28.That time of year thou may'st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lieAs the deathbed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.—This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.W. SHAKESPEARE.
29. REMEMBRANCE.When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time's wasteThen can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o'erThe sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before:—But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored, and sorrows end.W. SHAKESPEARE.
30. REVOLUTIONS.Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shoreSo do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend.Nativity once in the main of lightCrawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall standPraising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.W. SHAKESPEARE.
31.Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing,My bonds in thee are all determinate.For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?And for that riches where is my deserving?The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgement making.Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.W. SHAKESPEARE.
32. THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION.They that have power to hurt, and will do none,That do not do the thing they most do show,Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,—They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,And husband nature's riches from expense;They are the lords and owners of their faces,Others, but stewards of their excellence.The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,Though to itself it only live and die;But if that flower with base infection meet,The basest weed outbraves his dignity:For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.W. SHAKESPEARE.
33. THE LOVER'S APPEAL.And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay! for shame,To save thee from the blameOf all my grief and grame.And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath loved thee so longIn wealth and woe among:And is thy heart so strongAs for to leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath given thee my heartNever for to departNeither for pain nor smart:And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!And wilt thou leave me thus,And have no more pityOf him that loveth thee?Alas! thy cruelty!And wilt thou leave me thus?Say nay! say nay!SIR T. WYAT.
34. THE NIGHTINGALE.As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring,Every thing did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone.She, poor bird, as all forlorn,Lean'd her breast against a thorn,And there sung the dolefullest ditty,That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;Tereu, tereu, by and by:That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.—Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;King Pandion, he is dead,All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.R. BARNEFIELD.
35.Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,Relieve my anguish, and restore the light;With dark forgetting of my care return.And let the day be time enough to mournThe shipwreck of my ill adventured youth:Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,Without the torment of the night's untruth.Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,To model forth the passions of the morrow;Never let rising Sun approve you liarsTo add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,And never wake to feel the day's disdain.S. DANIEL.
36. MADRIGAL.Take O take those lips awayThat so sweetly were forsworn,And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again,Bring again—Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,Seal'd in vain!W. SHAKESPEARE.
37. LOVE'S FAREWELL.Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,That thus so cleanly I myself can free;Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when we meet at any time again,Be it not seen in either of our browsThat we one jot of former love retain.Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,And innocence is closing up his eyes,—Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!M. DRAYTON.
38. TO HIS LUTE.My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,What art thou but a harbinger of woe?Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;For which be silent as in woods before:Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.W. DRUMMOND.
39. BLIND LOVE.O me! what eyes hath love put in my headWhich have no correspondence with true sight:Or if they have, where is my judgment fledThat censures falsely what they see aright?If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so?If it be not, then love doth well denote,Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,How can it? O how can love's eye be true,That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?No marvel then though I mistake my view:The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!W. SHAKESPEARE.
40. THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.While that the sun with his beams hotScorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,Philon the shepherd, late forgot,Sitting beside a crystal fountain,In shadow of a green oak treeUpon his pipe this song play'd he:Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.So long as I was in your sightI was your heart, your soul, and treasure;And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'dBurning in flames beyond all measure:—Three days endured your love to me,And it was lost in other three!Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.Another Shepherd you did seeTo whom your heart was soon enchainéd;Full soon your love was leapt from me,Full soon my place he had obtainéd.Soon came a third, your love to win,And we were out and he was in.Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.Sure you have made me passing gladThat you your mind so soon removéd,Before that I the leisure hadTo choose you for my best belovéd:For all your love was past and doneTwo days before it was begun:—Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.ANON.
41. A RENUNCIATION.If women could be fair, and yet not fond,Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,I would not marvel that they make men bondBy service long to purchase their good will;But when I see how frail those creatures are,I muse that men forget themselves so far.To mark the choice they make, and how they change,How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,These gentle birds that fly from man to man;Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,To pass the time when nothing else can please,And train them to our lure with subtle oath,Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;And then we say when we their fancy try,To play with fools, O what a fool was I!E. VERE, EARL OF OXFORD.
42.Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then, heigh ho! the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember'd not.Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.W. SHAKESPEARE.
43. MADRIGAL.My thoughts hold mortal strife;I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOft call that prince which here doth monarchise:—But he, grim grinning King,Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.W. DRUMMOND.
44. DIRGE OF LOVE.Come away, come away, Death,And in sad cypres let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,O prepare it!My part of death no one so trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O whereSad true lover never find my grave,To weep there.W. SHAKESPEARE.
45. FIDELE.Fear no more the heat o' the sun,Nor the furious winter's rages:Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:Golden lads and girls all must,As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.Fear no more the frown o' the great,Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat;To thee the reed is as the oak:The sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning flashNor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;Fear not slander, censure rash;Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee, and come to dust.W. SHAKESPEARE.
46. A SEA DIRGE.Full fathom five thy father lies:Of his bones are coral made;Those are pearls that were his eyes:Nothing of him that doth fade,But doth suffer a sea-changeInto something rich and strange;Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:Hark! now I hear them,—Ding, dong, Bell.W. SHAKESPEARE.
47. A LAND DIRGE.Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,Since o'er shady groves they hoverAnd with leaves and flowers do coverThe friendless bodies of unburied men.Call unto his funeral doleThe ant, the field-mouse, and the moleTo rear him hillocks that shall keep him warmAnd (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,For with his nails he'll dig them up again.J. WEBSTER.
48. POST MORTEM.If Thou survive my well-contented dayWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover:Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhymeExceeded by the height of happier men.O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought—"Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:But since he died, and poets better prove,Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."W. SHAKESPEARE.
49. THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.No longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world, that I am fledFrom this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it; for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgotIf thinking on me then should make you woe.O if, I say, you look upon this verseWhen I perhaps compounded am with clayDo not so much as my poor name rehearse,But let your love even with my life decay;Lest the wise world should look into your moan,And mock you with me after I am gone.W. SHAKESPEARE.
50. MADRIGAL.Tell me where is Fancy bred,Or in the heart or in the head?How begot, how nourishéd?Reply, reply.It is engender'd in the eyes,With gazing fed; and Fancy diesIn the cradle where it lies:Let us all ring fancy's knell;I'll begin it,—Ding, dong, bell.—Ding, dong, bell.W. SHAKESPEARE.
51. CUPID AND CAMPASPE.Cupid and my Campaspe play'dAt cards for kisses; Cupid paid:He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;Loses them too; then down he throwsThe coral of his lip, the roseGrowing on's cheek (but none knows how);With these, the crystal of his brow,And then the dimple on his chin;All these did my Campaspe win:At last he set her both his eyes—She won, and Cupid blind did rise.O Love! has she done this to thee?What shall, alas! become of me?J. LYLYE.
52.Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow;Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloftTo give my Love good-morrow!Wings from the wind to please her mind,Notes from the lark I'll borrow;Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,To give my Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them both I'll borrow.Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast!Sing, birds, in every furrow;And from each hill, let music shrillGive my fair Love good-morrow!Blackbird and thrush in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowSing birds, in every furrow!T. HEYWOOD.
53. PROTHALAMION.Calm was the day, and through the trembling airSweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play—A gentle spirit, that lightly did delayHot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;When I, (whom sullen care,Through discontent of my long fruitless stayIn princes' court, and expectation vainOf idle hopes, which still do fly awayLike empty shadows, did afflict my brain)Walk'd forth to ease my painAlong the shore of silver-streaming Thames;Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,Was painted all with variable flowers,And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gemsFit to deck maidens' bowers,And crown their paramoursAgainst the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.There in a meadow by the river's side,A flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,With goodly greenish locks all loose untiedAs each had been a bride;And each one had a little wicker basketMade of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously,In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,And with fine fingers cropt full feateouslyThe tender stalks on high.Of every sort which in that meadow grewThey gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,The little daisy that at evening closes,The virgin lily and the primrose true:With store of vermeil roses,To deck their bridegrooms' posiesAgainst the bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.With that I saw two swans of goodly hueCome softly swimming down along the lee;Two fairer birds I yet did never see;The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow,Did never whiter show,Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would beFor love of Leda, whiter did appear;Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;So purely white they were,That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spareTo wet their silken feathers, lest they mightSoil their fair plumes with water not so fair,And mar their beauties brightThat shone as Heaven's lightAgainst their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,Ran all in haste to see that silver broodAs they came floating on the crystal flood;Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd stillTheir wondering eyes to fill;Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fairOf fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deemThem heavenly born, or to be that same pairWhich through the sky draw Venus' silver team;For sure they did not seemTo be begot of any earthly seed,But rather angels, or of angels' breed;Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,In sweetest season, when each flower and weedThe earth did fresh array;So fresh they seem'd as day,Even as their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.Then forth they all out of their baskets drewGreat store of flowers, the honour of the field,That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,All which upon those goodly birds they threwAnd all the waves did strew,That like old Peneus' waters they did seemWhen down along by pleasant Tempe's shoreScatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,Like a bride's chamber-floor.Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands boundOf freshest flowers which in that mead they found,The which presenting all in trim array,Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'dWhilst one did sing this layPrepar'd against that day,Against their bridal day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song."Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hourDoth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,Joy may you have, and gentle hearts contentOf your loves complement;And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to removeAll love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guileFor ever to assoil.Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,That fruitful issue may to you affordWhich may your foes confound,And make your joys redoundUpon your bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song."So ended she; and all the rest aroundTo her redoubled that her undersong,Which said their bridal day should not be long:And gentle Echo from the neighbour groundTheir accents did resound.So forth those joyous birds did pass alongAdown the lee that to them murmur'd low,As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue,Yet did by signs his glad affection show,Making his stream run slow.And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell'Gan flock about these twain, that did excelThe rest, so far as Cynthia doth shendThe lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,Did on those two attend,And their best service lendAgainst their wedding day, which was not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.At length they all to merry London came,To merry London, my most kindly nurse,That to me gave this life's first native source,Though from another place I take my name,An house of ancient fame:There when they came whereas those bricky towersThe which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,Till they decay'd through pride:Next whereunto there stands a stately place,Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly graceOf that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;But ah! here fits not wellOld woes, but joys to tellAgainst the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder,And Hercules' two pillars standing nearDid make to quake and fear:Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!That fillest England with thy triumphs' fameJoy have thou of thy noble victory,And endless happiness of thine own nameThat promiseth the same;That through thy prowess and victorious arms,Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,And great Eliza's glorious name may ringThrough all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarmsWhich some brave Muse may singTo ages following,Upon the bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.From those high towers this noble lord issúing,Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hairIn th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,Descended to the river's open viewingWith a great train ensuing.Above the rest were goodly to be seenTwo gentle knights of lovely face and feature,Beseeming well the bower of any queen,With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,Fit for so goodly stature,That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sightWhich deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;They two, forth pacing to the river's side,Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;Which, at th' appointed tide,Each one did make his brideAgainst their bridal day, which is not long:Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.E. SPENSER.
54. THE HAPPY HEART.Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?O sweet content!Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexéd?O punishment!Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexédTo add to golden numbers, golden numbers?O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?O sweet content!Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?O punishment!Then he that patiently want's burden bears,No burden bears, but is a king, a king!O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!Work apace, apace, apace, apace;Honest labour bears a lovely face;Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!T. DEKKER.
55.This Life, which seems so fair,Is like a bubble blown up in the airBy sporting children's breath,Who chase it everywhereAnd strive who can most motion it bequeath.And though it sometimes seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,And firm to hover in that empty height,That only is because it is so light.—But in that pomp it doth not long appear;For when 'tis most admiréd, in a thought,Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.W. DRUMMOND.
56. SOUL AND BODY.Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:—So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,And death once dead, there's no more dying then.W. SHAKESPEARE.
57. LIFE.The World's a bubble, and the Life of ManLess than a span:In his conception wretched, from the wombSo to the tomb;Curst from his cradle, and brought up to yearsWith cares and fears.Who then to frail mortality shall trust,But limns on water, or but writes in dust.Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,What life is best?Courts are but only superficial schoolsTo dandle fools:The rural parts are turn'd into a denOf savage men:And where's a city from foul vice so free,But may be term'd the worst of all the three?Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,Or pains his head:Those that live single, take it for a curse,Or do things worse:Some would have children: those that have them, moanOr wish them gone:What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,But single thraldom, or a double strife?Our own affections still at home to pleaseIs a disease:To cross the seas to any foreign soil,Peril and toil:Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,We are worse in peace;—What then remains, but that we still should cryFor being born, or, being born, to dieLORD BACON
58. THE LESSONS OF NATURE.Of this fair volume which we World do nameIf we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,His providence extending everywhere,His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,In every page, no period of the same.But silly we, like foolish children, restWell pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,It is some picture on the margin wrought.W. DRUMMOND.
59.Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?Is this the justice which on Earth we find?Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?Are these your influences, Powers above?Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;And they who thee, poor idle Virtue! love,Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,Why should best minds groan under most distress?Or why should pride humility make thrall,And injuries the innocent oppress?Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a timeWhen good may have, as well as bad, their prime!W. DRUMMOND.
60. THE WORLD'S WAY.Tired with all these, for restful death I cry—As, to behold desert a beggar born,And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,And strength by limping sway disablédAnd art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive Good attending captain Ill:——Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.W. SHAKESPEARE.
61. SAINT JOHN BAPTIST.The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's KingGirt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.His food was locusts, and what there doth springWith honey that from virgin hives distill'd;Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thingMade him appear, long since from earth exiled.There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes relyOn God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!—Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?Only the echoes, which he made relent,Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!W. DRUMMOND.
This division, embracing the latter eighty years of the seventeenth century, contains the close of our Early poetical style and the commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master of the new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in the former book,—the crown and consummation of the early period. Their splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts, Spenser's excepted: they exhibit the wider and grander range which years and experience and the struggles of the time conferred on Poetry. Poetry now gave expression to political feeling, to religious thought, to a high philosophic statesmanship in writers such as Marvell, Herbert, and Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again, we find the first noble attempts at pure description of nature, destined in our own ages to be continued and equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought, and afterward by levity and an artificial tone,—produced in Herrick and Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan: until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself, and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of Wither and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.—That the change from our early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of nature and simplicity is undeniable: yet the far bolder and wider scope which Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts then made to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results have been no slight compensation.
62. ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.This is the month, and this the happy mornWherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal KingOf wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did singThat He our deadly forfeit should release,And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of MajestyWherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and, here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strainTo welcome Him to this His new abode,Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?See how from far, upon the eastern road,The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:O run, prevent them with thy humble odeAnd lay it lowly at his blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel quireFrom out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.THE HYMN.It was the Winter wildWhile the heaven-born ChildAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger liesNature in awe to HimHad doff'd her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathise:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow;And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.But He, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace,She crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphereHis ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.No war, or battle's soundWas heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookéd Chariot stoodUnstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.But peaceful was the nightWherin the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kistWhispering new joys to the mild oceán—Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.The stars with deep amazeStand fix'd in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlightn'd world no more should need:He saw a greater Sun appearThen his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.The shepherds on the lawnOr ere the point of dawnSate simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheepWas all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortal finger strook—Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringéd noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.Nature that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all heaven and earth in happier union.At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular lightThat with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;The helméd CherubimAnd sworded Seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,Harping in loud and solemn quireWith unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never madeBut when of old the sons of morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations setAnd the well-balanced world on hinges hung;And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full concert to the angelic symphony.For if such holy SongEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;And speckled vanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit betweenThroned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.But wisest Fate says No;This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both Himself and us to glorify:Yet first to those ychain'd in sleepThe wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;With such a horrid clangAs on mount Sinai rangWhile the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:The aged Earth agastWith terrour of that blastShall from the surface to the centre shake,When at the worlds last sessión,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe old Dragon, under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.The oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the archéd roof in words deceiving:Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:No nightly trance or breathéd spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.The lonely mountains o'erAnd the resounding shoreA voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdged with poplar paleThe parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.In consecrated earthAnd on the holy hearth,The Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars roundA drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.Peor and BaalimForsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter'd god of PalestineAnd moonéd AshtarothHeaven's queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.And sullen Moloch, fled,Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fastIsis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove, or green,Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;In vain with timbrell'd anthems darkThe sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide,Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.So, when the sun in bedCurtain'd with cloudy redPillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.But see, the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest;Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:Heavens youngest-teeméd star,Hath fixed her polish'd car,Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:And all about the courtly stableBright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.J. MILTON.