Jack and Joan, they think no ill,But loving live, and merry still;Do their week-day's work, and prayDevoutly on the holy-day:Skip and trip it on the green,And help to choose the Summer Queen;Lash out at a country feastTheir silver penny with the best.Well can they judge of nappy ale,And tell at large a winter tale;Climb up to the apple loft,And turn the crabs till they be soft.Tib is all the father's joy,And little Tom the mother's boy:—All their pleasure is, Content,And care, to pay their yearly rent.Joan can call by name her cowsAnd deck her windows with green boughs;She can wreaths and tutties make,And trim with plums a bridal cake.Jack knows what brings gain or loss,And his long flail can stoutly toss:Makes the hedge which others break,And ever thinks what he doth speak.—Now, you courtly dames and knights,That study only strange delights,Though you scorn the homespun gray,And revel in your rich array;Though your tongues dissemble deepAnd can your heads from danger keep;Yet, for all your pomp and train,Securer lives the silly swain!
Jack and Joan, they think no ill,But loving live, and merry still;Do their week-day's work, and prayDevoutly on the holy-day:Skip and trip it on the green,And help to choose the Summer Queen;Lash out at a country feastTheir silver penny with the best.
Well can they judge of nappy ale,And tell at large a winter tale;Climb up to the apple loft,And turn the crabs till they be soft.Tib is all the father's joy,And little Tom the mother's boy:—All their pleasure is, Content,And care, to pay their yearly rent.
Joan can call by name her cowsAnd deck her windows with green boughs;She can wreaths and tutties make,And trim with plums a bridal cake.Jack knows what brings gain or loss,And his long flail can stoutly toss:Makes the hedge which others break,And ever thinks what he doth speak.
—Now, you courtly dames and knights,That study only strange delights,Though you scorn the homespun gray,And revel in your rich array;Though your tongues dissemble deepAnd can your heads from danger keep;Yet, for all your pomp and train,Securer lives the silly swain!
T. Campion
Hence, loathéd Melancholy,Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bornIn Stygian cave forlorn'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!Find out some uncouth cellWhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wingsAnd the night-raven sings;There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocksAs ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore;Or whether (as some sager sing)The frolic wind that breathes the springZephyr, with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-Maying—There on beds of violets blueAnd fresh-blown roses wash'd in dewFill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,So buxom, blithe, and debonair.Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest, and youthful jollity,Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smilesSuch as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides:—Come, and trip it as you goOn the light fantastic toe;And in thy right hand lead with theeThe mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour dueMirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with theeIn unreprovéd pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flightAnd singing startle the dull nightFrom his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come, in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrowThrough the sweetbriar, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine:While the cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the barn-door,Stoutly struts his dames before:Oft listening how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumbering morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill:Sometime walking, not unseen,By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gateWhere the great Sun begins his stateRobed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight;While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the landscape round it measures;Russet lawns, and fallows gray,Where the nibbling flocks do stray;Mountains, on whose barren breastThe labouring clouds do often rest;Meadows trim with daisies pied,Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;Towers and battlements it seesBosom'd high in tufted trees,Where perhaps some Beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a cottage chimney smokesFrom betwixt two aged oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,Are at their savoury dinner setOf herbs, and other country messesWhich the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leavesWith Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tann'd haycock in the mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth and many a maid,Dancing in the chequer'd shade;And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail:Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,With stories told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat:—She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;And he, by Friar's lantern led;Tells how the drudging Goblin sweatTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down the lubber fiend,And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first cock his matin rings.Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.Tower'd cities please us thenAnd the busy hum of men,Where throngs of knights and barons bold,In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,With store of ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf wit or arms, while both contendTo win her grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn saffron robe, with taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique pageantry;Such sights as youthful poets dreamOn summer eves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learned sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,Warble his native wood-notes wild.And ever against eating caresLap me in soft Lydian airsMarried to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linkéd sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his headFrom golden slumber, on a bedOf heap'd Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regain'd Eurydice.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
Hence, loathéd Melancholy,Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight bornIn Stygian cave forlorn'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!Find out some uncouth cellWhere brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wingsAnd the night-raven sings;There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocksAs ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore;Or whether (as some sager sing)The frolic wind that breathes the springZephyr, with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-Maying—There on beds of violets blueAnd fresh-blown roses wash'd in dewFill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest, and youthful jollity,Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smilesSuch as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides:—Come, and trip it as you goOn the light fantastic toe;And in thy right hand lead with theeThe mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour dueMirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with theeIn unreprovéd pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flightAnd singing startle the dull nightFrom his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to come, in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrowThrough the sweetbriar, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine:While the cock with lively dinScatters the rear of darkness thin,And to the stack, or the barn-door,Stoutly struts his dames before:Oft listening how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumbering morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill:Sometime walking, not unseen,By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gateWhere the great Sun begins his stateRobed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight;While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his taleUnder the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the landscape round it measures;Russet lawns, and fallows gray,Where the nibbling flocks do stray;Mountains, on whose barren breastThe labouring clouds do often rest;Meadows trim with daisies pied,Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;Towers and battlements it seesBosom'd high in tufted trees,Where perhaps some Beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a cottage chimney smokesFrom betwixt two aged oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,Are at their savoury dinner setOf herbs, and other country messesWhich the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leavesWith Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tann'd haycock in the mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks soundTo many a youth and many a maid,Dancing in the chequer'd shade;And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail:Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,With stories told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat:—She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;And he, by Friar's lantern led;Tells how the drudging Goblin sweatTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down the lubber fiend,And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first cock his matin rings.Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.Tower'd cities please us thenAnd the busy hum of men,Where throngs of knights and barons bold,In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,With store of ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf wit or arms, while both contendTo win her grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn saffron robe, with taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique pageantry;Such sights as youthful poets dreamOn summer eves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learned sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,Warble his native wood-notes wild.And ever against eating caresLap me in soft Lydian airsMarried to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf linkéd sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his headFrom golden slumber, on a bedOf heap'd Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regain'd Eurydice.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
J. Milton
Hence, vain deluding Joys,The brood of Folly without father bred!How little you besteadOr fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possessAs thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,Or likest hovering dreams,The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,Hail, divinest Melancholy!Whose saintly visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight,And therefore to our weaker viewO'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;Black, but such as in esteemPrince Memnon's sister might beseem,Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that stroveTo set her beauty's praise aboveThe sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:Yet thou art higher far descended:Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she; in Saturn's reignSuch mixture was not held a stain:Oft in glimmering bowers and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida's inmost grove,While yet there was no fear of Jove.Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, steadfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grainFlowing with majestic train,And sable stole of Cipres lawnOver thy decent shoulders drawn:Come, but keep thy wonted state,With even step, and musing gait,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There, held in holy passion still,Forget thyself to marble, tillWith a sad leaden downward castThou fix them on the earth as fast:And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ringAye round about Jove's altar sing:And add to these retired LeisureThat in trim gardens takes his pleasure:—But first and chiefest, with thee bringHim that yon soars on golden wingGuiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,The cherub Contemplatión;And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will deign a songIn her sweetest saddest plightSmoothing the rugged brow of Night,While Cynthia checks her dragon yokeGently o'er the accustom'd oak.—Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods amongI woo, to hear thy even-song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering MoonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the heaven's wide pathless way,And oft, as if her head she bow'd,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft, on a plat of rising groundI hear the far-off Curfeu soundOver some wide-water'd shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar:Or, if the air will not permit,Some still removéd place will fit,Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom;Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth,Or the bellman's drowsy charmTo bless the doors from nightly harm.Or let my lamp at midnight hourBe seen in some high lonely tower,Where I may oft out-watch the BearWith thrice-great Hermes, or unsphereThe spirit of Plato, to unfoldWhat worlds or what vast regions holdThe immortal mind, that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those demons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet, or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn scepter'd pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine;Or what (though rare) of later ageEnnobled hath the buskin'd stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musaeus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as, warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheekAnd made Hell grant what Love did seek!Or call up him that left half-toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canacé to wifeThat own'd the virtuous ring and glass;And of the wondrous horse of brassOn which the Tartar king did ride:And if aught else great bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sungOf turneys, and of trophies hung,Of forests, and enchantments drear,Where more is meant than meets the ear.Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appear,Not trick'd and frounced as she was wontWith the Attic Boy to hunt,But kercheft in a comely cloudWhile rocking winds are piping loud,Or usher'd with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leavesWith minute drops from off the eaves.And when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, goddess, bringTo archéd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,Was never heard the nymphs to dauntOr fright them from their hallow'd haunt.There in close covert by some brookWhere no profaner eye may look,Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honey'd thighThat at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such consort as they keepEntice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;And let some strange mysterious dreamWave at his wings in airy streamOf lively portraiture display'd,Softly on my eyelids laid:And, as I wake, sweet music breatheAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,Or the unseen Genius of the wood.But let my due feet never failTo walk the studious cloister's pale,And love the high-embowéd roof,With antique pillars massy proof,And storied windows richly dightCasting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blowTo the full-voiced quire belowIn service high and anthems clear,As may with sweetness, through mine ear,Dissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peaceful hermitage,The hairy gown and mossy cellWhere I may sit and rightly spellOf every star that heaven doth shew,And every herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo something like prophetic strain.These pleasures, Melancholy, give,And I with thee will choose to live.
Hence, vain deluding Joys,The brood of Folly without father bred!How little you besteadOr fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possessAs thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,Or likest hovering dreams,The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,Hail, divinest Melancholy!Whose saintly visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight,And therefore to our weaker viewO'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;Black, but such as in esteemPrince Memnon's sister might beseem,Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that stroveTo set her beauty's praise aboveThe sea-nymphs, and their powers offended:Yet thou art higher far descended:Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she; in Saturn's reignSuch mixture was not held a stain:Oft in glimmering bowers and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida's inmost grove,While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, steadfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grainFlowing with majestic train,And sable stole of Cipres lawnOver thy decent shoulders drawn:Come, but keep thy wonted state,With even step, and musing gait,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There, held in holy passion still,Forget thyself to marble, tillWith a sad leaden downward castThou fix them on the earth as fast:And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ringAye round about Jove's altar sing:And add to these retired LeisureThat in trim gardens takes his pleasure:—But first and chiefest, with thee bringHim that yon soars on golden wingGuiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,The cherub Contemplatión;And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will deign a songIn her sweetest saddest plightSmoothing the rugged brow of Night,While Cynthia checks her dragon yokeGently o'er the accustom'd oak.—Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods amongI woo, to hear thy even-song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering MoonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the heaven's wide pathless way,And oft, as if her head she bow'd,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising groundI hear the far-off Curfeu soundOver some wide-water'd shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar:Or, if the air will not permit,Some still removéd place will fit,Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom;Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth,Or the bellman's drowsy charmTo bless the doors from nightly harm.Or let my lamp at midnight hourBe seen in some high lonely tower,Where I may oft out-watch the BearWith thrice-great Hermes, or unsphereThe spirit of Plato, to unfoldWhat worlds or what vast regions holdThe immortal mind, that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those demons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet, or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn scepter'd pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine;Or what (though rare) of later ageEnnobled hath the buskin'd stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musaeus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as, warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheekAnd made Hell grant what Love did seek!Or call up him that left half-toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canacé to wifeThat own'd the virtuous ring and glass;And of the wondrous horse of brassOn which the Tartar king did ride:And if aught else great bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sungOf turneys, and of trophies hung,Of forests, and enchantments drear,Where more is meant than meets the ear.Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appear,Not trick'd and frounced as she was wontWith the Attic Boy to hunt,But kercheft in a comely cloudWhile rocking winds are piping loud,Or usher'd with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leavesWith minute drops from off the eaves.And when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, goddess, bringTo archéd walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,Was never heard the nymphs to dauntOr fright them from their hallow'd haunt.There in close covert by some brookWhere no profaner eye may look,Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honey'd thighThat at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such consort as they keepEntice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;And let some strange mysterious dreamWave at his wings in airy streamOf lively portraiture display'd,Softly on my eyelids laid:And, as I wake, sweet music breatheAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,Or the unseen Genius of the wood.But let my due feet never failTo walk the studious cloister's pale,And love the high-embowéd roof,With antique pillars massy proof,And storied windows richly dightCasting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blowTo the full-voiced quire belowIn service high and anthems clear,As may with sweetness, through mine ear,Dissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peaceful hermitage,The hairy gown and mossy cellWhere I may sit and rightly spellOf every star that heaven doth shew,And every herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,And I with thee will choose to live.
J. Milton
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that row'd alongThe listening winds received this song.'What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeWhere He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:He gave us this eternal SpringWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.Oh! let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!'—Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean's bosom unespied,From a small boat that row'd alongThe listening winds received this song.'What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeWhere He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:He gave us this eternal SpringWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.Oh! let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven's vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!'—Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
A. Marvell
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;And to our high-raised phantasy presentThat undisturbéd Song of pure concentAye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throneTo Him that sits thereon,With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;And the Cherubic host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,Hymns devout and holy psalmsSinging everlastingly:That we on Earth, with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion'd sinJarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair music that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'dIn perfect diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere longTo His celestial consort us unite,To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse!Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ,Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;And to our high-raised phantasy presentThat undisturbéd Song of pure concentAye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throneTo Him that sits thereon,
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;And the Cherubic host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,Hymns devout and holy psalmsSinging everlastingly:That we on Earth, with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion'd sinJarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair music that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'dIn perfect diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere longTo His celestial consort us unite,To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
J. Milton
When I survey the brightCelestial sphere:So rich with jewels hung, that nightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear;My soul her wings doth spread,And heaven-ward flies,The Almighty's mysteries to readIn the large volumes of the skies.For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator's name.No unregarded starContracts its lightInto so small a character,Removed far from our human sight,But if we steadfast look,We shall discernIn it as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.It tells the Conqueror,That far-stretch'd powerWhich his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour.That from the farthest NorthSome nation mayYet undiscover'd issue forth,And o'er his new-got conquest sway.Some nation yet shut inWith hills of ice,May be let out to scourge his sin,Till they shall equal him in vice.And then they likewise shallTheir ruin have;For as yourselves your Empires fall,And every Kingdom hath a grave.Thus those celestial fires,Though seeming mute,The fallacy of our desiresAnd all the pride of life, confute.For they have watch'd since firstThe World had birth:And found sin in itself accursed,And nothing permanent on earth.
When I survey the brightCelestial sphere:So rich with jewels hung, that nightDoth like an Ethiop bride appear;
My soul her wings doth spread,And heaven-ward flies,The Almighty's mysteries to readIn the large volumes of the skies.
For the bright firmamentShoots forth no flameSo silent, but is eloquentIn speaking the Creator's name.
No unregarded starContracts its lightInto so small a character,Removed far from our human sight,
But if we steadfast look,We shall discernIn it as in some holy book,How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
It tells the Conqueror,That far-stretch'd powerWhich his proud dangers traffic for,Is but the triumph of an hour.
That from the farthest NorthSome nation mayYet undiscover'd issue forth,And o'er his new-got conquest sway.
Some nation yet shut inWith hills of ice,May be let out to scourge his sin,Till they shall equal him in vice.
And then they likewise shallTheir ruin have;For as yourselves your Empires fall,And every Kingdom hath a grave.
Thus those celestial fires,Though seeming mute,The fallacy of our desiresAnd all the pride of life, confute.
For they have watch'd since firstThe World had birth:And found sin in itself accursed,And nothing permanent on earth.
W. Habington
Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!What Muse is worthy thee to sing?Thee, from whose pregnant universal wombAll things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,Thou first and greatest mystery?Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.Before great Love this monument did raise,This ample theatre of praise;Before the folding circles of the skyWere tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;Before the morning Stars their hymn began,Before the council held for man,Before the birth of either time or place,Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,But still half of the globe is thine.Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,Like the best emperors thou dost command.To thee the stars above their brightness owe,And mortals their repose below:To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.
Hail thou most sacred venerable thing!What Muse is worthy thee to sing?Thee, from whose pregnant universal wombAll things, ev'n Light, thy rival, first did come.What dares he not attempt that sings of thee,Thou first and greatest mystery?Who can the secrets of thy essence tell?Thou, like the light of God, art inaccessible.
Before great Love this monument did raise,This ample theatre of praise;Before the folding circles of the skyWere tuned by Him, Who is all harmony;Before the morning Stars their hymn began,Before the council held for man,Before the birth of either time or place,Thou reign'st unquestion'd monarch in the empty space.
Thy native lot thou didst to Light resign,But still half of the globe is thine.Here with a quiet, but yet awful hand,Like the best emperors thou dost command.To thee the stars above their brightness owe,And mortals their repose below:To thy protection fear and sorrow flee,And those that weary are of light, find rest in thee.
J. Norris of Bemerton
I saw Eternity the other night,Like a great ring of pure and endless light,All calm, as it was bright:—And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,Driven by the spheres,Like a vast shadow moved; in which the WorldAnd all her train were hurl'd.
I saw Eternity the other night,Like a great ring of pure and endless light,All calm, as it was bright:—And round beneath it, Time, in hours, days, years,Driven by the spheres,Like a vast shadow moved; in which the WorldAnd all her train were hurl'd.
H. Vaughan
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son—Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne;His valiant peers were placed around,Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,(So should desert in arms be crown'd);The lovely Thais by his sideSate like a blooming Eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride:—Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the braveNone but the braveNone but the brave deserves the fair!Timotheus placed on highAmid the tuneful quireWith flying fingers touch'd the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the skyAnd heavenly joys inspire.The song began from JoveWho left his blissful seats above—Such is the power of mighty love!A dragon's fiery form belied the god;Sublime on radiant spires he rodeWhen he to fair Olympia prest,And while he sought her snowy breast,Then round her slender waist he curl'd,And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.—The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;A present deity! they shout around:A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god;Affects to nodAnd seems to shake the spheres.The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:The jolly god in triumph comes;Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!Flush'd with a purple graceHe shows his honest face:Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!Bacchus, ever fair and young,Drinking joys did first ordain;Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:Rich the treasure,Sweet the pleasure,Sweet is pleasure after pain.Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;Fought all his battles o'er again,And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!The master saw the madness rise,His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;And while he Heaven and Earth defiedChanged his hand and check'd his pride.He chose a mournful MuseSoft pity to infuse:He sung Darius great and good,By too severe a fateFallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,Fallen from his high estate,And weltering in his blood;Deserted at his utmost needBy those his former bounty fed;On the bare earth exposed he liesWith not a friend to close his eyes.—With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,Revolving in his alter'd soulThe various turns of Chance below;And now and then a sigh he stole,And tears began to flow.The mighty master smiled to seeThat love was in the next degree;'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,For pity melts the mind to love.Softly sweet, in Lydian measuresSoon he soothed his soul to pleasures.War, he sung, is toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble;Never ending, still beginning,Fighting still, and still destroying;If the world be worth thy winning,Think, O think, it worth enjoying:Lovely Thais sits beside thee,Take the good the gods provide thee!—The many rend the skies with loud applauseSo Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,Gazed on the fairWho caused his care,And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:At length with love and wine at once opprestThe vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.Now strike the golden lyre again:A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!Break his bands of sleep asunderAnd rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark, hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head:As awaked from the deadAnd amazed he stares around.Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,See the Furies arise!See the snakes that they rearHow they hiss in their hair,And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!Behold a ghastly band,Each a torch in his hand!Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slainAnd unburied remainInglorious on the plain:Give the vengeance dueTo the valiant crew!Behold how they toss their torches on high,How they point to the Persian abodesAnd glittering temples of their hostile gods.—The princes applaud with a furious joy:And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;Thais led the wayTo light him to his prey,And like another Helen, fired another Troy!—Thus, long ago,Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,While organs yet were mute,Timotheus, to his breathing fluteAnd sounding lyreCould swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desireAt last divine Cecilia came,Inventress of the vocal frame;The sweet enthusiast from her sacred storeEnlarged the former narrow bounds,And added length to solemn sounds,With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before—Let old Timotheus yield the prizeOr both divide the crown;He raised a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down!
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia wonBy Philip's warlike son—Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sateOn his imperial throne;His valiant peers were placed around,Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound,(So should desert in arms be crown'd);The lovely Thais by his sideSate like a blooming Eastern brideIn flower of youth and beauty's pride:—Happy, happy, happy pair!None but the braveNone but the braveNone but the brave deserves the fair!
Timotheus placed on highAmid the tuneful quireWith flying fingers touch'd the lyre:The trembling notes ascend the skyAnd heavenly joys inspire.The song began from JoveWho left his blissful seats above—Such is the power of mighty love!A dragon's fiery form belied the god;Sublime on radiant spires he rodeWhen he to fair Olympia prest,And while he sought her snowy breast,Then round her slender waist he curl'd,And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.—The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;A present deity! they shout around:A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god;Affects to nodAnd seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:The jolly god in triumph comes;Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!Flush'd with a purple graceHe shows his honest face:Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!Bacchus, ever fair and young,Drinking joys did first ordain;Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:Rich the treasure,Sweet the pleasure,Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;Fought all his battles o'er again,And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!The master saw the madness rise,His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;And while he Heaven and Earth defiedChanged his hand and check'd his pride.He chose a mournful MuseSoft pity to infuse:He sung Darius great and good,By too severe a fateFallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,Fallen from his high estate,And weltering in his blood;Deserted at his utmost needBy those his former bounty fed;On the bare earth exposed he liesWith not a friend to close his eyes.—With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,Revolving in his alter'd soulThe various turns of Chance below;And now and then a sigh he stole,And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to seeThat love was in the next degree;'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,For pity melts the mind to love.Softly sweet, in Lydian measuresSoon he soothed his soul to pleasures.War, he sung, is toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble;Never ending, still beginning,Fighting still, and still destroying;If the world be worth thy winning,Think, O think, it worth enjoying:Lovely Thais sits beside thee,Take the good the gods provide thee!—The many rend the skies with loud applauseSo Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.The prince, unable to conceal his pain,Gazed on the fairWho caused his care,And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:At length with love and wine at once opprestThe vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again:A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!Break his bands of sleep asunderAnd rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark, hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head:As awaked from the deadAnd amazed he stares around.Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,See the Furies arise!See the snakes that they rearHow they hiss in their hair,And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!Behold a ghastly band,Each a torch in his hand!Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slainAnd unburied remainInglorious on the plain:Give the vengeance dueTo the valiant crew!Behold how they toss their torches on high,How they point to the Persian abodesAnd glittering temples of their hostile gods.—The princes applaud with a furious joy:And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;Thais led the wayTo light him to his prey,And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
—Thus, long ago,Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,While organs yet were mute,Timotheus, to his breathing fluteAnd sounding lyreCould swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desireAt last divine Cecilia came,Inventress of the vocal frame;The sweet enthusiast from her sacred storeEnlarged the former narrow bounds,And added length to solemn sounds,With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before—Let old Timotheus yield the prizeOr both divide the crown;He raised a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down!
J. Dryden
Now the golden Morn aloftWaves her dew-bespangled wing,With vermeil cheek and whisper softShe woos the tardy Spring:Till April starts, and calls aroundThe sleeping fragrance from the ground,And lightly o'er the living sceneScatters his freshest, tenderest green.New-born flocks, in rustic dance,Frisking ply their feeble feet;Forgetful of their wintry tranceThe birds his presence greet:But chief, the sky-lark warbles highHis trembling thrilling ecstasy;And lessening from the dazzled sight,Melts into air and liquid light.Yesterday the sullen yearSaw the snowy whirlwind fly;Mute was the music of the air,The herd stood drooping by:Their raptures now that wildly flowNo yesterday nor morrow know;'Tis Man alone that joy descriesWith forward and reverted eyes.Smiles on past misfortune's browSoft reflection's hand can trace,And o'er the cheek of sorrow throwA melancholy grace;While hope prolongs our happier hour,Or deepest shades, that dimly lourAnd blacken round our weary way,Gilds with a gleam of distant day.Still, where rosy pleasure leads,See a kindred grief pursue;Behind the steps that misery treadsApproaching comfort view:The hues of bliss more brightly glowChastised by sabler tints of woe,And blended form, with artful strife,The strength and harmony of life.See the wretch that long has tostOn the thorny bed of pain,At length repair his vigour lostAnd breathe and walk again:The meanest floweret of the vale,The simplest note that swells the gale,The common sun, the air, the skies,To him are opening Paradise.
Now the golden Morn aloftWaves her dew-bespangled wing,With vermeil cheek and whisper softShe woos the tardy Spring:Till April starts, and calls aroundThe sleeping fragrance from the ground,And lightly o'er the living sceneScatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,Frisking ply their feeble feet;Forgetful of their wintry tranceThe birds his presence greet:But chief, the sky-lark warbles highHis trembling thrilling ecstasy;And lessening from the dazzled sight,Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen yearSaw the snowy whirlwind fly;Mute was the music of the air,The herd stood drooping by:Their raptures now that wildly flowNo yesterday nor morrow know;'Tis Man alone that joy descriesWith forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past misfortune's browSoft reflection's hand can trace,And o'er the cheek of sorrow throwA melancholy grace;While hope prolongs our happier hour,Or deepest shades, that dimly lourAnd blacken round our weary way,Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy pleasure leads,See a kindred grief pursue;Behind the steps that misery treadsApproaching comfort view:The hues of bliss more brightly glowChastised by sabler tints of woe,And blended form, with artful strife,The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tostOn the thorny bed of pain,At length repair his vigour lostAnd breathe and walk again:The meanest floweret of the vale,The simplest note that swells the gale,The common sun, the air, the skies,To him are opening Paradise.
T. Gray
O Thou, by Nature taughtTo breathe her genuine thoughtIn numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;Who first, on mountains wild,In Fancy, loveliest child,Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!Thou, who with hermit heart,Disdain'st the wealth of art,And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,But com'st, a decent maidIn Attic robe array'd,O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!By all the honey'd storeOn Hybla's thymy shore,By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;By her whose love-lorn woeIn evening musings slowSoothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:By old Cephisus deep,Who spread his wavy sweepIn warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;On whose enamell'd side,When holy Freedom died,No equal haunt allured thy future feet:—O sister meek of Truth,To my admiring youthThy sober aid and native charms infuse!The flowers that sweetest breathe,Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.While Rome could none esteemBut Virtue's patriot theme,You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;But stay'd to sing aloneTo one distinguish'd throne;And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.No more, in hall or bower,The Passions own thy power;Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:For thou hast left her shrine;Nor olive more, nor vine,Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.Though taste, though genius, blessTo some divine excess,Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;What each, what all supplyMay court, may charm our eye;Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!Of these let others askTo aid some mighty task;I only seek to find thy temperate vale;Where oft my reed might soundTo maids and shepherds round,And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.
O Thou, by Nature taughtTo breathe her genuine thoughtIn numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;Who first, on mountains wild,In Fancy, loveliest child,Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!
Thou, who with hermit heart,Disdain'st the wealth of art,And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,But com'st, a decent maidIn Attic robe array'd,O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!
By all the honey'd storeOn Hybla's thymy shore,By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear;By her whose love-lorn woeIn evening musings slowSoothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
By old Cephisus deep,Who spread his wavy sweepIn warbled wanderings round thy green retreat;On whose enamell'd side,When holy Freedom died,No equal haunt allured thy future feet:—
O sister meek of Truth,To my admiring youthThy sober aid and native charms infuse!The flowers that sweetest breathe,Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none esteemBut Virtue's patriot theme,You loved her hills, and led her laureat band;But stay'd to sing aloneTo one distinguish'd throne;And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
No more, in hall or bower,The Passions own thy power;Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean:For thou hast left her shrine;Nor olive more, nor vine,Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Though taste, though genius, blessTo some divine excess,Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole;What each, what all supplyMay court, may charm our eye;Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others askTo aid some mighty task;I only seek to find thy temperate vale;Where oft my reed might soundTo maids and shepherds round,And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.
W. Collins