44.La Belle Dame sans Merci.
1.Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,Alone and palely loitering;The sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.2.Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.3.I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever dew;And on thy cheek a fading roseFast withereth too.4.I met a lady in the meadsFull beautiful, a faery's child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.5.I set her on my pacing steed,And nothing else saw all day long;For sideways would she lean, and singA faery's song.6.I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.7.She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild, and manna dew;And sure in language strange she said,I love thee true.8.She took me to her elfin grot,And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,And there I shut her wild sad eyes—So kiss'd to sleep.9.And there we slumber'd on the moss,And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill-side.10.I saw pale kings, and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;Who cry'd—"La belle Dame sans merciHath thee in thrall!"11.I saw their starv'd lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke, and found me hereOn the cold hill-side.12.And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
1.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,Alone and palely loitering;The sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
2.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel's granary is full,And the harvest's done.
3.
I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever dew;And on thy cheek a fading roseFast withereth too.
4.
I met a lady in the meadsFull beautiful, a faery's child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.
5.
I set her on my pacing steed,And nothing else saw all day long;For sideways would she lean, and singA faery's song.
6.
I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.
7.
She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild, and manna dew;And sure in language strange she said,I love thee true.
8.
She took me to her elfin grot,And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,And there I shut her wild sad eyes—So kiss'd to sleep.
9.
And there we slumber'd on the moss,And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,The latest dream I ever dream'dOn the cold hill-side.
10.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;Who cry'd—"La belle Dame sans merciHath thee in thrall!"
11.
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloamWith horrid warning gaped wide,And I awoke, and found me hereOn the cold hill-side.
12.
And this is why I sojourn hereAlone and palely loitering,Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
45.Sonnet.
When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piled books, in charactery,Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery powerOf unreflecting love;—then on the shoreOf the wide world I stand alone, and thinkTill love and fame to nothingness do sink.Buxton Forman's Text.
When I have fears that I may cease to beBefore my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piled books, in charactery,Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery powerOf unreflecting love;—then on the shoreOf the wide world I stand alone, and thinkTill love and fame to nothingness do sink.
Buxton Forman's Text.
46.The Old Familiar Faces.
Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?I had a mother, but she died, and left me,Died prematurely in a day of horrors—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I lov'd a love once, fairest among women;Clos'd are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man.Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.Ghost-like, I pac'd round the haunts of my childhood.Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother!Why were not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces.For some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.1798 Edition.
Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?I had a mother, but she died, and left me,Died prematurely in a day of horrors—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I lov'd a love once, fairest among women;Clos'd are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man.Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like, I pac'd round the haunts of my childhood.Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother!Why were not thou born in my father's dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces.
For some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
1798 Edition.
47.The Maid's Lament.
I loved him not; and yet now he is goneI feel I am alone.I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,Alas! I would not check.For reasons not to love him once I sought,And wearied all my thoughtTo vex myself and him: I now would giveMy love, could he but liveWho lately lived for me, and when he found'Twas vain, in holy groundHe hid his face amid the shades of death.I waste for him my breathWho wasted his for me: but mine returns,And this lorn bosom burnsWith stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,And waking me to weepTears that had melted his soft heart: for yearsWept he as bitter tears.Merciful God!such was his latest prayer,These may she never share!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 oh! pray too for me!1868 Edition.
I loved him not; and yet now he is goneI feel I am alone.I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,Alas! I would not check.For reasons not to love him once I sought,And wearied all my thoughtTo vex myself and him: I now would giveMy love, could he but liveWho lately lived for me, and when he found'Twas vain, in holy groundHe hid his face amid the shades of death.I waste for him my breathWho wasted his for me: but mine returns,And this lorn bosom burnsWith stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,And waking me to weepTears that had melted his soft heart: for yearsWept he as bitter tears.Merciful God!such was his latest prayer,These may she never share!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 oh! pray too for me!
1868 Edition.
48.To Lucasta. Going to the Wars.
Tell me not, (sweet,) I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.True: a new Mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is such,As you too shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,Lov'd I not Honour more.Carew Hazlitt's Text.
Tell me not, (sweet,) I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mindTo war and arms I fly.
True: a new Mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such,As you too shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,Lov'd I not Honour more.
Carew Hazlitt's Text.
49.On the Morning of Christ's Nativity.
I.This is the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,Of wedded Maid and Virgin-Mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That he our deadly forfeit should release,And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.II.That glorious form, that light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,Wherewith 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.III.Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,To 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?IV.See how from far upon the eastern roadThe star-led wizards haste with odours sweet!Oh! run, prevent them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel quire,From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.The Hymn.I.It was the winter wild,While the heaven-born childAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to himHad doffed her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize.It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun her lusty paramour.II.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.III.But he, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;She, crowned with olive-green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And, waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes an universal peace through sea and land.IV.No war or battle's soundWas heard the world around;The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hooked chariot stood,Unstained with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.V.But peaceful was the night,Wherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began.The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kissed,Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.VI.The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence,And will not take their flight,For all the morning-light,Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.VII.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-enlightened world no more should need;He saw a greater sun appearThan his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.VIII.The shepherds on the lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thanThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below.Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.IX.When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortal finger strook;Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took.The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.X.Nature, that heard such sound,Beneath 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.XI.At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-faced Night arrayed.The helmed Cherubim,And sworded Seraphim,Are seen, in glittering ranks with wings displayed,Harping, in loud and solemn quire,With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.XII.Such music—as 'tis said—Before was never made,But when of old the Sons of Morning sung;While the Creator greatHis constellations set,And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.XIII.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 base of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.XIV.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.XV.Yea Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orbed in a rainbow, and like glories wearing;Mercy will sit between,Throned 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.XVI.But wisest Fate says No,This must not yet be so,The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy,That, on the bitter cross,Must redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.XVII.With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rang,While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake,The aged earth aghast,With terror of that blast,Shall from the surface to the centre shake;When, at the world's last session,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.XVIII.And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe Old Dragon under ground,In straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurped sway,And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.XIX.The oracles are dumb,No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathed spell,Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.XX.The lonely mountains o'er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdged with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.XXI.In consecrated earth,And on the holy hearth,The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;In urns and altars round,A 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.XXII.Peor and BaälimForsake their temples dim,With that twice battered god of Palestine;And mooned Ashtaroth,Heaven'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.XXIII.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 fast,Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.XXIV.Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove or green,Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest,Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud;In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark,The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.XXV.He feels, from Juda's land,The 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 damned crew.XXVI.So when the sun in bed,Curtained with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,And the yellow-skirted fayesFly after the Night steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.XXVII.But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest,Time is our tedious song should here have ending;Heaven's youngest-teemed starHath fixed her polished car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid-lamp attending;And all about the courtly stableBright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.
I.
This is the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,Of wedded Maid and Virgin-Mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That he our deadly forfeit should release,And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
II.
That glorious form, that light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,Wherewith 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.
III.
Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,To 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?
IV.
See how from far upon the eastern roadThe star-led wizards haste with odours sweet!Oh! run, prevent them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel quire,From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
The Hymn.
I.
It was the winter wild,While the heaven-born childAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;Nature in awe to himHad doffed her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize.It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun her lusty paramour.
II.
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.
III.
But he, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;She, crowned with olive-green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And, waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes an universal peace through sea and land.
IV.
No war or battle's soundWas heard the world around;The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hooked chariot stood,Unstained with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
V.
But peaceful was the night,Wherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began.The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kissed,Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
VI.
The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence,And will not take their flight,For all the morning-light,Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
VII.
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-enlightened world no more should need;He saw a greater sun appearThan his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.
VIII.
The shepherds on the lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thanThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below.Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
IX.
When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortal finger strook;Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took.The air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
X.
Nature, that heard such sound,Beneath 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.
XI.
At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-faced Night arrayed.The helmed Cherubim,And sworded Seraphim,Are seen, in glittering ranks with wings displayed,Harping, in loud and solemn quire,With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.
XII.
Such music—as 'tis said—Before was never made,But when of old the Sons of Morning sung;While the Creator greatHis constellations set,And the well-balanced World on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
XIII.
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 base of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.
XIV.
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.
XV.
Yea Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orbed in a rainbow, and like glories wearing;Mercy will sit between,Throned 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.
XVI.
But wisest Fate says No,This must not yet be so,The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy,That, on the bitter cross,Must redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychained in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
XVII.
With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rang,While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake,The aged earth aghast,With terror of that blast,Shall from the surface to the centre shake;When, at the world's last session,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
XVIII.
And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe Old Dragon under ground,In straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurped sway,And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
XIX.
The oracles are dumb,No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathed spell,Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
XX.
The lonely mountains o'er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdged with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
XXI.
In consecrated earth,And on the holy hearth,The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;In urns and altars round,A 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.
XXII.
Peor and BaälimForsake their temples dim,With that twice battered god of Palestine;And mooned Ashtaroth,Heaven'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.
XXIII.
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 fast,Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis haste.
XXIV.
Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove or green,Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest,Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud;In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark,The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.
XXV.
He feels, from Juda's land,The 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 damned crew.
XXVI.
So when the sun in bed,Curtained with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,And the yellow-skirted fayesFly after the Night steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
XXVII.
But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest,Time is our tedious song should here have ending;Heaven's youngest-teemed starHath fixed her polished car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid-lamp attending;And all about the courtly stableBright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.
50.L'Allegro.
Hence, loathed Melancholy!Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,In Stygian cave forlorn,'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.Find out some uncouth cell,Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,And the night-raven sings;There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocksAs ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In Heaven yclept Euphrosynè,And by men, heart-easing Mirth;Whom lovely Venus, at a birthWith two sister Graces more,To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;Or whether, as some sager sing,The frolic wind that breathes the spring,Zephyr, with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-maying,There, on beds of violets blue,And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,Filled 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 wreathed Smiles—Such 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 due,Mirth, admit me of thy crewTo live with her and live with thee,In unreproved pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flight,And 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-morrow,Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine;While the cock, with lively din,Scatters 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 hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gate,Where the great Sun begins his state,Robed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight;While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrowed land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his tale,Under the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,Whilst 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 sees,Bosomed 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 messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tanned haycock in the mead.Sometimes, with secure delight,The upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks sound,To many a youth and many a maid,Dancing in the chequered shade,And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holiday,Till the live-long daylight fail;Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,With stories told of many a feat,How faery Mab the junkets eat;She was pinched and pulled, she said;And he, by Friar's lantern led,Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,To earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy flail hath threshed the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down, the lubber-fiend,And, stretched 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 lulled asleep.Towered cities please us then,And 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 dream,On 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 cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airs,Married to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierce,In notes with many a winding boutOf linked sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed and giddy cunningThe melting voice through mazes runningUntwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his head,From golden slumber on a bedOf heaped Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regained Eurydicè.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
Hence, loathed Melancholy!Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,In Stygian cave forlorn,'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.Find out some uncouth cell,Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,And the night-raven sings;There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocksAs ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In Heaven yclept Euphrosynè,And by men, heart-easing Mirth;Whom lovely Venus, at a birthWith two sister Graces more,To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;Or whether, as some sager sing,The frolic wind that breathes the spring,Zephyr, with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-maying,There, on beds of violets blue,And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,Filled 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 wreathed Smiles—Such 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 due,Mirth, admit me of thy crewTo live with her and live with thee,In unreproved pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flight,And 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-morrow,Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine;While the cock, with lively din,Scatters 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 hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gate,Where the great Sun begins his state,Robed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight;While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrowed land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his tale,Under the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,Whilst 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 sees,Bosomed 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 messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tanned haycock in the mead.Sometimes, with secure delight,The upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocund rebecks sound,To many a youth and many a maid,Dancing in the chequered shade,And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holiday,Till the live-long daylight fail;Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,With stories told of many a feat,How faery Mab the junkets eat;She was pinched and pulled, she said;And he, by Friar's lantern led,Tells how the drudging goblin sweat,To earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,His shadowy flail hath threshed the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down, the lubber-fiend,And, stretched 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 lulled asleep.Towered cities please us then,And 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 dream,On 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 cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airs,Married to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierce,In notes with many a winding boutOf linked sweetness long drawn out,With wanton heed and giddy cunningThe melting voice through mazes runningUntwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his head,From golden slumber on a bedOf heaped Elysian flowers, and hearSuch strains as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half-regained Eurydicè.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
51.Il Penseroso.
Hence, vain deluding Joys,The brood of Folly without father bred!How little you bested,Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As 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 starred Ethiop queen that stroveTo set her beauty's praise aboveThe Sea-Nymphs', and their powers offended:Yet thou art higher far descended.Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yoreTo 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 grain,Flowing with majestic train,And sable stole of Cyprus 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 Leisure,That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.But, first and chiefest, with thee bringHim that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,The Cherub Contemplation;And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will deign a song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of Night;While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke,Gently o'er the accustomed oak.Sweet bird, that shunnest the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, chantress, oft the woods amongI woo to hear thy even-song;And missing thee I walk unseen,On the dry, smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moon,Riding near her highest noon,Like one that has been led astrayThrough the heaven's wide pathless way,And oft, as if her head she bowed,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft, on a plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off curfew sound,Over some wide-watered shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or, if the air will not permit,Some still, removed 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 charm,To bless the doors from nightly harm;Or let my lamp, at midnight-hour,Be seen in some high, lonely tower,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With 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 underground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet, or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn sceptred pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine,Or what, though rare, of later ageEnnobled hath the buskined stage.But, O sad Virgin! that thy powerMight raise Musæus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the stringDrew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,And 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 Canacè to wife,That owned the virtuous ring and glass;And of the wondrous horse of brass,On which the Tartar king did ride;And if ought else great bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of tourneys 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 tricked and frounced, as she was wontWith the Attic boy to hunt,But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,While rocking winds are piping loud,Or ushered with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leaves,With minute-drops from off the eaves.And when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, Goddess, bringTo arched walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe with heaved strokeWas never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallowed hauntThere, in close covert by some brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honeyed thigh,That at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such concert as they keep,Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.And let some strange, mysterious dreamWave at his wings, in aery streamOf lively portraiture displayed,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 cloisters pale,And love the high embowed roof,With antic pillars massy-proofAnd storied windows richly dight,Casting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blow,To the full-voiced quire below,In 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 cell,Where 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 bested,Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As 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 starred Ethiop queen that stroveTo set her beauty's praise aboveThe Sea-Nymphs', and their powers offended:Yet thou art higher far descended.Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yoreTo 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 grain,Flowing with majestic train,And sable stole of Cyprus 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 Leisure,That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.But, first and chiefest, with thee bringHim that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,The Cherub Contemplation;And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will deign a song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of Night;While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke,Gently o'er the accustomed oak.Sweet bird, that shunnest the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, chantress, oft the woods amongI woo to hear thy even-song;And missing thee I walk unseen,On the dry, smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moon,Riding near her highest noon,Like one that has been led astrayThrough the heaven's wide pathless way,And oft, as if her head she bowed,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft, on a plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off curfew sound,Over some wide-watered shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or, if the air will not permit,Some still, removed 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 charm,To bless the doors from nightly harm;Or let my lamp, at midnight-hour,Be seen in some high, lonely tower,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With 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 underground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet, or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn sceptred pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine,Or what, though rare, of later ageEnnobled hath the buskined stage.But, O sad Virgin! that thy powerMight raise Musæus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the stringDrew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,And 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 Canacè to wife,That owned the virtuous ring and glass;And of the wondrous horse of brass,On which the Tartar king did ride;And if ought else great bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of tourneys 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 tricked and frounced, as she was wontWith the Attic boy to hunt,But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,While rocking winds are piping loud,Or ushered with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leaves,With minute-drops from off the eaves.And when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, Goddess, bringTo arched walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe with heaved strokeWas never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallowed hauntThere, in close covert by some brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from day's garish eye,While the bee with honeyed thigh,That at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such concert as they keep,Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.And let some strange, mysterious dreamWave at his wings, in aery streamOf lively portraiture displayed,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 cloisters pale,And love the high embowed roof,With antic pillars massy-proofAnd storied windows richly dight,Casting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blow,To the full-voiced quire below,In 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 cell,Where 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.