filled with loveThe lifeless atmosphere....Percy Bysshe Shelley

How calm it was!—The silence there

By such a chain was bound

That even the busy woodpecker

Made stiller with her sound

The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew

With its soft motion made not less

The calm that round us grew.

There seemed, from the remotest seat

Of the white mountain waste

To the soft flower beneath our feet,

A magic circle traced,—

A spirit interfused around,

A thrilling, silent life—

To momentary peace it bound

Our mortal nature's strife;—

And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there

Was one fair form that filled with love

The lifeless atmosphere....

Percy Bysshe Shelley

168

THE GOAT PATHSThe crooked paths go every wayUpon the hill—they wind aboutThrough the heather in and outOf the quiet sunniness.And there the goats, day after day,Stray in sunny quietness,Cropping here and cropping there,As they pause and turn and pass,Now a bit of heather spray,Now a mouthful of the grass.In the deeper sunniness,In the place where nothing stirs,Quietly in quietness,In the quiet of the furze,For a time they come and lieStaring on the roving sky.If you approach they run away,They leap and stare, away they bound,With a sudden angry sound,To the sunny quietude;Crouching down where nothing stirsIn the silence of the furze,Couching down again to broodIn the sunny solitude.If I were as wise as they,I would stray apart and brood,I would beat a hidden wayThrough the quiet heather sprayTo a sunny solitude;And should you come I'd run away,I would make an angry sound,I would stare and turn and boundTo the deeper quietude,To the place where nothing stirsIn the silence of the furze.In that airy quietnessI would think as long as they;Through the quiet sunninessI would stray away to broodBy a hidden beaten wayIn a sunny solitude,I would think until I foundSomething I can never find,Something lying on the ground,In the bottom of my mind.James Stephens

The crooked paths go every wayUpon the hill—they wind aboutThrough the heather in and outOf the quiet sunniness.And there the goats, day after day,Stray in sunny quietness,Cropping here and cropping there,As they pause and turn and pass,Now a bit of heather spray,Now a mouthful of the grass.In the deeper sunniness,In the place where nothing stirs,Quietly in quietness,In the quiet of the furze,For a time they come and lieStaring on the roving sky.If you approach they run away,They leap and stare, away they bound,With a sudden angry sound,To the sunny quietude;Crouching down where nothing stirsIn the silence of the furze,Couching down again to broodIn the sunny solitude.If I were as wise as they,I would stray apart and brood,I would beat a hidden wayThrough the quiet heather sprayTo a sunny solitude;And should you come I'd run away,I would make an angry sound,I would stare and turn and boundTo the deeper quietude,To the place where nothing stirsIn the silence of the furze.In that airy quietnessI would think as long as they;Through the quiet sunninessI would stray away to broodBy a hidden beaten wayIn a sunny solitude,I would think until I foundSomething I can never find,Something lying on the ground,In the bottom of my mind.James Stephens

The crooked paths go every way

Upon the hill—they wind about

Through the heather in and out

Of the quiet sunniness.

And there the goats, day after day,

Stray in sunny quietness,

Cropping here and cropping there,

As they pause and turn and pass,

Now a bit of heather spray,

Now a mouthful of the grass.

In the deeper sunniness,In the place where nothing stirs,Quietly in quietness,In the quiet of the furze,For a time they come and lieStaring on the roving sky.

In the deeper sunniness,

In the place where nothing stirs,

Quietly in quietness,

In the quiet of the furze,

For a time they come and lie

Staring on the roving sky.

If you approach they run away,They leap and stare, away they bound,With a sudden angry sound,To the sunny quietude;Crouching down where nothing stirsIn the silence of the furze,Couching down again to broodIn the sunny solitude.

If you approach they run away,

They leap and stare, away they bound,

With a sudden angry sound,

To the sunny quietude;

Crouching down where nothing stirs

In the silence of the furze,

Couching down again to brood

In the sunny solitude.

If I were as wise as they,I would stray apart and brood,I would beat a hidden wayThrough the quiet heather sprayTo a sunny solitude;

If I were as wise as they,

I would stray apart and brood,

I would beat a hidden way

Through the quiet heather spray

To a sunny solitude;

And should you come I'd run away,I would make an angry sound,I would stare and turn and boundTo the deeper quietude,To the place where nothing stirsIn the silence of the furze.

And should you come I'd run away,

I would make an angry sound,

I would stare and turn and bound

To the deeper quietude,

To the place where nothing stirs

In the silence of the furze.

In that airy quietnessI would think as long as they;Through the quiet sunninessI would stray away to broodBy a hidden beaten wayIn a sunny solitude,I would think until I foundSomething I can never find,Something lying on the ground,In the bottom of my mind.James Stephens

In that airy quietness

I would think as long as they;

Through the quiet sunniness

I would stray away to brood

By a hidden beaten way

In a sunny solitude,

I would think until I found

Something I can never find,

Something lying on the ground,

In the bottom of my mind.

James Stephens

169

UNDER A WILTSHIRE APPLE TREESome folks as can afford,So I've heard say,Set up a sort of crossRight in the garden wayTo mind 'em of the Lord.But I, when I do seeThik[88]apple treeAn' stoopin' limbAll spread wi' moss,I think of HimAnd how He talks wi' me.I think of GodAnd how He trodThat garden long ago;He walked, I reckon, to and froAnd then sat downUpon the groun'Or some low limbWhat suited Him,Such as you seeOn many a tree,And on thik very oneWhere I at set o' sunDo sit and talk wi' He.And, mornings, too, I rise and comeAn' sit down where the branch be low;A bird do sing, a bee do hum,The flowers in the border blow,And all my heart's so glad and clearAs pools be when the sun do peer,As pools a-laughing in the lightWhen mornin' air is swep' an' bright,As pools what got all Heaven in sight,So's my heart's cheerWhen He be near.He never pushed the garden door,He left no footmark on the floor;I never heard 'Un stir nor treadAnd yet His Hand do bless my head,And when 'tis time for work to startI takes Him with me in my heart.And when I die, pray God I seeAt very last thik apple treeAn' stoopin' limb,And think of HimAnd all He been to me.Anna Bunston de Bary

Some folks as can afford,So I've heard say,Set up a sort of crossRight in the garden wayTo mind 'em of the Lord.But I, when I do seeThik[88]apple treeAn' stoopin' limbAll spread wi' moss,I think of HimAnd how He talks wi' me.I think of GodAnd how He trodThat garden long ago;He walked, I reckon, to and froAnd then sat downUpon the groun'Or some low limbWhat suited Him,Such as you seeOn many a tree,And on thik very oneWhere I at set o' sunDo sit and talk wi' He.And, mornings, too, I rise and comeAn' sit down where the branch be low;A bird do sing, a bee do hum,The flowers in the border blow,And all my heart's so glad and clearAs pools be when the sun do peer,As pools a-laughing in the lightWhen mornin' air is swep' an' bright,As pools what got all Heaven in sight,So's my heart's cheerWhen He be near.He never pushed the garden door,He left no footmark on the floor;I never heard 'Un stir nor treadAnd yet His Hand do bless my head,And when 'tis time for work to startI takes Him with me in my heart.And when I die, pray God I seeAt very last thik apple treeAn' stoopin' limb,And think of HimAnd all He been to me.Anna Bunston de Bary

Some folks as can afford,

So I've heard say,

Set up a sort of cross

Right in the garden way

To mind 'em of the Lord.

But I, when I do see

Thik[88]apple tree

An' stoopin' limb

All spread wi' moss,

I think of Him

And how He talks wi' me.

I think of GodAnd how He trodThat garden long ago;He walked, I reckon, to and froAnd then sat downUpon the groun'Or some low limbWhat suited Him,Such as you seeOn many a tree,And on thik very oneWhere I at set o' sunDo sit and talk wi' He.

I think of God

And how He trod

That garden long ago;

He walked, I reckon, to and fro

And then sat down

Upon the groun'

Or some low limb

What suited Him,

Such as you see

On many a tree,

And on thik very one

Where I at set o' sun

Do sit and talk wi' He.

And, mornings, too, I rise and comeAn' sit down where the branch be low;A bird do sing, a bee do hum,The flowers in the border blow,And all my heart's so glad and clearAs pools be when the sun do peer,As pools a-laughing in the lightWhen mornin' air is swep' an' bright,As pools what got all Heaven in sight,So's my heart's cheerWhen He be near.

And, mornings, too, I rise and come

An' sit down where the branch be low;

A bird do sing, a bee do hum,

The flowers in the border blow,

And all my heart's so glad and clear

As pools be when the sun do peer,

As pools a-laughing in the light

When mornin' air is swep' an' bright,

As pools what got all Heaven in sight,

So's my heart's cheer

When He be near.

He never pushed the garden door,He left no footmark on the floor;I never heard 'Un stir nor treadAnd yet His Hand do bless my head,And when 'tis time for work to startI takes Him with me in my heart.And when I die, pray God I seeAt very last thik apple treeAn' stoopin' limb,And think of HimAnd all He been to me.Anna Bunston de Bary

He never pushed the garden door,

He left no footmark on the floor;

I never heard 'Un stir nor tread

And yet His Hand do bless my head,

And when 'tis time for work to start

I takes Him with me in my heart.

And when I die, pray God I see

At very last thik apple tree

An' stoopin' limb,

And think of Him

And all He been to me.

Anna Bunston de Bary

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