SeeTime, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,And on its weary shoulders death appears!Now all is life and all is spring:Think on the winter and the darker dayWhen the soul, naked and alone,Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,Yet ever beaten way.And through this fatal valeWould you be wafted with some gentle gale?Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,Clouds that involve our life's serene,And storms that ruffle all the scene;Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;Whether with hand or wit you raiseSome monument of peaceful praise,Some happy labour of fair love:'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,And opens into all above.Basil Kennet.
SeeTime, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,And on its weary shoulders death appears!Now all is life and all is spring:Think on the winter and the darker dayWhen the soul, naked and alone,Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,Yet ever beaten way.And through this fatal valeWould you be wafted with some gentle gale?Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,Clouds that involve our life's serene,And storms that ruffle all the scene;Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;Whether with hand or wit you raiseSome monument of peaceful praise,Some happy labour of fair love:'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,And opens into all above.
Basil Kennet.
Fromhill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie,In its calm shade my trembling heart's still;And there, if Love so will,I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,The wild emotions roll,Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;That whosoe'er has proved the lover's stateWould say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,I find repose, and from the throng'd resortOf man turn fearfully my eyes aside;At each lone step thoughts ever new ariseOf her I love, who oft with cruel sportWill mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;Yet e'en these ills I prize,Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removedFor my heart whispers me, Love yet has powerTo grant a happier hour:Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved:E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?Where shadows of high rocking pines dark waveI stay my footsteps, and on some rude stoneWith thought intense her beauteous face engrave;Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I findWith tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus aloneHast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?But as with fixed mindOn this fair image I impassion'd rest,And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,Love my rapt fancy fills;In its own error sweet the soul is blest,While all around so bright the visions glide;Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.Her form portray'd within the lucid streamWill oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleamSo lovely fair, that Leda's self might say,Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawnA star when cover'd by the solar ray:And, as o'er wilds I strayWhere the eye nought but savage nature meets,There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;But when rude truth destroysThe loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,Led by desire intense the steep I climb;And tracing in the boundless space each woe,Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings,Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow:While, viewing all below,From me, I cry, what worlds of air divideThe beauteous form, still absent and still near!Then, chiding soft the tear,I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'dThat thou art far away: a thought so sweetAwhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene,There by a murmuring stream may I be found,Whose gentle airs aroundWaft grateful odours from the laurel green;Nought but my empty form roams here unblest,There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.Dacre.
Fromhill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie,In its calm shade my trembling heart's still;And there, if Love so will,I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,The wild emotions roll,Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;That whosoe'er has proved the lover's stateWould say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.
On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,I find repose, and from the throng'd resortOf man turn fearfully my eyes aside;At each lone step thoughts ever new ariseOf her I love, who oft with cruel sportWill mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;Yet e'en these ills I prize,Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removedFor my heart whispers me, Love yet has powerTo grant a happier hour:Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved:E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?
Where shadows of high rocking pines dark waveI stay my footsteps, and on some rude stoneWith thought intense her beauteous face engrave;Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I findWith tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus aloneHast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?But as with fixed mindOn this fair image I impassion'd rest,And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,Love my rapt fancy fills;In its own error sweet the soul is blest,While all around so bright the visions glide;Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.
Her form portray'd within the lucid streamWill oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleamSo lovely fair, that Leda's self might say,Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawnA star when cover'd by the solar ray:And, as o'er wilds I strayWhere the eye nought but savage nature meets,There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;But when rude truth destroysThe loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.
Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,Led by desire intense the steep I climb;And tracing in the boundless space each woe,Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings,Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow:While, viewing all below,From me, I cry, what worlds of air divideThe beauteous form, still absent and still near!Then, chiding soft the tear,I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'dThat thou art far away: a thought so sweetAwhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.
Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene,There by a murmuring stream may I be found,Whose gentle airs aroundWaft grateful odours from the laurel green;Nought but my empty form roams here unblest,There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.
Dacre.
Sincemercy's door is closed, alas! to me,And hopeless paths my poor life separateFrom her in whom, I know not by what fate,The guerdon lay of all my constancy,My heart that lacks not other food, on sighsI feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears:Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appearsMy present grief than others can surmise.On thy dear portrait rests alone my view,Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew,But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.What shore can hide me, or what distance shield,If by my cruel exile yet untamedInsatiate Envy finds me here concealed?Macgregor.
Sincemercy's door is closed, alas! to me,And hopeless paths my poor life separateFrom her in whom, I know not by what fate,The guerdon lay of all my constancy,My heart that lacks not other food, on sighsI feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears:Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appearsMy present grief than others can surmise.On thy dear portrait rests alone my view,Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew,But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.What shore can hide me, or what distance shield,If by my cruel exile yet untamedInsatiate Envy finds me here concealed?
Macgregor.
Waysapt and new to sing of love I'd find,Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh,And re-enkindle in her frozen mindDesires a thousand, passionate and high;O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass,See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns,As one who sorrows when too late, alas!For his own error and another's pains;See the fresh roses edging that fair snowMove with her breath, that ivory descried,Which turns to marble him who sees it near;See all, for which in this brief life belowMyself I weary not but rather prideThat Heaven for later times has kept me here.Macgregor.
Waysapt and new to sing of love I'd find,Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh,And re-enkindle in her frozen mindDesires a thousand, passionate and high;O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass,See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns,As one who sorrows when too late, alas!For his own error and another's pains;See the fresh roses edging that fair snowMove with her breath, that ivory descried,Which turns to marble him who sees it near;See all, for which in this brief life belowMyself I weary not but rather prideThat Heaven for later times has kept me here.
Macgregor.
Ifno love is, O God, what fele I so?And if love is, what thing and which is he?If love be gode, from whence cometh my woe?If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh meWhen every torment and adversiteThat cometh of him may to me savory thinke:For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke.And if that at my owne lust I brenne,From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte?If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne?I not nere why unwery that I feinte.O quickè deth, O surelè harme so quainte,How may I see in me such quantite,But if that I consent that so it be?Chaucer.
Ifno love is, O God, what fele I so?And if love is, what thing and which is he?If love be gode, from whence cometh my woe?If it be wicke, a wonder thinketh meWhen every torment and adversiteThat cometh of him may to me savory thinke:For aye more thurst I the more that I drinke.And if that at my owne lust I brenne,From whence cometh my wailing and my pleinte?If harme agre me whereto pleine I thenne?I not nere why unwery that I feinte.O quickè deth, O surelè harme so quainte,How may I see in me such quantite,But if that I consent that so it be?
Chaucer.
If'tis not love, what is it feel I then?If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above!If love be kind, why does it fatal prove?If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain?If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain?If not my will, tears cannot love remove.O living death! O rapturous pang!—why, love!If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign?If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn:Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borneBy adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost;Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze,My blind opinion ever dubious strays;I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.Anon. 1777.
If'tis not love, what is it feel I then?If 'tis, how strange a thing, sweet powers above!If love be kind, why does it fatal prove?If cruel, why so pleasing is the pain?If 'tis my will to love, why weep, why plain?If not my will, tears cannot love remove.O living death! O rapturous pang!—why, love!If I consent not, canst thou o'er me reign?If I consent, 'tis wrongfully I mourn:Thus on a stormy sea my bark is borneBy adverse winds, and with rough tempest tost;Thus unenlightened, lost in error's maze,My blind opinion ever dubious strays;I'm froze by summer, scorched by winter's frost.
Anon. 1777.
Lovemakes me as the target for his dart,As snow in sunshine, or as wax in flame,Or gale-driven cloud; and, Laura, on thy nameI call, but thou no pity wilt impart.Thy radiant eyes first caused my bosom's smart;No time, no place can shield me from their beam;From thee (but, ah, thou treat'st it as a dream!)Proceed the torments of my suff'ring heart.Each thought's an arrow, and thy face a sun,My passion's flame: and these doth Love employTo wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy.Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I'm won,All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul,Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.Nott.
Lovemakes me as the target for his dart,As snow in sunshine, or as wax in flame,Or gale-driven cloud; and, Laura, on thy nameI call, but thou no pity wilt impart.Thy radiant eyes first caused my bosom's smart;No time, no place can shield me from their beam;From thee (but, ah, thou treat'st it as a dream!)Proceed the torments of my suff'ring heart.Each thought's an arrow, and thy face a sun,My passion's flame: and these doth Love employTo wound my breast, to dazzle, and destroy.Thy heavenly song, thy speech with which I'm won,All thy sweet breathings of such strong controul,Form the dear gale that bears away my soul.
Nott.
MeLove has placed as mark before the dart,As to the sun the snow, as wax to fire,As clouds to wind: Lady, e'en now I tire,Craving the mercy which never warms thy heart.From those bright eyes was aim'd the mortal blow,'Gainst which nor time nor place avail'd me aught;From thee alone—nor let it strange be thought—The sun, the fire, the wind whence I am so.The darts are thoughts of thee, thy face the sun,The fire my passion; such the weapons beWith which at will Love dazzles yet destroys.Thy fragrant breath and angel voice—which wonMy heart that from its thrall shall ne'er be free—The wind which vapour-like my frail life flies.Macgregor.
MeLove has placed as mark before the dart,As to the sun the snow, as wax to fire,As clouds to wind: Lady, e'en now I tire,Craving the mercy which never warms thy heart.From those bright eyes was aim'd the mortal blow,'Gainst which nor time nor place avail'd me aught;From thee alone—nor let it strange be thought—The sun, the fire, the wind whence I am so.The darts are thoughts of thee, thy face the sun,The fire my passion; such the weapons beWith which at will Love dazzles yet destroys.Thy fragrant breath and angel voice—which wonMy heart that from its thrall shall ne'er be free—The wind which vapour-like my frail life flies.
Macgregor.
I fyndeno peace and all my warre is done,I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse;I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse;And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season,That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson,And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse.Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce,And yet of death it giveth none occasion.Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne;I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health;I love another, and yet I hate my self;I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne,Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf,And my delight is cawser of my greif.Wyatt.[S]
I fyndeno peace and all my warre is done,I feare and hope, I bourne and freese lyke yse;I flye above the wynde, yet cannot ryse;And nought I have, yet all the worlde I season,That looseth, nor lacketh, holdes me in pryson,And holdes me not, yet can I escape no wyse.Nor lets me leeve, nor die at my devyce,And yet of death it giveth none occasion.Without eye I see, and without tongue I playne;I desyre to perishe, yet aske I health;I love another, and yet I hate my self;I feede in sorrow and laughe in all my payne,Lykewyse pleaseth me both death and lyf,And my delight is cawser of my greif.
Wyatt.[S]
WarfareI cannot wage, yet know not peace;I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again;Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face;Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain.His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain;In toils he holds me not, nor will release;He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain;Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease.Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn;I scorn existence, and yet court its stay;Detest myself, and for another burn;By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay;Death I despise, and life alike I hate:Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!Nott.
WarfareI cannot wage, yet know not peace;I fear, I hope, I burn, I freeze again;Mount to the skies, then bow to earth my face;Grasp the whole world, yet nothing can obtain.His prisoner Love nor frees, nor will detain;In toils he holds me not, nor will release;He slays me not, nor yet will he unchain;Nor joy allows, nor lets my sorrow cease.Sightless I see my fair; though mute, I mourn;I scorn existence, and yet court its stay;Detest myself, and for another burn;By grief I'm nurtured; and, though tearful, gay;Death I despise, and life alike I hate:Such, lady, dost thou make my wayward state!
Nott.
Whate'ermost wild and newWas ever found in any foreign land,If viewed and valued true,Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand.Whence the bright day breaks through,Alone and consortless, a bird there flies,Who voluntary dies,To live again regenerate and entire:So ever my desire,Alone, itself repairs, and on the crestOf its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun,There melts and is undone,And sinking to its first state of unrest,So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes,And, Phœnix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms.Where Indian billows sweep,A wondrous stone there is, before whose strengthStout navies, weak to keepTheir binding iron, sink engulf'd at length:So prove I, in this deepOf bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride,That fair rock knew to guideWhere now my life in wreck and ruin drives:Thus too the soul deprives,By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was,It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed:For mine, O fate accurst!A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws,Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet,Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet.Neath the far Ethiop skiesA beast is found, most mild and meek of air,Which seems, yet in her eyesDanger and dool and death she still does bear:Much needs he to be wiseTo look on hers whoever turns his mien:Although her eyes unseen,All else securely may be viewed at willBut I to mine own illRun ever in rash grief, though well I knowMy sufferings past and future, still my mindIts eager, deaf and blindDesire o'ermasters and unhinges so,That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face,Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace.In the rich South there flowsA fountain from the sun its name that wins,This marvel still that shows,Boiling at night, but chill when day begins;Cold, yet more cold it growsAs the sun's mounting car we nearer see:So happens it with me(Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat),When the bright light and sweet,My only sun retires, and lone and drearMy eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign,I burn, but if againThe gold rays of the living sun appear,My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange;Within me and without I feel the frozen change!Another fount of fameSprings in Epirus, which, as bards have told,Kindles the lurking flame,And the live quenches, while itself is cold.My soul, that, uncontroll'd,And scathless from love's fire till now had pass'd,Carelessly left at lastNear the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,Was kindled instantly:Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night,A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.Which first her charms inflamedHer fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire,Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.Beyond our earth's known brinks,In the famed Islands of the Blest, there beTwo founts: of this who drinksDies smiling: who of that to live is free.A kindred fate Heaven linksTo my sad life, who, smilingly, could dieFor like o'erflowing joy,But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay.Love! still who guidest my way,Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites,Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour,Ever with larger powerO'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites;So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet,But in that season most when I my Lady met.Should any ask, my Song!Or how or where I am, to such reply:Where the tall mountain throwsIts shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows,He roams, where never eyeSave Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by,And one dear image who his peace destroys,Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies.Macgregor.
Whate'ermost wild and newWas ever found in any foreign land,If viewed and valued true,Most likens me 'neath Love's transforming hand.Whence the bright day breaks through,Alone and consortless, a bird there flies,Who voluntary dies,To live again regenerate and entire:So ever my desire,Alone, itself repairs, and on the crestOf its own lofty thoughts turns to our sun,There melts and is undone,And sinking to its first state of unrest,So burns and dies, yet still its strength resumes,And, Phœnix-like, afresh in force and beauty blooms.
Where Indian billows sweep,A wondrous stone there is, before whose strengthStout navies, weak to keepTheir binding iron, sink engulf'd at length:So prove I, in this deepOf bitter grief, whom, with her own hard pride,That fair rock knew to guideWhere now my life in wreck and ruin drives:Thus too the soul deprives,By theft, my heart, which once so stonelike was,It kept my senses whole, now far dispersed:For mine, O fate accurst!A rock that lifeblood and not iron draws,Whom still i' the flesh a magnet living, sweet,Drags to the fatal shore a certain doom to meet.
Neath the far Ethiop skiesA beast is found, most mild and meek of air,Which seems, yet in her eyesDanger and dool and death she still does bear:Much needs he to be wiseTo look on hers whoever turns his mien:Although her eyes unseen,All else securely may be viewed at willBut I to mine own illRun ever in rash grief, though well I knowMy sufferings past and future, still my mindIts eager, deaf and blindDesire o'ermasters and unhinges so,That in her fine eyes and sweet sainted face,Fatal, angelic, pure, my cause of death I trace.
In the rich South there flowsA fountain from the sun its name that wins,This marvel still that shows,Boiling at night, but chill when day begins;Cold, yet more cold it growsAs the sun's mounting car we nearer see:So happens it with me(Who am, alas! of tears the source and seat),When the bright light and sweet,My only sun retires, and lone and drearMy eyes are left, in night's obscurest reign,I burn, but if againThe gold rays of the living sun appear,My slow blood stiffens, instantaneous, strange;Within me and without I feel the frozen change!
Another fount of fameSprings in Epirus, which, as bards have told,Kindles the lurking flame,And the live quenches, while itself is cold.My soul, that, uncontroll'd,And scathless from love's fire till now had pass'd,Carelessly left at lastNear the cold fair for whom I ceaseless sigh,Was kindled instantly:Like martyrdom, ne'er known by day or night,A heart of marble had to mercy shamed.Which first her charms inflamedHer fair and frozen virtue quenched the light;That thus she crushed and kindled my heart's fire,Well know I who have felt in long and useless ire.
Beyond our earth's known brinks,In the famed Islands of the Blest, there beTwo founts: of this who drinksDies smiling: who of that to live is free.A kindred fate Heaven linksTo my sad life, who, smilingly, could dieFor like o'erflowing joy,But soon such bliss new cries of anguish stay.Love! still who guidest my way,Where, dim and dark, the shade of fame invites,Not of that fount we speak, which, full each hour,Ever with larger powerO'erflows, when Taurus with the Sun unites;So are my eyes with constant sorrow wet,But in that season most when I my Lady met.
Should any ask, my Song!Or how or where I am, to such reply:Where the tall mountain throwsIts shade, in the lone vale, whence Sorga flows,He roams, where never eyeSave Love's, who leaves him not a step, is by,And one dear image who his peace destroys,Alone with whom to muse all else in life he flies.
Macgregor.
Vengeauncemust fall on thee, thow filthie whoreOf Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold,That from achorns, and from the water colde,Art riche become with making many poore.Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holdeOf cankard malice, and of myschief moreThan pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde,Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde;For wyne and ease which settith all thie storeUppon whoredome and none other lore,In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and oldeTheare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde:Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde:It is but late, as wryting will recorde,That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde;Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde,In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode,That it dothe stincke before the face of God.(?) Wyatt.[T]
Vengeauncemust fall on thee, thow filthie whoreOf Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold,That from achorns, and from the water colde,Art riche become with making many poore.Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holdeOf cankard malice, and of myschief moreThan pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde,Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde;For wyne and ease which settith all thie storeUppon whoredome and none other lore,In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and oldeTheare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde:Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde:It is but late, as wryting will recorde,That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde;Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde,In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode,That it dothe stincke before the face of God.
(?) Wyatt.[T]
Mayfire from heaven rain down upon thy head,Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by,Made rich and great by others' poverty;How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed!Nest of all treachery, in which is bredWhate'er of sin now through the world doth fly;Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony;With sensuality's excesses fed!Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance;Then in the midst see Belzebub advanceWith mirrors and provocatives obscene.Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down;But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown:Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean.Nott.
Mayfire from heaven rain down upon thy head,Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by,Made rich and great by others' poverty;How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed!Nest of all treachery, in which is bredWhate'er of sin now through the world doth fly;Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony;With sensuality's excesses fed!Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance;Then in the midst see Belzebub advanceWith mirrors and provocatives obscene.Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down;But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown:Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean.
Nott.
CovetousBabylon of wrath divineBy its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now,And for its future Gods to whom to bowNot Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine.Though hoping reason, I consume and pine,Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow,Who shall again build up, and we avowOne faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine.Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dustHer proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd,Her wardens into flames and exile thrust,Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the worldPossess in peace; and we shall see it madeAll gold, and fully its old works display'd.Macgregor.
CovetousBabylon of wrath divineBy its worst crimes has drain'd the full cup now,And for its future Gods to whom to bowNot Pow'r nor Wisdom ta'en, but Love and Wine.Though hoping reason, I consume and pine,Yet shall her crown deck some new Soldan's brow,Who shall again build up, and we avowOne faith in God, in Rome one head and shrine.Her idols shall be shatter'd, in the dustHer proud towers, enemies of Heaven, be hurl'd,Her wardens into flames and exile thrust,Fair souls and friends of virtue shall the worldPossess in peace; and we shall see it madeAll gold, and fully its old works display'd.
Macgregor.
Springof all woe, O den of curssed ire,Scoole of errour, temple of heresye;Thow Pope, I meane, head of hypocrasye,Thow and thie churche, unsaciat of desyre,Have all the world filled full of myserye;Well of disceate, thow dungeon full of fyre,That hydes all truthe to breed idolatrie.Thow wicked wretche, Chryste cannot be a lyer,Behold, therefore, thie judgment hastelye;Thye first founder was gentill povertie,But there against is all thow dost requyre.Thow shameless beaste wheare hast thow thie trust,In thie whoredome, or in thie riche attyre?Loe! Constantyne, that is turned into dust,Shall not retourne for to mayntaine thie lust;But now his heires, that might not sett thee higher,For thie greate pryde shall teare thye seate asonder,And scourdge thee so that all the world shall wonder.(?) Wyatt.[U]
Springof all woe, O den of curssed ire,Scoole of errour, temple of heresye;Thow Pope, I meane, head of hypocrasye,Thow and thie churche, unsaciat of desyre,Have all the world filled full of myserye;Well of disceate, thow dungeon full of fyre,That hydes all truthe to breed idolatrie.Thow wicked wretche, Chryste cannot be a lyer,Behold, therefore, thie judgment hastelye;Thye first founder was gentill povertie,But there against is all thow dost requyre.Thow shameless beaste wheare hast thow thie trust,In thie whoredome, or in thie riche attyre?Loe! Constantyne, that is turned into dust,Shall not retourne for to mayntaine thie lust;But now his heires, that might not sett thee higher,For thie greate pryde shall teare thye seate asonder,And scourdge thee so that all the world shall wonder.
(?) Wyatt.[U]
Fountainof sorrows, centre of mad ire,Rank error's school and fane of heresy,Once Rome, now Babylon, the false and free,Whom fondly we lament and long desire.O furnace of deceits, O prison dire,Where good roots die and the ill-weed grows a treeHell upon earth, great marvel will it beIf Christ reject thee not in endless fire.Founded in humble poverty and chaste,Against thy founders lift'st thou now thy horn,Impudent harlot! Is thy hope then placedIn thine adult'ries and thy wealth ill-born?Since comes no Constantine his own to claim,The vext world must endure, or end its shame.Macgregor.
Fountainof sorrows, centre of mad ire,Rank error's school and fane of heresy,Once Rome, now Babylon, the false and free,Whom fondly we lament and long desire.O furnace of deceits, O prison dire,Where good roots die and the ill-weed grows a treeHell upon earth, great marvel will it beIf Christ reject thee not in endless fire.Founded in humble poverty and chaste,Against thy founders lift'st thou now thy horn,Impudent harlot! Is thy hope then placedIn thine adult'ries and thy wealth ill-born?Since comes no Constantine his own to claim,The vext world must endure, or end its shame.
Macgregor.
Themore my own fond wishes would impelMy steps to you, sweet company of friends!Fortune with their free course the more contends,And elsewhere bids me roam, by snare and spellThe heart, sent forth by me though it rebel,Is still with you where that fair vale extends,In whose green windings most our sea ascends,From which but yesterday I wept farewell.It took the right-hand way, the left I tried,I dragg'd by force in slavery to remain,It left at liberty with Love its guide;But patience is great comfort amid pain:Long habits mutually form'd declareThat our communion must be brief and rare.Macgregor.
Themore my own fond wishes would impelMy steps to you, sweet company of friends!Fortune with their free course the more contends,And elsewhere bids me roam, by snare and spellThe heart, sent forth by me though it rebel,Is still with you where that fair vale extends,In whose green windings most our sea ascends,From which but yesterday I wept farewell.It took the right-hand way, the left I tried,I dragg'd by force in slavery to remain,It left at liberty with Love its guide;But patience is great comfort amid pain:Long habits mutually form'd declareThat our communion must be brief and rare.
Macgregor.
Thelong Love that in my thought I harbour,And in my heart doth keep his residence,Into my face pressèth with bold pretence,And there campèth displaying his bannèr.She that me learns to love and to suffèr,And wills that my trust, and lust's negligenceBe rein'd by reason, shame, and reverence,With his hardiness takes displeasure.Wherewith Love to the heart's forest he fleeth,Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,And there him hideth, and not appearèth.What may I do, when my master fearèth,But in the field with him to live and die?For good is the life, ending faithfully.Wyatt.
Thelong Love that in my thought I harbour,And in my heart doth keep his residence,Into my face pressèth with bold pretence,And there campèth displaying his bannèr.She that me learns to love and to suffèr,And wills that my trust, and lust's negligenceBe rein'd by reason, shame, and reverence,With his hardiness takes displeasure.Wherewith Love to the heart's forest he fleeth,Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry,And there him hideth, and not appearèth.What may I do, when my master fearèth,But in the field with him to live and die?For good is the life, ending faithfully.
Wyatt.
Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought,That built its seat within my captive breast;Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.She, that me taught to love, and suffer pain;My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desireWith shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain,Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.And coward love then to the heart apaceTaketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plainsHis purpose lost, and dare not show his face.For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains.Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.Surrey.
Love, that liveth and reigneth in my thought,That built its seat within my captive breast;Clad in the arms wherein with me he fought,Oft in my face he doth his banner rest.She, that me taught to love, and suffer pain;My doubtful hope, and eke my hot desireWith shamefaced cloak to shadow and restrain,Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire.And coward love then to the heart apaceTaketh his flight; whereas he lurks, and plainsHis purpose lost, and dare not show his face.For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pains.Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove:Sweet is his death, that takes his end by love.
Surrey.
Lovein my thought who ever lives and reigns,And in my heart still holds the upper place,At times come forward boldly in my face,There plants his ensign and his post maintains:She, who in love instructs us and its pains,Would fain that reason, shame, respect should chasePresumptuous hope and high desire abase,And at our daring scarce herself restrains,Love thereon to my heart retires dismay'd,Abandons his attempt, and weeps and fears,And hiding there, no more my friend appears.What can the liege whose lord is thus afraid,More than with him, till life's last gasp, to dwell?For who well loving dies at least dies well.Macgregor.
Lovein my thought who ever lives and reigns,And in my heart still holds the upper place,At times come forward boldly in my face,There plants his ensign and his post maintains:She, who in love instructs us and its pains,Would fain that reason, shame, respect should chasePresumptuous hope and high desire abase,And at our daring scarce herself restrains,Love thereon to my heart retires dismay'd,Abandons his attempt, and weeps and fears,And hiding there, no more my friend appears.What can the liege whose lord is thus afraid,More than with him, till life's last gasp, to dwell?For who well loving dies at least dies well.
Macgregor.
Aswhen at times in summer's scorching heats.Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,Whence death the one and pain the other meets,Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness liesThat reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,And by strong will is better judgment beat.I clearly see they value me but ill,And, for against their torture fails my strength.That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,My heart their pain and not my loss laments,And blind, to its own death my soul consents.Macgregor.
Aswhen at times in summer's scorching heats.Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,Whence death the one and pain the other meets,Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness liesThat reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,And by strong will is better judgment beat.I clearly see they value me but ill,And, for against their torture fails my strength.That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,My heart their pain and not my loss laments,And blind, to its own death my soul consents.
Macgregor.
Beneaththe pleasant shade of beauteous leavesI ran for shelter from a cruel light,E'en here below that burnt me from high heaven,When the last snow had ceased upon the hills,And amorous airs renew'd the sweet spring time,And on the upland flourish'd herbs and boughs.Ne'er did the world behold such graceful boughs,Nor ever wind rustled so verdant leaves,As were by me beheld in that young time:So that, though fearful of the ardent light,I sought not refuge from the shadowing hills,But of the plant accepted most in heaven.A laurel then protected from that heaven:Whence, oft enamour'd with its lovely boughs,A roamer I have been through woods, o'er hills,But never found I other trunk, nor leavesLike these, so honour'd with supernal light,Which changed not qualities with changing time.Wherefore each hour more firm, from time to timeFollowing where I heard my call from heaven,And guided ever by a soft clear light,I turn'd, devoted still, to those first boughs,Or when on earth are scatter'd the sere leaves,Or when the sun restored makes green the hills.The woods, the rocks, the fields, the floods, and hills,All that is made, are conquer'd, changed by time:And therefore ask I pardon of those leaves,If after many years, revolving heavenSway'd me to flee from those entangling boughs,When I begun to see its better light.So dear to me at first was the sweet light,That willingly I pass'd o'er difficult hills,But to be nearer those beloved boughs;Now shortening life, the apt place and full timeShow me another path to mount to heaven,And to make fruit not merely flowers and leaves.Other love, other leaves, and other light,Other ascent to heaven by other hillsI seek—in sooth 'tis time—and other boughs.Macgregor.
Beneaththe pleasant shade of beauteous leavesI ran for shelter from a cruel light,E'en here below that burnt me from high heaven,When the last snow had ceased upon the hills,And amorous airs renew'd the sweet spring time,And on the upland flourish'd herbs and boughs.
Ne'er did the world behold such graceful boughs,Nor ever wind rustled so verdant leaves,As were by me beheld in that young time:So that, though fearful of the ardent light,I sought not refuge from the shadowing hills,But of the plant accepted most in heaven.
A laurel then protected from that heaven:Whence, oft enamour'd with its lovely boughs,A roamer I have been through woods, o'er hills,But never found I other trunk, nor leavesLike these, so honour'd with supernal light,Which changed not qualities with changing time.
Wherefore each hour more firm, from time to timeFollowing where I heard my call from heaven,And guided ever by a soft clear light,I turn'd, devoted still, to those first boughs,Or when on earth are scatter'd the sere leaves,Or when the sun restored makes green the hills.
The woods, the rocks, the fields, the floods, and hills,All that is made, are conquer'd, changed by time:And therefore ask I pardon of those leaves,If after many years, revolving heavenSway'd me to flee from those entangling boughs,When I begun to see its better light.
So dear to me at first was the sweet light,That willingly I pass'd o'er difficult hills,But to be nearer those beloved boughs;Now shortening life, the apt place and full timeShow me another path to mount to heaven,And to make fruit not merely flowers and leaves.
Other love, other leaves, and other light,Other ascent to heaven by other hillsI seek—in sooth 'tis time—and other boughs.
Macgregor.
Whene'eryou speak of her in that soft toneWhich Love himself his votaries surely taught,My ardent passion to such fire is wrought,That e'en the dead reviving warmth might own:Where'er to me she, dear or kind, was knownThere the bright lady is to mind now brought,In the same bearing which, to waken thought,Needed no sound but of my sighs alone.Half-turn'd I see her looking, on the breezeHer light hair flung; so true her memories rollOn my fond heart of which she keeps the keys;But the surpassing bliss which floods my soulSo checks my tongue, to tell how, queen-like, there,She sits as on her throne, I never dare.Macgregor.
Whene'eryou speak of her in that soft toneWhich Love himself his votaries surely taught,My ardent passion to such fire is wrought,That e'en the dead reviving warmth might own:Where'er to me she, dear or kind, was knownThere the bright lady is to mind now brought,In the same bearing which, to waken thought,Needed no sound but of my sighs alone.Half-turn'd I see her looking, on the breezeHer light hair flung; so true her memories rollOn my fond heart of which she keeps the keys;But the surpassing bliss which floods my soulSo checks my tongue, to tell how, queen-like, there,She sits as on her throne, I never dare.
Macgregor.
Ne'ercan the sun such radiance soft display,Piercing some cloud that would its light impair;Ne'er tinged some showery arch the humid air,With variegated lustre half so gay,As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away,All-beauteous shone my captivating fair;For charms what mortal can with her compare!But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyesWith such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll,That every human glance I since despise.Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.Anon. 1777.
Ne'ercan the sun such radiance soft display,Piercing some cloud that would its light impair;Ne'er tinged some showery arch the humid air,With variegated lustre half so gay,As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away,All-beauteous shone my captivating fair;For charms what mortal can with her compare!But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyesWith such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll,That every human glance I since despise.Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.
Anon. 1777.
Sunnever rose so beautiful and brightWhen skies above most clear and cloudless show'd,Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glow'dWith tints so varied, delicate, and light,As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,The day I first took up this am'rous load,That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode—Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bendSo sweetly, every other face obscureHas from that hour till now appear'd to me.The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,From whom life since has never been secure,Whom still I madly yearn again to see.Macgregor.
Sunnever rose so beautiful and brightWhen skies above most clear and cloudless show'd,Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glow'dWith tints so varied, delicate, and light,As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,The day I first took up this am'rous load,That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode—Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bendSo sweetly, every other face obscureHas from that hour till now appear'd to me.The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,From whom life since has never been secure,Whom still I madly yearn again to see.
Macgregor.