52.Lycidas.
52.Lycidas.
In thisMonodythe author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drowned in his passage from Chester, on the Irish Sea, 1637; and by occasion foretells the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their height.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compel me to disturb your season due;For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rime.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse—So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud—For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill;Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright,Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.But oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes mourn.The willows, and the hazel-copses green,Shall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.Ay me, I fondly dream!Had ye been there ... for what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself for her enchanting son,Whom universal Nature did lament,When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise—That last infirmity of noble mind—To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise,'Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears.'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.'O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood.But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the sea,That came in Neptune's plea.He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wings,That blows from off each beaked promontory.They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopè with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?'Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain—The golden opes, the iron shuts amain.He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake,Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning make,Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And, when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;Beside what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said.But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'Return, Alpheüs, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint-enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears;Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies.For so, to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise,Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisitest the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleepest by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold....Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth;And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropped into the western bay.At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never-sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compel me to disturb your season due;For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rime.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse—So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud—For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill;Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening, bright,Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damœtas loved to hear our song.But oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes mourn.The willows, and the hazel-copses green,Shall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.Ay me, I fondly dream!Had ye been there ... for what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself for her enchanting son,Whom universal Nature did lament,When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise—That last infirmity of noble mind—To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life. 'But not the praise,'Phœbus replied, and touched my trembling ears.'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet-off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.'O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood.But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the sea,That came in Neptune's plea.He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wings,That blows from off each beaked promontory.They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopè with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.'Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, 'my dearest pledge?'Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain—The golden opes, the iron shuts amain.He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:'How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake,Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning make,Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;And, when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;Beside what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said.But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.'Return, Alpheüs, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks;Throw hither all your quaint-enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears;Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureate herse where Lycid lies.For so, to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise,Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisitest the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleepest by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold....Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth;And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,While the still Morn went out with sandals gray;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropped into the western bay.At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
53.On His Blindness.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent, which is death to hide,Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He, returning, chide;'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts. Who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His stateIs kingly. Thousands, at his bidding, speedAnd post o'er land and ocean, without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait.'Keightley's Text.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent, which is death to hide,Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest He, returning, chide;'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'I fondly ask. But Patience, to preventThat murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts. Who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His stateIs kingly. Thousands, at his bidding, speedAnd post o'er land and ocean, without rest;They also serve who only stand and wait.'
Keightley's Text.
54.The Land o' the Leal.
I'm wearin' awa', John,Like snaw when it's thaw, John,I'm wearin' awa'To the land o' the leal.There's nae sorrow there, John,There's neither cauld nor care, John,The day's aye fairIn the land o' the leal.Our bonnie bairn's there, John,She was baith gude and fair, John,And oh! we grudged her sairTo the land o' the leal.But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,And joy is comin' fast, John,The joy that's aye to lastIn the land o' the leal.Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu' man e'er broughtTo the land o' the leal.Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John,My soul langs to be free, John,And angels beckon meTo the land o' the leal.Noo, haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it's weel near through, John,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Noo, fare-ye-weel, my ain John,This warld's cares are vain, John,We'll meet, and we'll be fain,In the land o' the leal.Henderson's Text.
I'm wearin' awa', John,Like snaw when it's thaw, John,I'm wearin' awa'To the land o' the leal.
There's nae sorrow there, John,There's neither cauld nor care, John,The day's aye fairIn the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn's there, John,She was baith gude and fair, John,And oh! we grudged her sairTo the land o' the leal.
But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,And joy is comin' fast, John,The joy that's aye to lastIn the land o' the leal.
Sae dear's that joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu' man e'er broughtTo the land o' the leal.
Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John,My soul langs to be free, John,And angels beckon meTo the land o' the leal.
Noo, haud ye leal and true, John,Your day it's weel near through, John,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.
Noo, fare-ye-weel, my ain John,This warld's cares are vain, John,We'll meet, and we'll be fain,In the land o' the leal.
Henderson's Text.
55.Ode on Solitude.
Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,In his own ground.Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire,Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.Blest, who can unconcern'dly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day.Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mix'd; sweet recreation;And innocence, which most does pleaseWith meditation.Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,Thus unlamented let me die,Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.1735 Edition.
Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire,Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern'dly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mix'd; sweet recreation;And innocence, which most does pleaseWith meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,Thus unlamented let me die,Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.
1735 Edition.
56.The Night before his Death.
Even such is time, that takes on trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days!But from this earth, this grave, this dust,The Lord shall raise me up, I trust!1829 Edition.
Even such is time, that takes on trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days!But from this earth, this grave, this dust,The Lord shall raise me up, I trust!
1829 Edition.
57.A Wish.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;A willowy brook, that turns a mill,With many a fall shall linger near.The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall singIn russet-gown and apron blue.The village-church, among the trees,Where first our marriage-vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breeze,And point with taper spire to heaven.1846 Edition.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;A willowy brook, that turns a mill,With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall singIn russet-gown and apron blue.
The village-church, among the trees,Where first our marriage-vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breeze,And point with taper spire to heaven.
1846 Edition.
58.Sonnets.
XVII.Who will believe my verse in time to come,If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tombWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyesAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say 'This poet lies;Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'So should my papers, yellowed with their age,Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,And your true rights be term'd a poet's rageAnd stretched metre of an antique song:But were some child of yours alive that time,You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
XVII.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tombWhich hides your life and shows not half your parts.If I could write the beauty of your eyesAnd in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say 'This poet lies;Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'So should my papers, yellowed with their age,Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue,And your true rights be term'd a poet's rageAnd stretched metre of an antique song:But were some child of yours alive that time,You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
59.Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
XVIII.Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
XVIII.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
60.When to the sessions
XXX.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 waste:Then 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-bemoaned 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.
XXX.
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 waste:Then 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-bemoaned 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.
61.Full many a glorious morning
XXXIII.Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shineWith all-triumphant splendour on my brow;But, out, alack! he was but one hour mine,The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
XXXIII.
Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shineWith all-triumphant splendour on my brow;But, out, alack! he was but one hour mine,The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.
62.Like as the waves
LX.Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So 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 light,Crawls 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 youthAnd 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 stand,Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
LX.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So 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 light,Crawls 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 youthAnd 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 stand,Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
63.Tired with all these
LXVI.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 disabled,And 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.
LXVI.
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 disabled,And 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.
64.No longer mourn
LXXI.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 forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.O, if, I say, you look upon this verseWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do 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.
LXXI.
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 forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe.O, if, I say, you look upon this verseWhen I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do 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.
65.That time of year
LXXIII.That time of year thou mayst 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 see'st 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 see'st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
LXXIII.
That time of year thou mayst 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 see'st 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 see'st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
66.But be contented
LXXIV.But be contented: when that fell arrestWithout all bail shall carry me away,My life hath in this line some interest,Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.When thou reviewest this, thou dost reviewThe very part was consecrate to thee:The earth can have but earth, which is his due;My spirit is thine, the better part of me:So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,The prey of worms, my body being dead;The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,Too base of thee to be remembered.The worth of that is that which it contains,And that is this, and this with thee remains.
LXXIV.
But be contented: when that fell arrestWithout all bail shall carry me away,My life hath in this line some interest,Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.When thou reviewest this, thou dost reviewThe very part was consecrate to thee:The earth can have but earth, which is his due;My spirit is thine, the better part of me:So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,The prey of worms, my body being dead;The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,Too base of thee to be remembered.The worth of that is that which it contains,And that is this, and this with thee remains.
67.When in the chronicle
CVI.When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rhymeIn praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express'dEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:For we, which now behold these present days,Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
CVI.
When in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rhymeIn praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express'dEven such a beauty as you master now.So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:For we, which now behold these present days,Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
68.Let me not to the marriage
CXVI.Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,That looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
CXVI.
Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,That looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.If this be error and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
69.Song from 'The Tempest.'
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:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.
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:Ding-dong.Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.
70.Song from 'Measure for Measure.'
Take, O, take those lips away,That 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.
Take, O, take those lips away,That 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.
71.Song from 'Much Ado about Nothing.'
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,Of dumps so dull and heavy;The fraud of men was ever so,Since summer first was leavy:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,Men were deceivers ever,One foot in sea and one on shore,To one thing constant never:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,Of dumps so dull and heavy;The fraud of men was ever so,Since summer first was leavy:Then sigh not so, but let them go,And be you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of woeInto Hey nonny, nonny.
72.Song from 'Cymbeline.'
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-flash,Nor 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.No exorciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renowned be thy grave!Cambridge Shakespeare Text.
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-flash,Nor 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.
No exorciser harm thee!Nor no witchcraft charm thee!Ghost unlaid forbear thee!Nothing ill come near thee!Quiet consummation have;And renowned be thy grave!
Cambridge Shakespeare Text.
73.Song from 'Prometheus Unbound.'
On a poet's lips I sleptDreaming like a love-adeptIn the sound his breathing kept;Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blissesBut feeds on the aërial kissesOf shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.He will watch from dawn to gloomThe lake-reflected sun illumeThe yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,Nor heed nor see, what things they be;But from these create he canForms more real than living man,Nurslings of immortality!One of these awakened me,And I sped to succour thee.
On a poet's lips I sleptDreaming like a love-adeptIn the sound his breathing kept;Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blissesBut feeds on the aërial kissesOf shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.He will watch from dawn to gloomThe lake-reflected sun illumeThe yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,Nor heed nor see, what things they be;But from these create he canForms more real than living man,Nurslings of immortality!One of these awakened me,And I sped to succour thee.
74.Ode to the West Wind.
I.O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,Who chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the spring shall blowHer clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:Wild Spirit, which art moving every where;Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, hear!II.Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,Angels of rain and lightning: there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Mænad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's heightThe locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O, hear!III.Thou who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O, hear!IV.If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O, uncontroulable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have strivenAs thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowedOne too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.V.Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep, autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike withered leaves to quicken a new birth!And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
I.
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving every where;Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, hear!
II.
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the zenith's heightThe locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O, hear!
III.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: O, hear!
IV.
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O, uncontroulable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowedOne too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike withered leaves to quicken a new birth!And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?