Chapter 30

262

SPRING QUIETGone were but the Winter,Come were but the Spring,I would go to a covertWhere the birds sing.Where in the whitethornSingeth a thrush,And a robin singsIn the holly-bush.Full of fresh scentsAre the budding boughsArching high overA cool green house:Full of sweet scents,And whispering airWhich sayeth softly:"We spread no snare;"Here dwell in safety,Here dwell alone,With a clear streamAnd a mossy stone."Here the sun shinethMost shadily;Here is heard an echoOf the far sea,Though far off it be."Christina Rossetti

Gone were but the Winter,Come were but the Spring,I would go to a covertWhere the birds sing.Where in the whitethornSingeth a thrush,And a robin singsIn the holly-bush.Full of fresh scentsAre the budding boughsArching high overA cool green house:Full of sweet scents,And whispering airWhich sayeth softly:"We spread no snare;"Here dwell in safety,Here dwell alone,With a clear streamAnd a mossy stone."Here the sun shinethMost shadily;Here is heard an echoOf the far sea,Though far off it be."Christina Rossetti

Gone were but the Winter,Come were but the Spring,I would go to a covertWhere the birds sing.

Gone were but the Winter,

Come were but the Spring,

I would go to a covert

Where the birds sing.

Where in the whitethornSingeth a thrush,And a robin singsIn the holly-bush.

Where in the whitethorn

Singeth a thrush,

And a robin sings

In the holly-bush.

Full of fresh scentsAre the budding boughsArching high overA cool green house:

Full of fresh scents

Are the budding boughs

Arching high over

A cool green house:

Full of sweet scents,And whispering airWhich sayeth softly:"We spread no snare;

Full of sweet scents,

And whispering air

Which sayeth softly:

"We spread no snare;

"Here dwell in safety,Here dwell alone,With a clear streamAnd a mossy stone.

"Here dwell in safety,

Here dwell alone,

With a clear stream

And a mossy stone.

"Here the sun shinethMost shadily;Here is heard an echoOf the far sea,Though far off it be."Christina Rossetti

"Here the sun shineth

Most shadily;

Here is heard an echo

Of the far sea,

Though far off it be."

Christina Rossetti

263

A WIDOW BIRDA widow bird sat mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.Percy Bysshe Shelley

A widow bird sat mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.Percy Bysshe Shelley

A widow bird sat mourning for her loveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.

A widow bird sat mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough;

The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.Percy Bysshe Shelley

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground,

And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

264

ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUSSlow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;List to the heavy part the music bears;Woe weeps out her division when she sings.Droop herbs and flowers;Fall grief in showers,Our beauties are not ours;O, I could still,Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,Drop, drop, drop, drop,Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.Ben Jonson

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;List to the heavy part the music bears;Woe weeps out her division when she sings.Droop herbs and flowers;Fall grief in showers,Our beauties are not ours;O, I could still,Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,Drop, drop, drop, drop,Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.Ben Jonson

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;

Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;

List to the heavy part the music bears;

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.

Droop herbs and flowers;

Fall grief in showers,

Our beauties are not ours;

O, I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,

Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.

Ben Jonson

265

THIS LIFEThis Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it everywhere,And strive who can most motion it bequeath.And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fixed there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.But in that pomp it doth not long appear;For when' tis most admired—in a thought,Because it erst[116]was nought, it turns to nought.William Drummond

This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it everywhere,And strive who can most motion it bequeath.And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fixed there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.But in that pomp it doth not long appear;For when' tis most admired—in a thought,Because it erst[116]was nought, it turns to nought.William Drummond

This Life, which seems so fair,

Is like a bubble blown up in the air

By sporting children's breath,

Who chase it everywhere,

And strive who can most motion it bequeath.

And though it sometimes seem of its own might

Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,

And firm to hover in that empty height,

That only is because it is so light.

But in that pomp it doth not long appear;

For when' tis most admired—in a thought,

Because it erst[116]was nought, it turns to nought.

William Drummond

266

SWEET CONTENTArt thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?O, sweet content!Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?O, punishment!Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexedTo add to golden numbers golden numbers?O, sweet content! O, sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?O, sweet content!Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?O, punishment!Then he that patiently want's burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!Thomas Dekker

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?O, sweet content!Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?O, punishment!Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexedTo add to golden numbers golden numbers?O, sweet content! O, sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?O, sweet content!Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?O, punishment!Then he that patiently want's burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!Thomas Dekker

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

O, sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?

O, punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed

To add to golden numbers golden numbers?

O, sweet content! O, sweet, O sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?O, sweet content!Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?O, punishment!Then he that patiently want's burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?

O, sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?

O, punishment!

Then he that patiently want's burden bears,

No burden bears, but is a king, a king!

O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!Thomas Dekker

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!

Thomas Dekker

267

OH, SWEET CONTENTOh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.William H. Davies

Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.William H. Davies

Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweatTo tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;How often have I sought you high and low,And found you still in some lone quiet place;

Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat

To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;

How often have I sought you high and low,

And found you still in some lone quiet place;

Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,With no life heard beyond that merry soundOf moths that on my lighted ceiling kissTheir shadows as they dance and dance around;

Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,

With no life heard beyond that merry sound

Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss

Their shadows as they dance and dance around;

Or in a garden, on a summer's night,When I have seen the dark and solemn airBlink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright faceTwitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.William H. Davies

Or in a garden, on a summer's night,

When I have seen the dark and solemn air

Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face

Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.

William H. Davies

268

RARELY, RARELY, COMEST THOURarely, rarely, comest thou,Spirit of Delight!Wherefore hast thou left me nowMany a day and night?Many a weary night and day'Tis since thou art fled away.How shall ever one like meWin thee back again?With the joyous and the freeThou wilt scoff at pain.Spirit false! thou hast forgotAll but those who need thee not.As a lizard with the shadeOf a trembling leaf,Thou with sorrow art dismayed;Even the sighs of griefReproach thee, that thou art not near,And reproach thou wilt not hear.Let me set my mournful dittyTo a merry measure,Thou wilt never come for pity,Thou wilt come for pleasure.Pity then will cut away,Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.I love all that thòu lovest,Spirit of Delight!The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,And the starry night,Autumn evening, and the mornWhen the golden mists are born.I love snow, and all the formsOf the radiant frost;I love waves, and winds, and storms,Everything almostWhich is Nature's, and may beUntainted by man's misery.I love tranquil solitudeAnd such societyAs is quiet, wise, and good;Between thee and meWhat difference? but thou dost possessThe things I seek, not love them less.I love Love—though he has wings,And like light can flee,But above all other things,Spirit, I love thee—Thou art love and life! O come,Make once more my heart thy home!Percy Bysshe Shelley

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,Spirit of Delight!Wherefore hast thou left me nowMany a day and night?Many a weary night and day'Tis since thou art fled away.How shall ever one like meWin thee back again?With the joyous and the freeThou wilt scoff at pain.Spirit false! thou hast forgotAll but those who need thee not.As a lizard with the shadeOf a trembling leaf,Thou with sorrow art dismayed;Even the sighs of griefReproach thee, that thou art not near,And reproach thou wilt not hear.Let me set my mournful dittyTo a merry measure,Thou wilt never come for pity,Thou wilt come for pleasure.Pity then will cut away,Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.I love all that thòu lovest,Spirit of Delight!The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,And the starry night,Autumn evening, and the mornWhen the golden mists are born.I love snow, and all the formsOf the radiant frost;I love waves, and winds, and storms,Everything almostWhich is Nature's, and may beUntainted by man's misery.I love tranquil solitudeAnd such societyAs is quiet, wise, and good;Between thee and meWhat difference? but thou dost possessThe things I seek, not love them less.I love Love—though he has wings,And like light can flee,But above all other things,Spirit, I love thee—Thou art love and life! O come,Make once more my heart thy home!Percy Bysshe Shelley

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,Spirit of Delight!Wherefore hast thou left me nowMany a day and night?Many a weary night and day'Tis since thou art fled away.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night?

Many a weary night and day

'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like meWin thee back again?With the joyous and the freeThou wilt scoff at pain.Spirit false! thou hast forgotAll but those who need thee not.

How shall ever one like me

Win thee back again?

With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shadeOf a trembling leaf,Thou with sorrow art dismayed;Even the sighs of griefReproach thee, that thou art not near,And reproach thou wilt not hear.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;

Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,

And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful dittyTo a merry measure,Thou wilt never come for pity,Thou wilt come for pleasure.Pity then will cut away,Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure.

Pity then will cut away,

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thòu lovest,Spirit of Delight!The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,And the starry night,Autumn evening, and the mornWhen the golden mists are born.

I love all that thòu lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,

And the starry night,

Autumn evening, and the morn

When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the formsOf the radiant frost;I love waves, and winds, and storms,Everything almostWhich is Nature's, and may beUntainted by man's misery.

I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitudeAnd such societyAs is quiet, wise, and good;Between thee and meWhat difference? but thou dost possessThe things I seek, not love them less.

I love tranquil solitude

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess

The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love—though he has wings,And like light can flee,But above all other things,Spirit, I love thee—Thou art love and life! O come,Make once more my heart thy home!Percy Bysshe Shelley

I love Love—though he has wings,

And like light can flee,

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee—

Thou art love and life! O come,

Make once more my heart thy home!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

269

BIRTHRIGHTLord Rameses of Egypt sighedBecause a summer evening passed;And little Ariadne criedThat summer fancy fell at lastTo dust; and young Verona diedWhen beauty's hour was overcast.Theirs was the bitterness we knowBecause the clouds of hawthorn keepSo short a state, and kisses goTo tombs unfathomably deep,While Rameses and RomeoAnd little Ariadne sleep.John Drinkwater

Lord Rameses of Egypt sighedBecause a summer evening passed;And little Ariadne criedThat summer fancy fell at lastTo dust; and young Verona diedWhen beauty's hour was overcast.Theirs was the bitterness we knowBecause the clouds of hawthorn keepSo short a state, and kisses goTo tombs unfathomably deep,While Rameses and RomeoAnd little Ariadne sleep.John Drinkwater

Lord Rameses of Egypt sighedBecause a summer evening passed;And little Ariadne criedThat summer fancy fell at lastTo dust; and young Verona diedWhen beauty's hour was overcast.

Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed

Because a summer evening passed;

And little Ariadne cried

That summer fancy fell at last

To dust; and young Verona died

When beauty's hour was overcast.

Theirs was the bitterness we knowBecause the clouds of hawthorn keepSo short a state, and kisses goTo tombs unfathomably deep,While Rameses and RomeoAnd little Ariadne sleep.John Drinkwater

Theirs was the bitterness we know

Because the clouds of hawthorn keep

So short a state, and kisses go

To tombs unfathomably deep,

While Rameses and Romeo

And little Ariadne sleep.

John Drinkwater

270

O SORROW!... "O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—To give maiden blushesTo the white rose bushes?Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips?"O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—To give the glow-worm light?Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?"O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—To give at evening paleUnto the nightingale,That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?"O sorrow,Why dost borrowHeart's lightness from the merriment of May?—A lover would not treadA cowslip on the head,Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—Nor any drooping flowerHeld sacred for thy bower,Wherever he may sport himself and play."To Sorrow,I bade good-morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant, to me, and so kind:I could deceive herAnd so leave her,But oh! she is so constant and so kind...."Come then, Sorrow!Sweetest Sorrow!Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:I thought to leave theeAnd deceive thee,But now of all the world I love thee best."There is not one,No, no, not oneBut thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;Thou art her mother,And her brother,Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."...John Keats

... "O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—To give maiden blushesTo the white rose bushes?Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips?"O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—To give the glow-worm light?Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?"O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—To give at evening paleUnto the nightingale,That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?"O sorrow,Why dost borrowHeart's lightness from the merriment of May?—A lover would not treadA cowslip on the head,Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—Nor any drooping flowerHeld sacred for thy bower,Wherever he may sport himself and play."To Sorrow,I bade good-morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant, to me, and so kind:I could deceive herAnd so leave her,But oh! she is so constant and so kind...."Come then, Sorrow!Sweetest Sorrow!Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:I thought to leave theeAnd deceive thee,But now of all the world I love thee best."There is not one,No, no, not oneBut thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;Thou art her mother,And her brother,Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."...John Keats

... "O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—To give maiden blushesTo the white rose bushes?Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

... "O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?—

To give maiden blushes

To the white rose bushes?

Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips?

"O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—To give the glow-worm light?Or, on a moonless night,To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

"O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?—

To give the glow-worm light?

Or, on a moonless night,

To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?

"O Sorrow,Why dost borrowThe mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—To give at evening paleUnto the nightingale,That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

"O Sorrow,

Why dost borrow

The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?—

To give at evening pale

Unto the nightingale,

That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?

"O sorrow,Why dost borrowHeart's lightness from the merriment of May?—A lover would not treadA cowslip on the head,Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—Nor any drooping flowerHeld sacred for thy bower,Wherever he may sport himself and play.

"O sorrow,

Why dost borrow

Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?—

A lover would not tread

A cowslip on the head,

Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—

Nor any drooping flower

Held sacred for thy bower,

Wherever he may sport himself and play.

"To Sorrow,I bade good-morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant, to me, and so kind:I could deceive herAnd so leave her,But oh! she is so constant and so kind....

"To Sorrow,

I bade good-morrow,

And thought to leave her far away behind;

But cheerly, cheerly,

She loves me dearly;

She is so constant, to me, and so kind:

I could deceive her

And so leave her,

But oh! she is so constant and so kind....

"Come then, Sorrow!Sweetest Sorrow!Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:I thought to leave theeAnd deceive thee,But now of all the world I love thee best.

"Come then, Sorrow!

Sweetest Sorrow!

Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:

I thought to leave thee

And deceive thee,

But now of all the world I love thee best.

"There is not one,No, no, not oneBut thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;Thou art her mother,And her brother,Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."...John Keats

"There is not one,

No, no, not one

But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;

Thou art her mother,

And her brother,

Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."...

John Keats

271

WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTEREDWhen the lamp is shattered,The light in the dust lies dead—When the cloud is scatteredThe rainbow's glory is shed.When the lute is broken,Sweet tones are remembered not;When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute:—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruined cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.When hearts have once mingledLove first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love, who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?Its passions will rock theeAs the storm rocks the ravens on high:Bright reason will mock thee,Like the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee to naked laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.Percy Bysshe Shelley

When the lamp is shattered,The light in the dust lies dead—When the cloud is scatteredThe rainbow's glory is shed.When the lute is broken,Sweet tones are remembered not;When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute:—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruined cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.When hearts have once mingledLove first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love, who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?Its passions will rock theeAs the storm rocks the ravens on high:Bright reason will mock thee,Like the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee to naked laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.Percy Bysshe Shelley

When the lamp is shattered,

The light in the dust lies dead—

When the cloud is scattered

The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,

Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute,The heart's echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute:—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruined cell,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman's knell.

As music and splendour

Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute:—

No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingledLove first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possest.O Love, who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?

When hearts have once mingled

Love first leaves the well-built nest;

The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.

O Love, who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock theeAs the storm rocks the ravens on high:Bright reason will mock thee,Like the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle homeLeave thee to naked laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.Percy Bysshe Shelley

Its passions will rock thee

As the storm rocks the ravens on high:

Bright reason will mock thee,

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter

Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee to naked laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

272

ONCEHe sees them passAs the light is graying,Each lad and lassIn their beauty gayingAnd a voice in his aching heart is saying:"Once—once even IWas straight as these,As clear of eye,And as apt to pleaseWhen I tuned my voice to balladries.Now my eyes are dim,Their old fires forsaking,And each wasted limbAs a branch is shaking,And my grief-bowed heart will soon be breaking.—Ah, if One comes notBeckoning nighTo that land where hums notOne small fly,These Strong and Fair shall be as I."Eric N. Batterham

He sees them passAs the light is graying,Each lad and lassIn their beauty gayingAnd a voice in his aching heart is saying:"Once—once even IWas straight as these,As clear of eye,And as apt to pleaseWhen I tuned my voice to balladries.Now my eyes are dim,Their old fires forsaking,And each wasted limbAs a branch is shaking,And my grief-bowed heart will soon be breaking.—Ah, if One comes notBeckoning nighTo that land where hums notOne small fly,These Strong and Fair shall be as I."Eric N. Batterham

He sees them passAs the light is graying,Each lad and lassIn their beauty gayingAnd a voice in his aching heart is saying:

He sees them pass

As the light is graying,

Each lad and lass

In their beauty gaying

And a voice in his aching heart is saying:

"Once—once even IWas straight as these,As clear of eye,And as apt to pleaseWhen I tuned my voice to balladries.

"Once—once even I

Was straight as these,

As clear of eye,

And as apt to please

When I tuned my voice to balladries.

Now my eyes are dim,Their old fires forsaking,And each wasted limbAs a branch is shaking,And my grief-bowed heart will soon be breaking.

Now my eyes are dim,

Their old fires forsaking,

And each wasted limb

As a branch is shaking,

And my grief-bowed heart will soon be breaking.

—Ah, if One comes notBeckoning nighTo that land where hums notOne small fly,These Strong and Fair shall be as I."Eric N. Batterham

—Ah, if One comes not

Beckoning nigh

To that land where hums not

One small fly,

These Strong and Fair shall be as I."

Eric N. Batterham

273

UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATHBefore my face the picture hangsThat dailie should put me in mindeOf those cold qualms and bitter pangsThat shortly I am like to finde:But yet, alas! full little IDo think hereon, that I must die.I often look upon a faceMost uglie, grislie, bare, and thin;I often view the hollow placeWhere eyes and nose have sometime been;I see the bones across that lie;Yet little think, that I must die.I read the label underneathe,That telleth me whereto I must:I see the sentence eke that saithe"Remember, man, that thou art duste;"But yet, alas, but seldom IDo think indeed, that I must die!Continually at my bed's headAn hearse doth hang, which doth me tellThat I, ere morning, may be dead,Though now I feel myself full well:But yet, alas, for all this, IHave little minde that I must die!The gowne which I do use to weare,The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,And eke that old and ancient chairWhich is my only usual seate,All these do tell me I must die;And yet my life amende not I!My ancestors are turned to clay,And many of my mates are gone;My youngers daily drop away;—And can I think to 'scape alone?No, no, I know that I must die;And yet my life amende not I!Not Solomon, for all his wit,Nor Samson, though he were so strong,No king, nor ever person yet,Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!Wherefore I know that I must die;And yet my life amende not I!Though all the east did quake to hearOf Alexander's dreadful name,And all the west did likewise fearThe sound of Julius Caesar's fame,Yet both by death in duste now lie;Who then can 'scape, but he must die?If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte,If rich and poor his beck obey,If strong, if wise, if all do smarte,Then I to 'scape shall have no way.O grant me grace, O God, that IMy life may mende, sith I must die!Robert Southwell

Before my face the picture hangsThat dailie should put me in mindeOf those cold qualms and bitter pangsThat shortly I am like to finde:But yet, alas! full little IDo think hereon, that I must die.I often look upon a faceMost uglie, grislie, bare, and thin;I often view the hollow placeWhere eyes and nose have sometime been;I see the bones across that lie;Yet little think, that I must die.I read the label underneathe,That telleth me whereto I must:I see the sentence eke that saithe"Remember, man, that thou art duste;"But yet, alas, but seldom IDo think indeed, that I must die!Continually at my bed's headAn hearse doth hang, which doth me tellThat I, ere morning, may be dead,Though now I feel myself full well:But yet, alas, for all this, IHave little minde that I must die!The gowne which I do use to weare,The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,And eke that old and ancient chairWhich is my only usual seate,All these do tell me I must die;And yet my life amende not I!My ancestors are turned to clay,And many of my mates are gone;My youngers daily drop away;—And can I think to 'scape alone?No, no, I know that I must die;And yet my life amende not I!Not Solomon, for all his wit,Nor Samson, though he were so strong,No king, nor ever person yet,Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!Wherefore I know that I must die;And yet my life amende not I!Though all the east did quake to hearOf Alexander's dreadful name,And all the west did likewise fearThe sound of Julius Caesar's fame,Yet both by death in duste now lie;Who then can 'scape, but he must die?If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte,If rich and poor his beck obey,If strong, if wise, if all do smarte,Then I to 'scape shall have no way.O grant me grace, O God, that IMy life may mende, sith I must die!Robert Southwell

Before my face the picture hangsThat dailie should put me in mindeOf those cold qualms and bitter pangsThat shortly I am like to finde:But yet, alas! full little IDo think hereon, that I must die.

Before my face the picture hangs

That dailie should put me in minde

Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs

That shortly I am like to finde:

But yet, alas! full little I

Do think hereon, that I must die.

I often look upon a faceMost uglie, grislie, bare, and thin;I often view the hollow placeWhere eyes and nose have sometime been;I see the bones across that lie;Yet little think, that I must die.

I often look upon a face

Most uglie, grislie, bare, and thin;

I often view the hollow place

Where eyes and nose have sometime been;

I see the bones across that lie;

Yet little think, that I must die.

I read the label underneathe,That telleth me whereto I must:I see the sentence eke that saithe"Remember, man, that thou art duste;"But yet, alas, but seldom IDo think indeed, that I must die!

I read the label underneathe,

That telleth me whereto I must:

I see the sentence eke that saithe

"Remember, man, that thou art duste;"

But yet, alas, but seldom I

Do think indeed, that I must die!

Continually at my bed's headAn hearse doth hang, which doth me tellThat I, ere morning, may be dead,Though now I feel myself full well:But yet, alas, for all this, IHave little minde that I must die!

Continually at my bed's head

An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell

That I, ere morning, may be dead,

Though now I feel myself full well:

But yet, alas, for all this, I

Have little minde that I must die!

The gowne which I do use to weare,The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,And eke that old and ancient chairWhich is my only usual seate,All these do tell me I must die;And yet my life amende not I!

The gowne which I do use to weare,

The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,

And eke that old and ancient chair

Which is my only usual seate,

All these do tell me I must die;

And yet my life amende not I!

My ancestors are turned to clay,And many of my mates are gone;My youngers daily drop away;—And can I think to 'scape alone?No, no, I know that I must die;And yet my life amende not I!

My ancestors are turned to clay,

And many of my mates are gone;

My youngers daily drop away;—

And can I think to 'scape alone?

No, no, I know that I must die;

And yet my life amende not I!

Not Solomon, for all his wit,Nor Samson, though he were so strong,No king, nor ever person yet,Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!Wherefore I know that I must die;And yet my life amende not I!

Not Solomon, for all his wit,

Nor Samson, though he were so strong,

No king, nor ever person yet,

Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!

Wherefore I know that I must die;

And yet my life amende not I!

Though all the east did quake to hearOf Alexander's dreadful name,And all the west did likewise fearThe sound of Julius Caesar's fame,Yet both by death in duste now lie;Who then can 'scape, but he must die?

Though all the east did quake to hear

Of Alexander's dreadful name,

And all the west did likewise fear

The sound of Julius Caesar's fame,

Yet both by death in duste now lie;

Who then can 'scape, but he must die?

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte,If rich and poor his beck obey,If strong, if wise, if all do smarte,Then I to 'scape shall have no way.O grant me grace, O God, that IMy life may mende, sith I must die!Robert Southwell

If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte,

If rich and poor his beck obey,

If strong, if wise, if all do smarte,

Then I to 'scape shall have no way.

O grant me grace, O God, that I

My life may mende, sith I must die!

Robert Southwell

274

ADIEU! FAREWELL EARTH'S BLISS!Adieu! farewell earth's bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life's lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour:Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fairDust hath closed Helen's eye:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Strength stoops unto the graveWorms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come! come!the bells do cry:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Wit with his wantonness,Tasteth death's bitterness.Hell's executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply.I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Haste, therefore, each degreeTo welcome destiny!Heaven is our heritage;Earth but a player's stage.Mount we unto the sky!I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Thomas Nash

Adieu! farewell earth's bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life's lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour:Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fairDust hath closed Helen's eye:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Strength stoops unto the graveWorms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come! come!the bells do cry:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Wit with his wantonness,Tasteth death's bitterness.Hell's executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply.I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Haste, therefore, each degreeTo welcome destiny!Heaven is our heritage;Earth but a player's stage.Mount we unto the sky!I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Thomas Nash

Adieu! farewell earth's bliss!This world uncertain is:Fond are life's lustful joys,Death proves them all but toys.None from his darts can fly:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Adieu! farewell earth's bliss!

This world uncertain is:

Fond are life's lustful joys,

Death proves them all but toys.

None from his darts can fly:

I am sick, I must die—

Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you health;Physic himself must fade;All things to end are made;The plague full swift goes by:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,

Gold cannot buy you health;

Physic himself must fade;

All things to end are made;

The plague full swift goes by:

I am sick, I must die—

Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour:Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fairDust hath closed Helen's eye:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower

Which wrinkles will devour:

Brightness falls from the air;

Queens have died young and fair

Dust hath closed Helen's eye:

I am sick, I must die—

Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the graveWorms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come! come!the bells do cry:I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave

Worms feed on Hector brave;

Swords may not fight with fate;

Earth still holds ope her gate;

Come! come!the bells do cry:

I am sick, I must die—

Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness,Tasteth death's bitterness.Hell's executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply.I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness,

Tasteth death's bitterness.

Hell's executioner

Hath no ears for to hear

What vain art can reply.

I am sick, I must die—

Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste, therefore, each degreeTo welcome destiny!Heaven is our heritage;Earth but a player's stage.Mount we unto the sky!I am sick, I must die—Lord, have mercy on us!Thomas Nash

Haste, therefore, each degree

To welcome destiny!

Heaven is our heritage;

Earth but a player's stage.

Mount we unto the sky!

I am sick, I must die—

Lord, have mercy on us!

Thomas Nash

275

MESSAGESWhat shall I your true-love tell,Earth-forsaking maid?What shall I your true-love tell,When life's spectre's laid?"Tell him that, our side the grave,Maid may not conceiveLife should be so sad to have,That's so sad to leave!"What shall I your true-love tell,When I come to him?What shall I your true-love tell—Eyes growing dim!"Tell him this, when you shall partFrom a maiden pined;That I see him with my heart,Now my eyes are blind."What shall I your true-love tell?Speaking-while is scant.What shall I your true-love tell,Death's white postulant?"Tell him—love, with speech at strife,For last utterance saith:I, who loved with all my life,Love with all my death."Francis Thompson

What shall I your true-love tell,Earth-forsaking maid?What shall I your true-love tell,When life's spectre's laid?"Tell him that, our side the grave,Maid may not conceiveLife should be so sad to have,That's so sad to leave!"What shall I your true-love tell,When I come to him?What shall I your true-love tell—Eyes growing dim!"Tell him this, when you shall partFrom a maiden pined;That I see him with my heart,Now my eyes are blind."What shall I your true-love tell?Speaking-while is scant.What shall I your true-love tell,Death's white postulant?"Tell him—love, with speech at strife,For last utterance saith:I, who loved with all my life,Love with all my death."Francis Thompson

What shall I your true-love tell,Earth-forsaking maid?What shall I your true-love tell,When life's spectre's laid?

What shall I your true-love tell,

Earth-forsaking maid?

What shall I your true-love tell,

When life's spectre's laid?

"Tell him that, our side the grave,Maid may not conceiveLife should be so sad to have,That's so sad to leave!"

"Tell him that, our side the grave,

Maid may not conceive

Life should be so sad to have,

That's so sad to leave!"

What shall I your true-love tell,When I come to him?What shall I your true-love tell—Eyes growing dim!

What shall I your true-love tell,

When I come to him?

What shall I your true-love tell—

Eyes growing dim!

"Tell him this, when you shall partFrom a maiden pined;That I see him with my heart,Now my eyes are blind."

"Tell him this, when you shall part

From a maiden pined;

That I see him with my heart,

Now my eyes are blind."

What shall I your true-love tell?Speaking-while is scant.What shall I your true-love tell,Death's white postulant?

What shall I your true-love tell?

Speaking-while is scant.

What shall I your true-love tell,

Death's white postulant?

"Tell him—love, with speech at strife,For last utterance saith:I, who loved with all my life,Love with all my death."Francis Thompson

"Tell him—love, with speech at strife,

For last utterance saith:

I, who loved with all my life,

Love with all my death."

Francis Thompson

276

DOUBTSWhen she sleeps, her soul, I know,Goes a wanderer on the air,Wings where I may never go,Leaves her lying, still and fair,Waiting, empty, laid aside,Like a dress upon a chair....This I know, and yet I knowDoubts that will not be denied.For if the soul be not in place,What has laid trouble in her face?And, sits there nothing ware and wiseBehind the curtains of her eyes,What is it, in the self's eclipse,Shadows, soft and passingly,About the corners of her lips,The smile that is essential she?And if the spirit be not there,Why is fragrance in the hair?Rupert Brooke

When she sleeps, her soul, I know,Goes a wanderer on the air,Wings where I may never go,Leaves her lying, still and fair,Waiting, empty, laid aside,Like a dress upon a chair....This I know, and yet I knowDoubts that will not be denied.For if the soul be not in place,What has laid trouble in her face?And, sits there nothing ware and wiseBehind the curtains of her eyes,What is it, in the self's eclipse,Shadows, soft and passingly,About the corners of her lips,The smile that is essential she?And if the spirit be not there,Why is fragrance in the hair?Rupert Brooke

When she sleeps, her soul, I know,

Goes a wanderer on the air,

Wings where I may never go,

Leaves her lying, still and fair,

Waiting, empty, laid aside,

Like a dress upon a chair....

This I know, and yet I know

Doubts that will not be denied.

For if the soul be not in place,What has laid trouble in her face?And, sits there nothing ware and wiseBehind the curtains of her eyes,What is it, in the self's eclipse,Shadows, soft and passingly,About the corners of her lips,The smile that is essential she?

For if the soul be not in place,

What has laid trouble in her face?

And, sits there nothing ware and wise

Behind the curtains of her eyes,

What is it, in the self's eclipse,

Shadows, soft and passingly,

About the corners of her lips,

The smile that is essential she?

And if the spirit be not there,Why is fragrance in the hair?Rupert Brooke

And if the spirit be not there,

Why is fragrance in the hair?

Rupert Brooke

277

HARKHark! now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrillCall upon our dame aloud,And bid her quickly don her shroud.Much you had of land and rent;Your length in clay's now competent.A long war disturbed your mind;Here your perfect peace is signed.Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?—Sin their conception, their birth weeping,Their life a general mist of error,Their death a hideous storm of terror.Strew your hair with powders sweet,Don clean linen, bathe your feet,And (the foul fiend more to check)A crucifix let bless your neck:'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;End your groan, and come away.John Webster

Hark! now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrillCall upon our dame aloud,And bid her quickly don her shroud.Much you had of land and rent;Your length in clay's now competent.A long war disturbed your mind;Here your perfect peace is signed.Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?—Sin their conception, their birth weeping,Their life a general mist of error,Their death a hideous storm of terror.Strew your hair with powders sweet,Don clean linen, bathe your feet,And (the foul fiend more to check)A crucifix let bless your neck:'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;End your groan, and come away.John Webster

Hark! now everything is still,The screech-owl and the whistler shrillCall upon our dame aloud,And bid her quickly don her shroud.

Hark! now everything is still,

The screech-owl and the whistler shrill

Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud.

Much you had of land and rent;Your length in clay's now competent.A long war disturbed your mind;Here your perfect peace is signed.Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?—Sin their conception, their birth weeping,Their life a general mist of error,Their death a hideous storm of terror.Strew your hair with powders sweet,Don clean linen, bathe your feet,And (the foul fiend more to check)A crucifix let bless your neck:'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;End your groan, and come away.John Webster

Much you had of land and rent;

Your length in clay's now competent.

A long war disturbed your mind;

Here your perfect peace is signed.

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?—

Sin their conception, their birth weeping,

Their life a general mist of error,

Their death a hideous storm of terror.

Strew your hair with powders sweet,

Don clean linen, bathe your feet,

And (the foul fiend more to check)

A crucifix let bless your neck:

'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;

End your groan, and come away.

John Webster

278

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGEThis ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.When thou from hence away art past,Every nighte and alle,To Whinny-muir thou comest at last;And Christe receive thy saule.If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,Every nighte and alle,Sit thee down and put them on;And Christe receive thy saule.If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,Every nighte and alle,The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thy saule.From Whinny-muir that thou may'st pass,Every nighte and alle,To Brig o' Dread thou comest at last,And Christe receive thy saule.From Brig o' Dread that thou may'st pass,Every nighte and alle,To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last,And Christe receive thy saule.If ever thou gavest meat or drink,Every nighte and alle,The fire sall never make thee shrink;And Christe receive thy saule.If meat and drink thou ne'er gav'st naneEvery nighte and alle,The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,And Christe receive thy saule.This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.When thou from hence away art past,Every nighte and alle,To Whinny-muir thou comest at last;And Christe receive thy saule.If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,Every nighte and alle,Sit thee down and put them on;And Christe receive thy saule.If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,Every nighte and alle,The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thy saule.From Whinny-muir that thou may'st pass,Every nighte and alle,To Brig o' Dread thou comest at last,And Christe receive thy saule.From Brig o' Dread that thou may'st pass,Every nighte and alle,To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last,And Christe receive thy saule.If ever thou gavest meat or drink,Every nighte and alle,The fire sall never make thee shrink;And Christe receive thy saule.If meat and drink thou ne'er gav'st naneEvery nighte and alle,The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,And Christe receive thy saule.This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,

Every nighte and alle,

Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,