If souls should only shine as brightIn heaven as in earthly light,And nothing better were the case,How comely still, in shape and face,Would many reach that happy place,—The hopeful souls that in their prime,Have seemed a-taken before their time—The young that died in beauty.But when one's limbs have lost their strengthA-toiling through a lifetime's length,And over cheeks a-growing oldThe slowly-wasting years have rolledThe deepening wrinkles' hollow fold;When life is ripe, then death do callFor less of thought, than when it fallOn young folks in their beauty....But still the dead shall more than keepThe beauty of their early sleep;Where comely looks shall never wearUncomely, under toil and care,The fair, at death be always fair,Still fair to living, thought and love,And fairer still to God above,Than when they died in beauty.
If souls should only shine as brightIn heaven as in earthly light,And nothing better were the case,How comely still, in shape and face,Would many reach that happy place,—The hopeful souls that in their prime,Have seemed a-taken before their time—The young that died in beauty.But when one's limbs have lost their strengthA-toiling through a lifetime's length,And over cheeks a-growing oldThe slowly-wasting years have rolledThe deepening wrinkles' hollow fold;When life is ripe, then death do callFor less of thought, than when it fallOn young folks in their beauty....But still the dead shall more than keepThe beauty of their early sleep;Where comely looks shall never wearUncomely, under toil and care,The fair, at death be always fair,Still fair to living, thought and love,And fairer still to God above,Than when they died in beauty.
If souls should only shine as brightIn heaven as in earthly light,And nothing better were the case,How comely still, in shape and face,Would many reach that happy place,—The hopeful souls that in their prime,Have seemed a-taken before their time—The young that died in beauty.
If souls should only shine as bright
In heaven as in earthly light,
And nothing better were the case,
How comely still, in shape and face,
Would many reach that happy place,—
The hopeful souls that in their prime,
Have seemed a-taken before their time—
The young that died in beauty.
But when one's limbs have lost their strengthA-toiling through a lifetime's length,And over cheeks a-growing oldThe slowly-wasting years have rolledThe deepening wrinkles' hollow fold;When life is ripe, then death do callFor less of thought, than when it fallOn young folks in their beauty....
But when one's limbs have lost their strength
A-toiling through a lifetime's length,
And over cheeks a-growing old
The slowly-wasting years have rolled
The deepening wrinkles' hollow fold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
For less of thought, than when it fall
On young folks in their beauty....
But still the dead shall more than keepThe beauty of their early sleep;Where comely looks shall never wearUncomely, under toil and care,The fair, at death be always fair,Still fair to living, thought and love,And fairer still to God above,Than when they died in beauty.
But still the dead shall more than keep
The beauty of their early sleep;
Where comely looks shall never wear
Uncomely, under toil and care,
The fair, at death be always fair,
Still fair to living, thought and love,
And fairer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.
I remember actually coming upon this poem (in Mr. Nahum's second book), and how I twisted my head and looked up atthe quiet dark-socketed skull in its alcove in the turret room. It had no alarm for me then, though I can recall cold moments of dread or confusion, when I was a boy, at the thought of death. Then—or was it some time after?—I turned the page and found the following poem by Thomas Campion, and, in Mr. Nahum's writing, this scrawl at the foot of it: "Yes, but the vision first."
The man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence:He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
The man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence:He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
The man of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is freeFrom all dishonest deeds,Or thought of vanity;
The man of life upright,
Whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds,
Or thought of vanity;
The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot deludeNor sorrow discontent:
The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude
Nor sorrow discontent:
That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence:
That man needs neither towers
Nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults to fly
From thunder's violence:
He only can beholdWith unaffrighted eyesThe horrors of the deepAnd terrors of the skies.
He only can behold
With unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep
And terrors of the skies.
Thus scorning all the caresThat fate or fortune brings,He makes the heaven his book,His wisdom heavenly things;
Thus scorning all the cares
That fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book,
His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends,His wealth a well-spent age,The earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.
Good thoughts his only friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.
" ... Yet suffer us, O Lord, not to repine, whether in the morning, at noon, or at midnight, that is to say, in our cradle, in our youth, or old age, we go to take our long sleep; but let us make this reckoning of our years, that if we can live no longer,thatis unto us our old age; for he that liveth so long as thou appointest him (though he die in the pride of his beauty) dieth an old man...."
This solemn dirge was written in "time of pestilence,"—such a time as Daniel Defoe tells of in his "Journal of the Plague Year." The Elizabethan poets brooded endlessly on the mystery of death. A music haunts their words like that of muffled bells, as in John Fletcher's poem:
... Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry,Leave off complaining!Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,Are here remaining.Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so longFrom being blessed.And mad men, worse than you, that suffer wrong,Yet seek no rest!...
... Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry,Leave off complaining!Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,Are here remaining.Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so longFrom being blessed.And mad men, worse than you, that suffer wrong,Yet seek no rest!...
... Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry,Leave off complaining!Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,Are here remaining.Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so longFrom being blessed.And mad men, worse than you, that suffer wrong,Yet seek no rest!...
... Come hither, you that hope, and you that cry,
Leave off complaining!
Youth, strength, and beauty, that shall never die,
Are here remaining.
Come hither, fools, and blush you stay so long
From being blessed.
And mad men, worse than you, that suffer wrong,
Yet seek no rest!...
And in William Davenant's:
Wake, all the dead! What ho! what ho!How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low!They mind not poor lovers, who walk aboveOn the decks of the world in storms of love.No whisper now nor glance shall passThrough wickets or through panes of glass,For our windows and doors are shut and barred.Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard!In every grave make room, make room!The world's at an end, and we come, we come!...
Wake, all the dead! What ho! what ho!How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low!They mind not poor lovers, who walk aboveOn the decks of the world in storms of love.No whisper now nor glance shall passThrough wickets or through panes of glass,For our windows and doors are shut and barred.Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard!In every grave make room, make room!The world's at an end, and we come, we come!...
Wake, all the dead! What ho! what ho!How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low!They mind not poor lovers, who walk aboveOn the decks of the world in storms of love.No whisper now nor glance shall passThrough wickets or through panes of glass,For our windows and doors are shut and barred.Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard!In every grave make room, make room!The world's at an end, and we come, we come!...
Wake, all the dead! What ho! what ho!
How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low!
They mind not poor lovers, who walk above
On the decks of the world in storms of love.
No whisper now nor glance shall pass
Through wickets or through panes of glass,
For our windows and doors are shut and barred.
Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard!
In every grave make room, make room!
The world's at an end, and we come, we come!...
Not full twelve years twice-told, a weary breathI have exchanged for a wishèd death.My course was short, the longer is my rest,God takes them soonest whom he loveth best;For he that's born to-day and dies to-morrow,Loseth some days of mirth, but months of sorrow.
Not full twelve years twice-told, a weary breathI have exchanged for a wishèd death.My course was short, the longer is my rest,God takes them soonest whom he loveth best;For he that's born to-day and dies to-morrow,Loseth some days of mirth, but months of sorrow.
Not full twelve years twice-told, a weary breathI have exchanged for a wishèd death.My course was short, the longer is my rest,God takes them soonest whom he loveth best;For he that's born to-day and dies to-morrow,Loseth some days of mirth, but months of sorrow.
Not full twelve years twice-told, a weary breath
I have exchanged for a wishèd death.
My course was short, the longer is my rest,
God takes them soonest whom he loveth best;
For he that's born to-day and dies to-morrow,
Loseth some days of mirth, but months of sorrow.
And this reminds me of an epitaph I chanced on in the graveyard at Manorbier whose ruinous castle towers above thegreen turf of its narrow ocean inlet, as if it were keeping a long tryst with the clocked church tower on the height:
Weep not for her ye friends that's dear,Weep for your sins, for death is near—You see by her, she [was] cut down soon.Her morning Sun went down at noon.
Weep not for her ye friends that's dear,Weep for your sins, for death is near—You see by her, she [was] cut down soon.Her morning Sun went down at noon.
Weep not for her ye friends that's dear,Weep for your sins, for death is near—You see by her, she [was] cut down soon.Her morning Sun went down at noon.
Weep not for her ye friends that's dear,
Weep for your sins, for death is near—
You see by her, she [was] cut down soon.
Her morning Sun went down at noon.
And then there are these two unforgettable fragments, the one from the Scots of John Wedderburn (1542), and the other of a century before, its authorship unknown:
Who's at my Window?Who's at my window, who, who?Go from my window, go, go!Who calleth there so like a stranger?Go from my window—go!Lord, I am here, a wretched mortalThat for Thy mercy does cry and call—Unto Thee, my Lord Celestial,See who is at my window, who.
Who's at my window, who, who?Go from my window, go, go!Who calleth there so like a stranger?Go from my window—go!Lord, I am here, a wretched mortalThat for Thy mercy does cry and call—Unto Thee, my Lord Celestial,See who is at my window, who.
Who's at my window, who, who?Go from my window, go, go!Who calleth there so like a stranger?Go from my window—go!
Who's at my window, who, who?
Go from my window, go, go!
Who calleth there so like a stranger?
Go from my window—go!
Lord, I am here, a wretched mortalThat for Thy mercy does cry and call—Unto Thee, my Lord Celestial,See who is at my window, who.
Lord, I am here, a wretched mortal
That for Thy mercy does cry and call—
Unto Thee, my Lord Celestial,
See who is at my window, who.
The Call.... Come home again, come home again;Mine own sweet heart, come home again!You are gone astrayOut of your way,Therefore, sweet heart, come home again!
... Come home again, come home again;Mine own sweet heart, come home again!You are gone astrayOut of your way,Therefore, sweet heart, come home again!
... Come home again, come home again;Mine own sweet heart, come home again!You are gone astrayOut of your way,Therefore, sweet heart, come home again!
... Come home again, come home again;
Mine own sweet heart, come home again!
You are gone astray
Out of your way,
Therefore, sweet heart, come home again!
Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of his strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.Walter Savage Landor
Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of his strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.Walter Savage Landor
Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of his strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.Walter Savage Landor
Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear;
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.
Walter Savage Landor
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light,That doth both shine and give us sight to see.O, take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death—And think how evil becometh him to slide,Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.Sir Philip Sidney
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light,That doth both shine and give us sight to see.O, take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death—And think how evil becometh him to slide,Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.Sir Philip Sidney
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy mightTo that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light,That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be;
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light,
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O, take fast hold! let that light be thy guideIn this small course which birth draws out to death—And think how evil becometh him to slide,Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
O, take fast hold! let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death—
And think how evil becometh him to slide,
Who seeketh heaven, and comes of heavenly breath.
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.Sir Philip Sidney
Then farewell, world; thy uttermost I see:
Eternal Love, maintain thy life in me.
Sir Philip Sidney
Of theLyke-wake Dirgeis known neither the age nor the author. The body from which the "saule" or spirit within is fled away lies in its shroud, and the dirge tells of that spirit's journey. Its word "sleet," says Mr. Sidgwick, means either salt, for it was the custom to place in a wooden platter beside the dead, earth and salt for emblems, the one of corruption, the other of the immortal; or, as some suppose, "sleet" should befleet, meaning embers or water or house-room. "Whinnies" means gorse. To explain the full meaning of Bridge of Dread would need many pages—but does not much of that meaning haunt in the very music and solemnity of the words?
Next this poem in Mr. Nahum's book was "Lead, Kindly Light," and there was a strange picture for it hanging in the round tower—the picture of a small becalmed ship, clumsy of rig and low in the water which was smooth and green as glass. In the midst of the ship there was piled high what might be taken for a vast heap of oranges, their fair reddish colour blazing in the rays of the sun that was about to plunge out of the greenish sky below the line of the west. But what even more particularly attracted my eye at the time was that ship's figurehead—a curious head and shoulders as if with wings, and of a kind of far beauty or wonder entirely past me to describe. Many years afterwards I read that this poem was written by John Henry Newman (one who even in his young days at Oxford was "never less alone than when alone"), when hismind was perplexed and unhappy, and he himself had time to ponder awhile, because the boat in which he was sailing to England had been for some days becalmed off the coast of Spain.
Philaster.Fie, fie,So young and so dissembling! fear'st thou not death?Can boys contemn that?Bellario.O, what boy is heCan be content to live to be a man,That sees the best of men thus passionate,Thus without reason?Philaster.O, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die.Bellario.Yes, I do know, my Lord!'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep,A quiet resting from all jealousy;A thing we all pursue; I know besidesIt is but giving over of a gameThat must be lost.FromPhilaster:Francis BeaumontandJohn Fletcher
Philaster.Fie, fie,So young and so dissembling! fear'st thou not death?Can boys contemn that?Bellario.O, what boy is heCan be content to live to be a man,That sees the best of men thus passionate,Thus without reason?Philaster.O, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die.Bellario.Yes, I do know, my Lord!'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep,A quiet resting from all jealousy;A thing we all pursue; I know besidesIt is but giving over of a gameThat must be lost.FromPhilaster:Francis BeaumontandJohn Fletcher
Philaster.Fie, fie,So young and so dissembling! fear'st thou not death?Can boys contemn that?
Philaster.Fie, fie,
So young and so dissembling! fear'st thou not death?
Can boys contemn that?
Bellario.O, what boy is heCan be content to live to be a man,That sees the best of men thus passionate,Thus without reason?
Bellario.O, what boy is he
Can be content to live to be a man,
That sees the best of men thus passionate,
Thus without reason?
Philaster.O, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die.
Philaster.O, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die.
Bellario.Yes, I do know, my Lord!'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep,A quiet resting from all jealousy;A thing we all pursue; I know besidesIt is but giving over of a gameThat must be lost.
Bellario.Yes, I do know, my Lord!
'Tis less than to be born; a lasting sleep,
A quiet resting from all jealousy;
A thing we all pursue; I know besides
It is but giving over of a game
That must be lost.
FromPhilaster:Francis BeaumontandJohn Fletcher
FromPhilaster:Francis BeaumontandJohn Fletcher
" ... But those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed, are three—that is, burnet, wild thyme, and watermints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread."
An Essay on Gardens,Francis Bacon
Bring, too, some branches forth of Daphne's hair,And gladdest myrtle for the posts to wear,With spikenard weaved and marjorams betweenAnd starred with yellow-golds and meadows-queen.
Bring, too, some branches forth of Daphne's hair,And gladdest myrtle for the posts to wear,With spikenard weaved and marjorams betweenAnd starred with yellow-golds and meadows-queen.
Bring, too, some branches forth of Daphne's hair,And gladdest myrtle for the posts to wear,With spikenard weaved and marjorams betweenAnd starred with yellow-golds and meadows-queen.
Bring, too, some branches forth of Daphne's hair,
And gladdest myrtle for the posts to wear,
With spikenard weaved and marjorams between
And starred with yellow-golds and meadows-queen.
The very names indeed of the aromatic herbs seem to "perfume the air"—bergamot, lavender, meadowsweet, costmary, southernwood, woodruff, balm, germander. And flowers even though dead remain sweet in their dust, as every bowl of potpourri proclaims. To have "a repository of odours" alwayswith them, when streets were foul and pestilence was a peril, gentle-people would in old times carry fresh nosegays or pomanders. The pomanders were of many kinds; an orange stuffed with cloves, etc., for the hand; or—for pocket or chatelaine—some little curiously-devised receptacle of silver containing tiny phials of precious essences—possibly no bigger than a plum. Or they might be compounded of rare ingredients: "Your only way to make a good pomander is this. Take an ounce of the purest garden mould, cleansed and steeped seven days in change of motherless rose water. Then take the best labdanum, benjoin, both storaxes, ambergris, civet, and musk. Incorporate them together, and work them into what form you please. This, if your breath be not too valiant, will make you smell as sweet as any lady's dog."
I have pondered over the thirteenth and eighteenth lines of this poem, but am not yet certain of all that they were intended to convey. But what scope for the imagination is in it! The next epitaph is by Stephen Hawes, whosePassetyme of Pleasure or History of Graunde Amoure, and La Bel Pucel, was printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1509:
O mortal folk, you may behold and seeHow I lie here, sometime a mighty knight.The end of joy and all prosperityIs death at last, thorough his course and might:For though the day be never so long,At last the bells ringeth to evensong.
O mortal folk, you may behold and seeHow I lie here, sometime a mighty knight.The end of joy and all prosperityIs death at last, thorough his course and might:For though the day be never so long,At last the bells ringeth to evensong.
O mortal folk, you may behold and seeHow I lie here, sometime a mighty knight.The end of joy and all prosperityIs death at last, thorough his course and might:For though the day be never so long,At last the bells ringeth to evensong.
O mortal folk, you may behold and see
How I lie here, sometime a mighty knight.
The end of joy and all prosperity
Is death at last, thorough his course and might:
For though the day be never so long,
At last the bells ringeth to evensong.
And the lines following are said to have been found between the pages of Sir Walter Raleigh's Bible in the Gate House at Westminster, having been written by him, it is surmised, during the night before he—an ageing man of sixty-six—was beheaded:
Even such is Time, that takes in trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with earth and dust;Who, in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.But from this earth, this grave, this dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust.
Even such is Time, that takes in trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with earth and dust;Who, in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.But from this earth, this grave, this dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust.
Even such is Time, that takes in trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with earth and dust;Who, in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.
Even such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days.
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust.
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
"Sir Philip Sydney, Knight," says John Aubrey, "was the most accomplished courtier of his time. He was not only of an excellent witt, but extremely beautiful; he much resembled his sister. He was a person of great courage. Among others Mr. Edmund Spenser made his addresse to him, and brought hisFaery Queen. Sir Philip was busy at his study, and his servant delivered Mr. Spenser's booke to his master, who layd it by, thinking it might be such kind of stuffe as he was frequently troubled with. When Sir Philip perused it, he was so exceedingly delighted with it, that he was extremely sorry he was gonne, and where to send for him he knew not. After much enquiry he learned his lodgeing, and sent for him, and mightily caressed him.... From this time there was a great friendship between them, to his dying day.... His body was putt in a leaden coffin (which after the firing of Paule's, I myself sawe), and with wonderfull greate state was carried to St. Paule's church, when he was buried in our Ladie's Chapell. There solempnized this funerall all the nobility and great officers of Court."
Here is part of a letter written to him, by his father, Sir Henry Sidney, in 1566, when Philip was a boy at Shrewsbury School:
Son Philip.... Above all things, tell no untruth. No, not in trifles. The custom of it is nought: and let it not satisfy you that, for a time, the hearers take it for a truth; yet after it will be known as it is, to your shame. For there cannot be a greater reproach to a gentleman, than to be accounted a liar.... Remember, my son! the noble blood you are descended of by your mother's side: and think that only by virtuous life and good action you may be an ornament to that illustrious family; otherwise, through vice and sloth, you may be countedlabes generis, "a spot of your kin," one of the greatest curses that can happen to man.
Son Philip.... Above all things, tell no untruth. No, not in trifles. The custom of it is nought: and let it not satisfy you that, for a time, the hearers take it for a truth; yet after it will be known as it is, to your shame. For there cannot be a greater reproach to a gentleman, than to be accounted a liar.... Remember, my son! the noble blood you are descended of by your mother's side: and think that only by virtuous life and good action you may be an ornament to that illustrious family; otherwise, through vice and sloth, you may be countedlabes generis, "a spot of your kin," one of the greatest curses that can happen to man.
This next fragment is from a letter written on October 18, 1580, by Sir Philip Sidney himself to his younger brother Robert (then seventeen). This Robert six years afterwards fought with him at Zutphen. He grew up a gallant gentleman,was created Earl of Leicester, and in his leisure wrote words to fit the music of John Dowland—afterwards lutenist to Charles I.
My Dear Brother,For the money you have received, assure yourself (for it is true), there is nothing I spend so pleaseth me; as that which is for you. If ever I have ability, you shall find it so: if not, yet shall not any brother living be better beloved than you, of me.... Look to your diet, sweet Robin! and hold your heart in courage and virtue. Truly, great part of my comfort is in you!.... Be careful of yourself, and I shall never have cares.... I write this to you as one, that for myself have given over the delight in the world; but wish to you as much, if not more, than to myself.... God bless you, sweet Boy! and accomplish the joyful hope I conceive of you.... Lord how I have babbled! Once again, farewell, dearest Brother!Your most loving and careful brother,Philip Sidney
My Dear Brother,
For the money you have received, assure yourself (for it is true), there is nothing I spend so pleaseth me; as that which is for you. If ever I have ability, you shall find it so: if not, yet shall not any brother living be better beloved than you, of me.... Look to your diet, sweet Robin! and hold your heart in courage and virtue. Truly, great part of my comfort is in you!.... Be careful of yourself, and I shall never have cares.... I write this to you as one, that for myself have given over the delight in the world; but wish to you as much, if not more, than to myself.... God bless you, sweet Boy! and accomplish the joyful hope I conceive of you.... Lord how I have babbled! Once again, farewell, dearest Brother!
Your most loving and careful brother,
Philip Sidney
And here in a few words is a fleeting glimpse of this renowned man as he appeared amidst the splendour and magnificence of the Tournament, during the Anjou Fetes in London, in 1581, five years before his death:
"Then proceeded Master Philip Sidney, in very sumptuous manner with armour part blue and the rest gilt and engraven.... He had four pages that rode on his four spare horses" (richly caparisoned in gold and pearls and feathers of silver) "who had cassock hats and Venetian hose all of cloth of silver laid with gold lace and hats of the same with gold bands and white feathers: and each one a pair of white buskins." ... There followed him in as rich and splendid array his gentlemen, yeomen, and trumpeters.
"Then proceeded Master Philip Sidney, in very sumptuous manner with armour part blue and the rest gilt and engraven.... He had four pages that rode on his four spare horses" (richly caparisoned in gold and pearls and feathers of silver) "who had cassock hats and Venetian hose all of cloth of silver laid with gold lace and hats of the same with gold bands and white feathers: and each one a pair of white buskins." ... There followed him in as rich and splendid array his gentlemen, yeomen, and trumpeters.
Of John Donne's Book of Poems there was nothing in Mr. Nahum's first volume, much in the others. But what I then read of them I little understood. It is a poetry that awaits the mind as the body grows older, and when we have ourselves learned the experience of life with which it is concerned. Not that the simplest poetry will then lose anything of its graceand truth and beauty—far rather it shines the more clearly, since age needs it the more.
"His Picture in a sheet" refers to a drawing (prefixed to Donne'sPoems') of his stone effigy. This shows him draped with a shroud, and may now be seen in St. Paul's Cathedral, of which he was the dean, and in whose pulpit a few days before his death he preached his last valedictory or farewell sermon.
"Living to Eternity."How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill!...Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well chosen book or friend;This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall:Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill!...Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well chosen book or friend;This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall:Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill!...
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!...
Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well chosen book or friend;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well chosen book or friend;
This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall:Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir Thomas More was such a man. On Monday, July 5th, 1535, the night before he was beheaded, he wrote ("with a cole") this letter of farewell to his daughter Margaret Roper. He had seen her for the last time when she openly met and kissed him in the midst of his enemies and of the throngs on Tower Wharf, as he came from Judgment:
"Oure Lorde Blesse you good daughter, & youre good husbande, & youre lyttle boye, & all yours, & all my children, & all my Godde chyldren and all oure frendes.... I cumber you goodMargaretmuch, but I would be sory, if it should be any longer than to morow. For it is saintThomaseven, & the utas of saintPeter: & therfore to morow long I to go to God: it were a day verye mete & convenient for me. I never liked your maner toward me better, than whan you kissed me laste: for I love when doughterly love, and deere charitye, hath no leysure to loke to worldlye curtesy. Farewell my dere chylde, & pray for me & I shall for you & all youre frendes, that we maye merilye mete in heaven...."
So too Walter Savage Landor:
... Quieter is his breath, his breast more coldThan daisies in the mould,Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,His name, and life's brief date.Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,And, O, pray too for me!
... Quieter is his breath, his breast more coldThan daisies in the mould,Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,His name, and life's brief date.Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,And, O, pray too for me!
... Quieter is his breath, his breast more coldThan daisies in the mould,Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,His name, and life's brief date.Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,And, O, pray too for me!
... Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name, and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And, O, pray too for me!
"To die young," in William Drummond's words, "is to do that soon, and in some fewer days, which once thou must do; it is but the giving over of a game, that after never so many hazards must be lost."
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,Nor Flora's pride!In thee all flowers and roses spring—Mine, only died.In obitum MS. XoMaij.1614,William Browne
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,Nor Flora's pride!In thee all flowers and roses spring—Mine, only died.In obitum MS. XoMaij.1614,William Browne
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,Nor Flora's pride!In thee all flowers and roses spring—Mine, only died.In obitum MS. XoMaij.1614,William Browne
May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing,
Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring—
Mine, only died.
In obitum MS. XoMaij.1614,William Browne
There is a legend—recorded in an ancient monastic chronicle—that in the days of Arthur there stretched between Land's End and the Scillies a country of castles, of fair towns, and landscapes, named Lyonesse. When the tumult of the last great Arthurian battle was over, there befell a cataclysm of nature, and in a night of tempest this whole region was engulfed beneath the seas.
What truth is in this legend no certain history relates. But when the vast Atlantic breakers begin to lull after storm, to lie listening in the watches of the night is to hear, it would seem, deep-sunken belfries of bells sounding in the waters, and siren-like lamentations. I have myself heard this, and fantasy though it may be, if the ear is once beguiled into its deceit, the bells clash and chime on and on in the imagination, mingled with the enormous lully of the surges, until at last, one falls asleep.
—and here is another such happy and tender word of farewell—but from one unknown:
When from the world I should be ta'en,And from earth's necessary pain,Then let no blacks be worn for me,Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.But this bright diamond, let it beWorn in rememberance of me.And when it sparkles in your eye,Think 'tis my shadow passeth by.
When from the world I should be ta'en,And from earth's necessary pain,Then let no blacks be worn for me,Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.But this bright diamond, let it beWorn in rememberance of me.And when it sparkles in your eye,Think 'tis my shadow passeth by.
When from the world I should be ta'en,And from earth's necessary pain,Then let no blacks be worn for me,Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.But this bright diamond, let it beWorn in rememberance of me.And when it sparkles in your eye,Think 'tis my shadow passeth by.
When from the world I should be ta'en,
And from earth's necessary pain,
Then let no blacks be worn for me,
Not in a ring, my dear, by thee.
But this bright diamond, let it be
Worn in rememberance of me.
And when it sparkles in your eye,
Think 'tis my shadow passeth by.
This poem, again, is spelt as the words would be pronounced by the country people of Dorset, the country in which William Barnes was born and lived nearly all his long life. Their way of speech is slower than in common English, and the words, especially those with the two dots, or diaeresis, over them, should be lingered over a little in pronouncing them.
Londoners have a way of being scornfully amused at country speech—in their ignorance that it is older and far more beautiful than their own clipped and nasal manner of talking. But half an hour with the greatDialect Dictionarywill prove how inexhaustibly rich the English language once was and still is in words made, used, and loved by folk unlearned in books, but with keen and lively eyes in their heads, quick to see the delight and livingness of a thing, and with the wits to give it a name fitting it as close as a skin.
Dear God, though Thy all-powerful handShould so direct my earthly fateThat I may seem unfortunateTo them who do not understandThat all things follow Thy decree,Staunchly I'll bear what e'er's Thy will—Praying Thee but to grant me stillThat none shall come to harm through me;For, God, although Thou knowest all,I am too young to comprehendThe windings to my journey's end;I fear upon the road to fallIn the worst sin of all that beAnd thrust my brother in the sea.Conal O'Riordan
Dear God, though Thy all-powerful handShould so direct my earthly fateThat I may seem unfortunateTo them who do not understandThat all things follow Thy decree,Staunchly I'll bear what e'er's Thy will—Praying Thee but to grant me stillThat none shall come to harm through me;For, God, although Thou knowest all,I am too young to comprehendThe windings to my journey's end;I fear upon the road to fallIn the worst sin of all that beAnd thrust my brother in the sea.Conal O'Riordan
Dear God, though Thy all-powerful handShould so direct my earthly fateThat I may seem unfortunateTo them who do not understandThat all things follow Thy decree,Staunchly I'll bear what e'er's Thy will—Praying Thee but to grant me stillThat none shall come to harm through me;For, God, although Thou knowest all,I am too young to comprehendThe windings to my journey's end;I fear upon the road to fallIn the worst sin of all that beAnd thrust my brother in the sea.Conal O'Riordan
Dear God, though Thy all-powerful hand
Should so direct my earthly fate
That I may seem unfortunate
To them who do not understand
That all things follow Thy decree,
Staunchly I'll bear what e'er's Thy will—
Praying Thee but to grant me still
That none shall come to harm through me;
For, God, although Thou knowest all,
I am too young to comprehend
The windings to my journey's end;
I fear upon the road to fall
In the worst sin of all that be
And thrust my brother in the sea.
Conal O'Riordan
"It was my own mother (wrote Thomas Cantimpratanus about 1260) who told me the story which I am about to relate. My grandmother had a firstborn son of most excellent promise, comely beyond the wont of children, at whose death she mourned ... with a grief that could not be consoled, until one day, as she went by the way, she saw in her vision a band of youths moving onwards, as it seemed to her, with exceeding great joy; and she, remembering her son and weeping that she saw him not in this joyful band, suddenly beheld him trailing weary footsteps after the rest. Then with a grievous cry the mother asked: 'How comes it, my son, that thou goest alone, lagging thus behind the rest?' Then he opened the side of his cloak and showed her a heavy water-pot, saying: 'Behold, dear mother, the tears which thou hast vainly shed for me, through the weight whereof I must needs linger behind the rest! Thou therefore shalt turn thy tears to God: then only shall I be freed from the burden wherewith I am now grieved.'"
But not all dreamers are so rebuked or so comforted. St. Augustine, a loving son, pined in vain:
"If the dead could come in dreams," he wrote, "my pious mother would no night fail to visit me. Far be the thought that she should, by a happier life, have been made so cruel that, when aught vexes my heart, she should not even console in a dream the son whom she loved with an only love."
This poem has been at hide-and-seek with the world for many years past. Mr. Frank Sidgwick has now played Seek, however, and has tracked it down in the British Museum in a manuscript, No. 24665, inscribed "Giles Earle—his book, 1615." In this manuscript the poem consists of eight stanzasof ten lines each, with a chorus of five lines. The version in this book is only of twenty-five lines, as they were arranged by Mrs. Meynell in her beautiful Anthology,The Flower of the Mind. Here are the chief differences which Mr. Sidgwick has very kindly allowed me to collect from his account of his search:
Line 1, "moon" ismorn. Line 2, "lovely" islonely, "marrow" ismorrow. Line 10, "rounded" iswounded. Line 16, "a heart" is ahost. And line 21, "with" isby. It is a happy exercise of the wits to choose between them and to find reasons for one's choice. When and by whom the poem was written is not yet known. It remains a shining jewel in the crown of the most modest of all men of genius, Mr. Anon.
This far-carrying rhyme belongs to the ancient and famous game of Dump. "He who speaks first in it," says Dr. Gregor, "or laughs first, or lets his teeth be seen, gets nine nips, nine nobs, nine double douncornes, an' a gueed blow on the back o' the head."
Thefahtandfahr, I suppose, are the pleasant Scots way of sayingwhatandwhere.
So may the omission of a few commas effect a wonder in the imagination. To the imagination indeed there is nothing absurd in, "I saw the sun at twelve o'clock at night"—for one can actuallyseein the "little nowhere of the mind" both burning sun and black nighttogether: as once in a dream I myself was enchanted by three moons in the sky, shining in their silver above waters as wide as those of Milton's curfew. So, too, even mere day-by-day objects will take on themselves a strangeness and beauty never seen or "marked" before, if (like Marcus Aurelius and his loaf of bread) we will only "glut" the eye on them. "I see a rose," said an old woman on her deathbed, "but if, in childhood and youth, I had seen it closer, what a rose on the threshold it had been!"
Here is another old nursery "nonsense" rhyme that makes almost as lively pictures in the mind:
There was a man of double deedWho sowed his garden full of seed;And when the seed began to grow,'Twas like a garden full of snow;And when the snow began to fall,Like birds it was upon the wall;And when the birds began to fly,'Twas like a shipwreck in the sky;And when the sky began to crack,'Twas like a stick upon my back;And when my back began to smart,'Twas like a pen-knife in my heart;And when my heart began to bleed,Then I was dead—and dead indeed.
There was a man of double deedWho sowed his garden full of seed;And when the seed began to grow,'Twas like a garden full of snow;And when the snow began to fall,Like birds it was upon the wall;And when the birds began to fly,'Twas like a shipwreck in the sky;And when the sky began to crack,'Twas like a stick upon my back;And when my back began to smart,'Twas like a pen-knife in my heart;And when my heart began to bleed,Then I was dead—and dead indeed.
There was a man of double deedWho sowed his garden full of seed;And when the seed began to grow,'Twas like a garden full of snow;And when the snow began to fall,Like birds it was upon the wall;And when the birds began to fly,'Twas like a shipwreck in the sky;And when the sky began to crack,'Twas like a stick upon my back;And when my back began to smart,'Twas like a pen-knife in my heart;And when my heart began to bleed,Then I was dead—and dead indeed.
There was a man of double deed
Who sowed his garden full of seed;
And when the seed began to grow,
'Twas like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow began to fall,
Like birds it was upon the wall;
And when the birds began to fly,
'Twas like a shipwreck in the sky;
And when the sky began to crack,
'Twas like a stick upon my back;
And when my back began to smart,
'Twas like a pen-knife in my heart;
And when my heart began to bleed,
Then I was dead—and dead indeed.
"The Tuatha De Danaan—the divine Children of Danu which forgotten centuries ago invaded Ireland—can take all shapes, and those that are in the waters take often the shape of fish. A woman of Burren, in Galway, says, 'There are more of them in the sea than on the land ...,' and another Galway woman says, 'Surely those things are in the sea as well as on land. My father was out fishing one night off Tyrone. And something came beside the boat that had eyes shining like candles. And then a wave came in, and a storm rose all in a minute, and whatever was in the wave, the weight of it had like to sink the boat. And then they saw that it was a woman in the sea that had the shining eyes. So my father went to the priest, and he bid him always to take a drop of holy water and a pinch of salt out in the boat with him, and nothing could harm him.'"
W. B. Yeats
Was it the sound of a footfall I heardOn the cold flag stone?Or the cry of a wandering far night bird,On the sea-winds blown?Was that a human shape that stood?In the shadow below,Or but the mist of the moonlit woodAs it hovered low?Was it the voice of a child that calledFrom the hill side steep?Or, O, but the wind as it softly lulledThe world to sleep?Elizabeth Ramal
Was it the sound of a footfall I heardOn the cold flag stone?Or the cry of a wandering far night bird,On the sea-winds blown?Was that a human shape that stood?In the shadow below,Or but the mist of the moonlit woodAs it hovered low?Was it the voice of a child that calledFrom the hill side steep?Or, O, but the wind as it softly lulledThe world to sleep?Elizabeth Ramal
Was it the sound of a footfall I heardOn the cold flag stone?Or the cry of a wandering far night bird,On the sea-winds blown?Was that a human shape that stood?In the shadow below,Or but the mist of the moonlit woodAs it hovered low?Was it the voice of a child that calledFrom the hill side steep?Or, O, but the wind as it softly lulledThe world to sleep?Elizabeth Ramal
Was it the sound of a footfall I heard
On the cold flag stone?
Or the cry of a wandering far night bird,
On the sea-winds blown?
Was that a human shape that stood?
In the shadow below,
Or but the mist of the moonlit wood
As it hovered low?
Was it the voice of a child that called
From the hill side steep?
Or, O, but the wind as it softly lulled
The world to sleep?
Elizabeth Ramal
The story is of how a bright lady comes to keep her tryst with a knight-at-arms in the golden broom of Hive Hill. She finds him under a charm, an enchantment, asleep; and having left her ring on his finger for proof of her coming, she steals away. Presently after he awakes—her presence gone. To leave a quiet and happy room vacant at night is sometimes to have this experience, as it were,reversed. There comes a feeling that you being gone, gentler visitants may enter and share its solitude—while its earthly occupant sleeps overhead, and one by one the stars sink to their setting.
When larks gin singAway we fling,And babes new-born steal as we go;An elf insteadWe leave in bed,And wind out, laughing, Ho, ho, ho!
When larks gin singAway we fling,And babes new-born steal as we go;An elf insteadWe leave in bed,And wind out, laughing, Ho, ho, ho!
When larks gin singAway we fling,And babes new-born steal as we go;An elf insteadWe leave in bed,And wind out, laughing, Ho, ho, ho!
When larks gin sing
Away we fling,
And babes new-born steal as we go;
An elf instead
We leave in bed,
And wind out, laughing, Ho, ho, ho!
It is difficult to read this poem slowly and intently enough if one is to experience to thefullthe living things and sights and sounds that by its words are charmed into the mind—the hushed solitude, the desolation. Take even, of all there is, but the "peering mouse" in the sixth stanza—his sharp nose sniffing the air beneath the small wooden arch of his dark-glimmering mousery, where miche and shriek and gambol his fellows behind the mouldering wainscot. Or stay for a moment looking down on the "marsh mosses" in the third stanza—of a green as lively as a fairy's mantle in the sunlight, gilding the waters of the blackened sluice. So piece by piece the words of the poem build up in the imagination this solitary house with its forsaken Mariana, whom Tennyson himself hadseen in the dream conferred on him by another poet, Shakespeare, inMeasure for Measure:
Isabella.Can this be so? didAngeloso leave her?Duke.Left her in her teares, and dried not one of them with his comfort: swallowed his vowes whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed on her her owne lamentation, which she yet weares for his sake: and he, a marble to her teares, is washed with them, but relents not.Isabella.What a merit were it in death to take this poore maid from the world....
Isabella.Can this be so? didAngeloso leave her?Duke.Left her in her teares, and dried not one of them with his comfort: swallowed his vowes whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed on her her owne lamentation, which she yet weares for his sake: and he, a marble to her teares, is washed with them, but relents not.Isabella.What a merit were it in death to take this poore maid from the world....
Isabella.Can this be so? didAngeloso leave her?
Isabella.Can this be so? didAngeloso leave her?
Duke.Left her in her teares, and dried not one of them with his comfort: swallowed his vowes whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed on her her owne lamentation, which she yet weares for his sake: and he, a marble to her teares, is washed with them, but relents not.
Duke.Left her in her teares, and dried not one of them with his comfort: swallowed his vowes whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few, bestowed on her her owne lamentation, which she yet weares for his sake: and he, a marble to her teares, is washed with them, but relents not.
Isabella.What a merit were it in death to take this poore maid from the world....
Isabella.What a merit were it in death to take this poore maid from the world....
Turn your back on Okehampton and break out due South into the wilds of Dartmoor, and there, "summering" together "beneath the empty skies," lie titanic Yes Tor and High Willes, rearing their bare vast shapes 700 yards into the air.
Of the dangerous plant Mandrake ("its root in something the shape and appearance of a man") is concocted Mandragora, one of the "drowsy syrups." "The leaves and fruit be also dangerous, for they cause deadly sleep, and peevish drowsiness." The fruit is "of the bigness of a reasonable pippin, and as yellow as gold when it is thoroughly ripe": fair without, ashes within. It is said that the mandrake's screams, when it is dragged out of the ground, will send the hearer mad. So the gatherer should first seal his ears, then tie the plant to a dog's tail and hike him on to haul it out of its haunt! "Avicenna the Arabian physician asserts that a Jew at Metz had a mandragore with a human head, and the legs and body of a cock, which lived five weeks, and was fed on lavender and earthworms, and, when dead, was preserved in spirits." Even up to the nineteenth century dreaders or wishers of witchcraft were wont to carry these monstrous little Erdmannikens in bosom or pocket for an amulet or charm.
The "Basilisk," old books maintain, is a fabulous beast whose icy glare freezes the gazer, and is mortal. Approach her then with a mirror; and courage be your guide!
Hemlock is that tall, dim-spotted plant of a sad green colour, and of a scent "strong, heady and bad," which is "very cold and dangerous," especially when "digged in the dark."
Clammy henbane is woolly-leafed, with hollow dark-eyed flowers of a purple-veined dingy yellow. "It lusts to grow in rancid soil, To 'stil its deadly oil."
Moonwort is the meek-looking little flowering fern that has the power to break locks, and to make any horse that chances to tread upon it cast his shoes.
The livid-flowered, cherry like-fruited dwale, enoron, or nightshade is the most "daungerous" plant in England. While leopard's bane—though it bears a bright-yellow daisy-like flower, and witches are said to fear sun-colour—is venomous to animals.
I am uncertain of adder's tongue, for the fern of this name cures sore eyes; and cuckoo-pint which is also so called, is "a remedy for poison and the plague"!
Of these six insidious plants only one is openly mentioned by Shakespeare, and they appear to have few country names, unlike, for example, the purple orchis, "which has so many," says Nicholas Culpeper, "that they would fill a sheet of paper": long-purples, dead-men's fingers, crake-feet, giddy-gandy, neat-legs, geese and goslings, and gander-gooses, being a few choice specimens.
Underneath an old oak treeThere was of swine a huge company,That grunted as they crunched the mast:For that was ripe, and fell full fast.Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly:He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!Blacker was he than blackest jet,Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.He picked up the acorn and buried it straightBy the side of a river both deep and greatWhere then did the Raven go?He went high and low,Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.Many Autumns, many SpringsTravelled he with wandering wings:Many Summers, many Winters—I can't tell half his adventures.At length he came back, and with him a She,And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree,They built them a nest in the topmost bough,And young ones they had, and were happy enow.But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,And their mother did die of a broken heart.The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;And they floated it down on the course of the river.They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,And with this tree and others they made a good ship.The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the landSuch a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast:Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast.He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,And he thanked him again and again for this treat:They had taken his all, andREVENGE IT WAS SWEET!S. T. Coleridge
Underneath an old oak treeThere was of swine a huge company,That grunted as they crunched the mast:For that was ripe, and fell full fast.Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly:He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!Blacker was he than blackest jet,Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.He picked up the acorn and buried it straightBy the side of a river both deep and greatWhere then did the Raven go?He went high and low,Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.Many Autumns, many SpringsTravelled he with wandering wings:Many Summers, many Winters—I can't tell half his adventures.At length he came back, and with him a She,And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree,They built them a nest in the topmost bough,And young ones they had, and were happy enow.But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,And their mother did die of a broken heart.The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;And they floated it down on the course of the river.They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,And with this tree and others they made a good ship.The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the landSuch a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast:Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast.He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,And he thanked him again and again for this treat:They had taken his all, andREVENGE IT WAS SWEET!S. T. Coleridge
Underneath an old oak treeThere was of swine a huge company,That grunted as they crunched the mast:For that was ripe, and fell full fast.Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly:He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!Blacker was he than blackest jet,Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.
Underneath an old oak tree
There was of swine a huge company,
That grunted as they crunched the mast:
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly:
He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!
Blacker was he than blackest jet,
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.
He picked up the acorn and buried it straightBy the side of a river both deep and greatWhere then did the Raven go?He went high and low,Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.Many Autumns, many SpringsTravelled he with wandering wings:Many Summers, many Winters—I can't tell half his adventures.
He picked up the acorn and buried it straight
By the side of a river both deep and great
Where then did the Raven go?
He went high and low,
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.
Many Autumns, many Springs
Travelled he with wandering wings:
Many Summers, many Winters—
I can't tell half his adventures.
At length he came back, and with him a She,And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree,They built them a nest in the topmost bough,And young ones they had, and were happy enow.But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,And their mother did die of a broken heart.
At length he came back, and with him a She,
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree,
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,
And their mother did die of a broken heart.
The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;And they floated it down on the course of the river.They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,And with this tree and others they made a good ship.The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the landSuch a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast:Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast.He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,And he thanked him again and again for this treat:They had taken his all, andREVENGE IT WAS SWEET!S. T. Coleridge
The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;
And they floated it down on the course of the river.
They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,
And with this tree and others they made a good ship.
The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast:
Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast.
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—
See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!
Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
And he thanked him again and again for this treat:
They had taken his all, andREVENGE IT WAS SWEET!
S. T. Coleridge
"Seventeen or eighteen years ago," wrote Coleridge in 1817, "an artist of some celebrity was so pleased with this doggerel that he amused himself with the thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture for the four lines beginning, 'Many Autumns, many Springs.' I suggested aRound-aboutwith four seats, and the four seasons, as children, with Time for the shew-man."
"Aeriel spirits," says Robert Burton, "are such as keep quarter most part in the air, cause many tempests, thunder, and lightnings, tear oaks, fire steeples, houses, strike men and beasts, make it rain stones, ... wool, frogs, etc., counterfeit armies in the air, strange noises, swords, etc."
Nothing vexed Linnet Sara more than to be asked if there were any such darling imps or spectres or ghosts or blackamoors in Thrae. All such to her were nothing but idle fiddle-faddle. But Reginald Scot, who wroteThe Discoverie of Witchcraft(1584), had another kind of kitchen company when he was young.
" ... Our mothers maide," he says, of his childhood, "so terrified us with ... bull beggers, spirits, witches, urchens, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, sylens, kit with the cansticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giants, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changlings, Incubus, Robin goodfellowe, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fierdrake, the puckle, Tom thombe, hob gobblin, Tom tumbler, boneles, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes: in so much as some never feare the divill, but in a dark night; ..."
There seems to be no mention here of the salamander—a creature at least as rarely seen by mortal eyes as the puckle or firedrake.
"When I was about five years old," says Benvenuto Cellini, "my father happened to be in a basement-chamber of our house, where they had been washing, and where a good fire of oak logs was still burning; he had a viol in his hand and was playing and singing alone beside the fire. The weather was very cold. Happening to look into the fire, he espied in the middle of the most burning flames a little creature like a lizard, which was sporting in the core of the intensest coals. Becoming aware of what the thing was, he had my sister and me called, and pointing it out to us children, gave me a great box on the ears, which caused me to cry with all my might. Then he pacified me by saying, 'My dear little boy, I am not striking you for anything that you have done, but only to make you remember that the lizard you see in the fire is a salamander, a creature which has never been seen before by any of whomwe have credible information.' So saying he gave me some pieces of money, and kissed me."
—such in old days was the Witch's vile punishment if she escaped drowning: to be whipped, tied to a horse's tail, and rung through the crowded streets.
"Agramie," I suppose, is agrimony, which, if worn by the wary, will enable the wearer to detect witches. Their eyes too will betray them, forthereyou will find no tiny image of yourself reflected as in the eyes of the honest. And if you would be rid of their company, pluck a sprig of scarlet pimpernel, and repeat this charm: