Prologue To Book II Of The Fairy Queen

By Edmund Spenser (1552-1599).

Right well I wote, most mighty sovereign;
That all this famous antique history,
Of some, th' abundance of an idle brain,
Will judged be, and painted forgery,
Rather than matter of just memory;         5
Sith° none that breatheth living air, does know,
Where is that happy Land of Fairy,
Which I so much do vaunt, yet nowhere show,
But vouch antiquities, which nobody can know.

But let that man with better sense advise,         10
That of the world least part to us is read;
And daily how through hardy enterprise,
Many great regions are discovered,
Which to late age were never mentioned.
Who ever heard of th' Indian Peru?         15
Or who in venturous vessel measured
The Amazon's huge river now found true?
Or fruitfullest Virginia who did ever view?

Yet all these were, when no man did them know;
Yet have from wisest ages hidden been:         20
And later times things more unknown shall show.
Why then should witless man so much misween,
That nothing is, but that which he hath seen?
What if within the moon's fair shining sphere,
What if in every other star unseen,         25
Of other worlds he happily should hear?
He wonder would much more: yet such to some appear.

Of Fairyland yet if he more enquire,
By certain signs, here set in sundry place,
He may it find; ne let him then admire,         30
But yield his sense to be too blunt and base,
That no'te without an hound fine footing trace.
And thou, o fairest princess under sky,
In this fair mirror mayst behold thy face,
And thine own realms in Land of Fairy,         35
And in this antique image thy great ancestry.

The which, o pardon me thus to enfold
In covert veil, and wrap in shadows light,
That feeble eyes your glory may behold,
Which else could not endure those beames bright:         40
But would be dazzled with exceeding light.
O pardon, and vouchsafe with patient ear
The brave adventures of this fairy knight,
The good Sir Guyon, graciously to hear,
In whom great rule of Temp'rance goodly doth appear.         45


Notes

Line 6: sith. Since.

Upon Black Eyes And Becoming Frowns

By James Howell (1594-1666).

  Black eyes! in your dark orbs do lie
My ill, or happy, destiny;
If with clear looks you me behold,
You give me mines and mounts of gold;
If you dart forth disdainful rays,        5
To your own dye you turn my days.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, by changes dwell,
  My bane or bliss, my paradise or hell.

  That lamp, which all the stars doth blind,
Yields to your lustre, in some kind;        10
Though you do wear, to make you bright,
No other dress but that of night;
He glitters only in the day;
You, in the dark, your beams display.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, etc.

  The cunning thief that lurks for prize,        15
At some dark corner watching lies:
So that heart-robbing god doth stand
In your black lobbies, shaft in hand,
To rifle° me of what I hold
More precious far than Indian gold.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, etc.        20

  O powerful negromantic° eyes!
Who in your circles strictly pries,
Will find that Cupid with his dart,
In youth doth practise the black art°;
And, by those spells I am possest,        25
Tries his conclusions in my breast.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, etc.

  Look on me, though in frowning wise;
Some kinds of frowns become Black Eyes;
As pointed diamonds, being set,
Cast greater lustre out of jet?        30
Those pieces we esteem most rare,
Which in night-shadows postured are;
Darkness in churches congregates the sight;
Devotion strays in glaring light.
  Black eyes, in your dark orbs, by changes dwell,        35
  My bane or bliss, my paradise or hell.


Notes

Line 18: rifle. Search and rob.

Line 21: negromantic. Necromantic, bewitching.

Line 24: black art. Witchcraft, magic.

Upon Julia's Hair Filled With Dew

By Robert Herrick (1591-1674).

Dew sat on Julia’s hair,
  And spangled too,
Like leaves that laden are
  With trembling dew:
Or glittered to my sight        5
  As when the beams
Have their reflected light
  Danced by the streams.

Ceux Qui Vivent, Ce Sont Ceux Qui Luttent

By Victor Hugo (1802-1885). The poem appears in Hugo's 1853 collection Les Châtiments, which is an indictment of the autocratic regime of Napoleon III, who overthrew the Second Republic in 1851 to become emperor of France.

Ceux qui vivent, ce sont ceux qui luttent ; ce sont
Ceux dont un dessein ferme emplit l'âme et le front.
Ceux qui d'un haut destin gravissent° l'âpre cime.
Ceux qui marchent pensifs, épris° d'un but sublime.
Ayant devant les yeux sans cesse, nuit et jour,          5
Ou quelque saint labeur ou quelque grand amour.
C'est le prophète saint prosterné devant l'arche,
C'est le travailleur, pâtre, ouvrier, patriarche.
Ceux dont le coeur est bon, ceux dont les jours sont pleins.
Ceux-là vivent, Seigneur ! les autres, je les plains.          10
Car de son vague ennui le néant les enivre,
Car le plus lourd fardeau°, c'est d'exister sans vivre.
Inutiles, épars, ils traînent ici-bas
Le sombre accablement d'être en ne pensant pas.
Ils s'appellent vulgus, plebs, la tourbe, la foule.          15
Ils sont ce qui murmure, applaudit, siffle, coule,
Bat des mains, foule aux pieds, bâille, dit oui, dit non,
N'a jamais de figure et n'a jamais de nom ;
Troupeau qui va, revient, juge, absout, délibère,
Détruit, prêt à Marat comme prêt à Tibère,          20
Foule triste, joyeuse, habits dorés, bras nus,
Pêle-mêle, et poussée aux gouffres inconnus.
Ils sont les passants froids sans but, sans noeud, sans âge ;
Le bas du genre humain qui s'écroule en nuage ;
Ceux qu'on ne connaît pas, ceux qu'on ne compte pas,          25
Ceux qui perdent les mots, les volontés, les pas.
L'ombre obscure autour d'eux se prolonge et recule ;
Ils n'ont du plein midi qu'un lointain crépuscule,
Car, jetant au hasard les cris, les voix, le bruit,
Ils errent près du bord sinistre de la nuit.          30

Quoi ! ne point aimer ! suivre une morne carrière
Sans un songe en avant, sans un deuil en arrière,
Quoi ! marcher devant soi sans savoir où l'on va,
Rire de Jupiter sans croire à Jéhova,
Regarder sans respect l'astre, la fleur, la femme,          35
Toujours vouloir le corps, ne jamais chercher l'âme,
Pour de vains résultats faire de vains efforts,
N'attendre rien d'en haut ! ciel ! oublier les morts !
Oh non, je ne suis point de ceux-là ! grands, prospères,
Fiers, puissants, ou cachés dans d'immondes repaires°,          40
Je les fuis, et je crains leurs sentiers détestés ;
Et j'aimerais mieux être, ô fourmis des cités,
Tourbe, foule, hommes faux, coeurs morts, races déchues°,
Un arbre dans les bois qu'une âme en vos cohues !


Notes

Line 3: gravir. Climb.

Line 4: épris. From s'éprendre de, to fall in love with.

Line 12: fardeau. Burden.

Line 40: [le] repaire. Den.

Line 43: déchu. From déchoir, decline or depreciate.

Line 44: [la] cohue. Crowd.

The Scholar-Gipsy

By Matthew Arnold (1822-1888). For more information, see Wikipedia.

Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill;
  Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes°:
    No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
  Nor let thy bawling° fellows rack° their throats,
    Nor the cropp’d grasses shoot another head.        5
      But when the fields are still,
  And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
    And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
    Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch’d green;
  Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.        10

Here, where the reaper was at work of late,
  In this high field’s dark corner, where he leaves
    His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise,
  And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
    Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use;        15
      Here will I sit and wait,
  While to my ear from uplands far away
    The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
    With distant cries of reapers in the corn—
  All the live murmur of a summer’s day.        20

Screen’d is this nook o’er the high, half-reap’d field,
  And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be.
    Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
  And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
    Pale blue convolvulus° in tendrils creep:        25
      And air-swept lindens° yield
  Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
    Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
    And bower me from the August sun with shade;
  And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers:        30

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil’s° book—
  Come, let me read the oft-read tale again:
    The story of that Oxford scholar poor,
  Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
    Who, tired of knocking at Preferment’s door,        35
      One summer morn forsook
  His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore,
    And roam’d the world with that wild brotherhood,
    And came, as most men deem’d, to little good,
  But came to Oxford and his friends no more.        40

But once, years after, in the country lanes,
  Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
    Met him, and of his way of life inquired.
  Whereat he answer’d, that the Gipsy crew,
    His mates, had arts to rule as they desired        45
      The workings of men’s brains;
  And they can bind them to what thoughts they will:
    ‘And I,’ he said, ‘the secret of their art,
    When fully learn’d, will to the world impart:
  But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill!’        50

This said, he left them, and return’d no more,
  But rumours hung about the country-side,
    That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
  Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
    In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey,        55
      The same the Gipsies wore.
  Shepherds had met him on the Hurst° in spring;
    At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
    On the warm ingle-bench°, the smock-frock’d° boors
  Had found him seated at their entering,        60

But, ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly:
  And I myself seem half to know thy looks,
    And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace;
  And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks°
    I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place;        65
      Or in my boat I lie
  Moor’d to the cool bank in the summer heats,
    ’Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
    And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor° hills,
  And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats.        70

For most, I know, thou lov’st retirèd ground.
  Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe,
    Returning home on summer nights, have met
  Crossing the stripling° Thames at Bablock-hithe°,
    Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,        75
      As the slow punt° swings round:
  And leaning backwards in a pensive dream,
    And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
    Pluck’d in shy fields and distant Wychwood° bowers,
  And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream:        80

And then they land, and thou art seen no more.
  Maidens who from the distant hamlets come
    To dance around the Fyfield° elm in May,
  Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,
    Or cross a stile° into the public way.        85
      Oft thou hast given them store
  Of flowers—the frail-leaf’d, white anemone°—
    Dark bluebells° drench’d with dews of summer eves,
    And purple orchises° with spotted leaves—
  But none has words she can report of thee.        90

And, above Godstow Bridge°, when hay-time ’s here
  In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
    Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass
  Where black-wing’d swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
    To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass,        95
      Have often pass’d thee near
  Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown:
    Mark’d thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,
    Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air;
  But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.        100

At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills,
  Where at her open door the housewife darns°,
    Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
  To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
    Children, who early range these slopes and late        105
      For cresses from the rills,
  Have known thee watching, all an April day,
    The springing pastures and the feeding kine°,
    And mark’d thee, when the stars come out and shine,
  Through the long dewy grass move slow away.        110

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood°,
  Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way
    Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
  With scarlet patches tagg’d and shreds of gray,
    Above the forest-ground call’d Thessaly—        115
      The blackbird picking food
  Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
    So often has he known thee past him stray
    Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither’d spray,
  And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.        120

And once, in winter, on the causeway° chill
  Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
    Have I not pass’d thee on the wooden bridge
  Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
    Thy face towards Hinksey° and its wintry ridge?        125
      And thou hast climb’d the hill
  And gain’d the white brow of the Cumnor range;
    Turn’d once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
    The line of festal light in Christ Church hall—
  Then sought thy straw in some sequester’d grange°.        130

But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown
  Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
    And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
  That thou wert wander’d from the studious walls
    To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe:        135
      And thou from earth art gone
  Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid;
    Some country nook, where o’er thy unknown grave
    Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave—
  Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree’s shade.        140

—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours.
  For what wears out the life of mortal men?
    ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls:
  ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
    Exhaust the energy of strongest souls,        145
      And numb the elastic powers.
  Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen°,
    And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
    To the just-pausing Genius we remit
  Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.        150

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so?
  Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire:
    Else wert thou long since number’d with the dead—
  Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire.
    The generations of thy peers are fled,        155
      And we ourselves shall go;
  But thou possessest an immortal lot,
    And we imagine thee exempt from age
    And living as thou liv’st on Glanvil’s page,
  Because thou hadst—what we, alas, have not!        160

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers
  Fresh, undiverted to the world without,
    Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;
  Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
    Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.        165
      O Life unlike to ours!
  Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,
    Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives,
    And each half lives a hundred different lives;
  Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.        170

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we,
  Vague half-believers of our casual creeds,
    Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will’d,
  Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
    Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill’d;        175
      For whom each year we see
  Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;
    Who hesitate and falter life away,
    And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—
  Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?        180

Yes, we await it, but it still delays,
  And then we suffer; and amongst us One,
    Who most has suffer’d, takes dejectedly
  His seat upon the intellectual throne;
    And all his store of sad experience he        185
      Lays bare of wretched days;
  Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and signs,
    And how the dying spark of hope was fed,
    And how the breast was soothed, and how the head,
  And all his hourly varied anodynes°.        190

This for our wisest: and we others pine,
  And wish the long unhappy dream would end,
    And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear,
  With close-lipp’d Patience for our only friend,
    Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair:        195
      But none has hope like thine.
  Thou thro’ the fields and thro’ the woods dost stray,
    Roaming the country-side, a truant boy,
    Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,
  And every doubt long blown by time away.        200

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,
  And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
    Before this strange disease of modern life,
  With its sick hurry, its divided aims,
    Its heads o’ertaxed, its palsied hearts, was rife—        205
      Fly hence, our contact fear!
  Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
    Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern
    From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn,
  Wave us away, and keep thy solitude.        210

Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
  Still clutching the inviolable shade,
    With a free onward impulse brushing through,
  By night, the silver’d branches of the glade—
    Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,        215
      On some mild pastoral slope
  Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales,
    Freshen thy flowers, as in former years,
    With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
  From the dark dingles°, to the nightingales.        220

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
  For strong the infection of our mental strife,
    Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for° rest;
  And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
    Like us distracted, and like us unblest.        225
      Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
  Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix’d thy powers,
    And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made:
    And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
  Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.        230

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
  —As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
    Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
  Lifting the cool-hair’d creepers stealthily,
    The fringes of a southward-facing brow        235
      Among the Ægean isles;
  And saw the merry Grecian coaster° come,
    Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
    Green bursting figs, and tunnies° steep’d in brine;
  And knew the intruders on his ancient home,        240

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves;
  And snatch’d his rudder, and shook out more sail,
    And day and night held on indignantly
  O’er the blue Midland waters with the gale,
    Betwixt the Syrtes° and soft Sicily,        245
      To where the Atlantic raves
  Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails
    There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
    Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
  And on the beach undid his corded bales°.        250


Notes

Line 2: cote. Shelter or enclosure for small livestock.

Line 4: bawl. Cry out lustily.

Line 4: rack. Strain.

Line 25: convolvulus. Genus of flowering plants with trumpet-shaped flowers.

Line 26: linden. Type of shade tree.

Line 31: Glanvil. Joseph Glanvill (1636-1680), English writer, philosopher and clergyman.

Line 57: Hurst. A village in Berkshire.

Line 59: ingle. A hearth or the fire therein.

Line 59: smock. Protective overgarment.

Line 64: rook. Black European crow.

Line 69: Cumnor. A village west of Oxford.

Line 74: stripling. A youth.

Line 74: Bablock-hithe. Bablock Hythe, a small hamlet west of Oxford.

Line 76: punt. A small, shallow boat.

Line 79: Wychwood. An area in Oxfordshire.

Line 83: Fyfield. A village in Oxfordshire.

Line 85: stile. Steps or rungs to admit passage to humans, but not to livestock.

Line 87: anemone. Genus of colorful flowers of the buttercup family.

Line 88: bluebell. Any of several blue, bell-shaped flowers.

Line 89: orchis. Orchid.

Line 91: Godstow Bridge. Bridge at Godstow, near Oxford, over the River Thames.

Line 102: darn. Mend (clothing) with rows of stitches.

Line 108: kine. Plural of cow.

Line 111: Bagley Wood. A wood in Oxfordshire.

Line 121: causeway. Elevated road.

Line 125: Hinksey. Place name associated with Oxford.

Line 130: grange. Farm.

Line 147: teen. Sorrow.

Line 190: anodyne. Pain-killer.

Line 220: dingle. Narrow, shady dell.

Line 223: spoil for. Crave.

Line 237: coaster. Coastwise trading ship.

Line 239: tunnies. Tuna.

Line 245: Syrtes. Two Libyan gulfs, proverbially dangerous for shipping.

Line 250: bale. Large bundle or package of freight.

Lochinvar

By Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832).

Oh!° young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword° he weapons had none.
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,        5
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske° river where ford° there was none,
But ere he alighted at Netherby° gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:        10
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,—        15
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,—
‘Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’—

‘I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway°, but ebbs like its tide—        20
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,        25
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,—
‘Now tread we a measure°!’ said young Lochinvar.        30

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard° did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered ‘’Twere better by far        35
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the coupe° the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!        40
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur°;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Canobie Lee,        45
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?


Notes

Line 1: Oh! From Marmion. [Braithwaite]

Line 3: broadsword. Broad-bladed sword for cutting rather than stabbing.

Line 8: Eske. River in northwest Ireland.

Line 8: ford. Wadabele stretch in a river.

Line 9: Netherby. Netherby Hall, the historic home of the Graham family in Arthuret, Cumbria.

Line 20: Solway. Solway Firth, an inlet between Cumbria and Dumfries and Galloway.

Line 30: a measure. A dance.

Line 32: galliard. A spirited 16th century dance.

Line 39: coupe. A type of four-wheeled carriage.

Line 41: scaur. Scar, a cliff.

Song

By William Congreve (1670-1729).

See, see, she wakes, Sabina wakes!
  And now the sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the morn that breaks
  From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.

With light united, day they give,        5
  But different fates ere night fulfil;
How many by his warmth will live!
  How many will her coldness kill!

My Lady's Hand

By Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542).

O goodly hand!
Wherein doth stand
      My heart distraught in pain;
Dear hand, alas!
In little space        5
      My life thou dost restrain.

O fingers slight!
Departed right,
      So long, so small, so round;
Goodly begone,        10
And yet a bone,
      Most cruel in my wound.

With lilies white
And roses bright
      Doth strain thy colour fair;        15
Nature did lend
Each finger’s end
      A pearl for to repair.

Consent at last,
Since that thou hast        20
      My heart in thy demesne
For service true
On me to rue,
      And reach me love again.

And if not so,        25
There with more woe
      Enforce thyself to strain
This simple heart,
That suffer’d smart,
      And rid it out of pain.        30

A Cricket Bowler

By Edward Cracroft Lefroy (1855-1891).

Two minutes’ rest till the next man goes in!
  The tired arms lie with every sinew slack
  On the mown grass. Unbent the supple back,
And elbows apt to make the leather spin
Up the slow bat and round the unwary shin,—        5
  In knavish hands a most unkindly knack;
  But no guile shelters under this boy’s black
Crisp hair, frank eyes, and honest English skin.

Two minutes only. Conscious of a name,
  The new man plants his weapon with profound        10
    Long-practised skill that no mere trick may scare.
Not loth, the rested lad resumes the game:
  The flung ball takes one madding tortuous bound,
    And the mid-stump three somersaults in air.


Note

Line 13: madding. Frenzied.

Song, In Connection With The Shakespeare Jubilee At Stratford Upon Avon

By David Gerrick (1717-1779).

Ye Warwickshire lads, and ye lasses!
    See what at our Jubilee passes!
Come, revel away! Rejoice, and be glad;
For the Lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire Lad;
          Warwickshire Lad!        5
          All be glad,
For the Lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire Lad!

    Be proud of the charms of your County;
    Where Nature has lavished her bounty.
Where much she has given, and some to be spared;        10
For the Bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire Bard;
          Warwickshire Bard:
          Never paired;
For the Bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire Bard!

    Each shire° has its different pleasures,        15
    Each shire has its different treasures:
But to rare Warwickshire all must submit;
For the Wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire Wit;
          Warwickshire Wit:
          How he writ!        20
For the Wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire Wit!

    Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden°;
    And half a score more, we take pride in.
Of famous Will Congreve° we boast too the skill;
But the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will;        25
          Warwickshire Will;
          Matchless still!
For the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will!

    Our Shakespeare compared is to no man;
    Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman.        30
Their swans are all geese to the Avon’s sweet Swan;
And the Man of all men, was a Warwickshire Man;
          Warwickshire Man;
          Avon’s Swan!
And the Man of all men, was a Warwickshire Man!        35

    As ven’son is very inviting,
    To steal it our Bard took delight in;
To make his friends merry he never was lag;
And the Wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire Wag;
          Warwickshire Wag;        40
          Ever brag!
For the Wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire Wag!

    There never was seen such a creature;
    Of all she was worth, he robbed nature;
He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief;        45
And the Thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire Thief!
          Warwickshire Thief;
          He’s the chief!
For the Thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire Thief!


Notes

Line 15: shire. U.K. county.

Line 22: Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden. Ben Jonson (1572-1637), Thomas Otway (1652-1685) and John Dryden (1631-1700), English poets.

Line 24: Will Congreve. William Congreve (1670-1729), English poet.

The Disposition

By Thomas Stanley (1625-1678).

Though when I lov’d thee thou wert fair,
  Thou art no longer so:
Those glories do the pride they wear
  Unto opinion owe.
Beauties, like stars, in borrow’d lustre shine:        5
And ’twas my love that gave thee thine.

The flames that dwelt within thine eye
  Do now with mine expire;
Thy brightest graces fade and die
  At once, with my desire.        10
Love’s fires thus mutual influence return:
Thine cease to shine when mine to burn.

Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
  To be implor’d or woo’d,
Since by thy scorn thou dost restore        15
  The wealth my love bestow’d;
And thy despis’d disdain too late shall find
That none are fair but who are kind.

Canzonet

By Michael Drayton (1563-1631).

To His Coy Love

I pray thee, leave, love me no more,
  Call home the heart you gave me!
I but in vain that saint adore
  That can, but will not save me.
These poor half-kisses kill me quite—        5
  Was ever man thus servèd?
Amidst an ocean of delight
  For pleasure to be starvèd.

Show me no more those snowy breasts,
  With azure riverets° branchèd,        10
Where, whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
  Yet is my thirst not stanchèd;
O, Tantalus! thy pains ne’er tell
  By me thou art prevented;
’Tis nothing to be plagued in Hell,        15
  But thus in Heaven tormented!

Clip me no more in those dear arms,
  Nor thy life’s comfort call me,
O these are but too powerful charms,
  And do but more enthral me!        20
But see how patient I am grown
  In all this coil about thee;
Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,
  I cannot live without thee!


Notes

Line 10: riveret. Rivulet.

A Leave-taking

By Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909).

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.        5
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
      She would not hear.

Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?        10
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
      She would not know.

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.        15
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying ‘If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.’
All is reap’d now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sow’d, though all we fell on sleep,        20
      She would not weep.

Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love’s ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.        25
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
      She would not love.

Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,        30
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower° making all the foam-flowers° fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
      She would not care.        35

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.        40
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
      She would not see.


Notes

Line 32: moon-flower, foam-flower. White-colored flowers, the former of which blooms at night.

Lines Written Among The Euganian Hills

By Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822). The Euganian Hills, which Shelley visited in 1818 during a trip to Italy to visit his friend Byron, lie just south-west of Padua. The images are from Panoramio.

Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of Misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night, and night and day,        5
Drifting on his weary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel’s track;
Whilst above the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,        10
And behind the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving° sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o’er-brimming deep;        15
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore        20
Still recedes, as ever still
Longing with divided will,
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on
O’er the unreposing wave        25
To the haven of the grave.
What, if there no friends will greet;
What, if there no heart will meet
His with love’s impatient beat;
Wander wheresoe’er he may,        30
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress
In friendship’s smile, in love’s caress?
Then ’twill wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no:        35
Senseless is the breast, and cold,
Which relenting love would fold;
Bloodless are the veins and chill
Which the pulse of pain did fill;
Every little living nerve        40
That from bitter words did swerve
Round the tortured lips and brow,
Are like sapless leaflets now
Frozen upon December’s bough.

On the beach of a northern sea        45
Which tempests shake eternally,
As once the wretch there lay to sleep,
Lies a solitary heap,
One white skull and seven dry bones,
On the margin of the stones,        50
Where a few gray rushes stand,
Boundaries of the sea and land:
Nor is heard one voice of wail
But the sea-mews°, as they sail
O’er the billows of the gale;        55
Or the whirlwind up and down
Howling, like a slaughtered town,
When a king in glory rides
Through the pomp of fratricides:
Those unburied bones around        60
There is many a mournful sound;
There is no lament for him,
Like a sunless vapour, dim,
Who once clothed with life and thought
What now moves nor murmurs not.        65

Ay, many flowering islands lie
In the waters of wide Agony:
To such a one this morn was led,
My bark by soft winds piloted:
’Mid the mountains Euganean        70
I stood listening to the paean°,
With which the legioned rooks° did hail
The sun’s uprise majestical;
Gathering round with wings all hoar,
Thro’ the dewy mist they soar        75
Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
Bursts, and then, as clouds of even,
Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,
So their plumes of purple grain°,        80
Starred with drops of golden rain,
Gleam above the sunlight woods,
As in silent multitudes
On the morning’s fitful gale
Thro’ the broken mist they sail,        85
And the vapours cloven and gleaming
Follow, down the dark steep streaming,
Till all is bright, and clear, and still,
Round the solitary hill.

Beneath is spread like a green sea        90
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair;
Underneath Day’s azure eyes
Ocean’s nursling, Venice lies,        95
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite’s° destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.
Lo! the sun upsprings behind,        100
Broad, red, radiant, half reclined
On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,        105
Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion
From the altar of dark ocean
To the sapphire-tinted skies;        110
As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise,
As to pierce the dome of gold
Where Apollo spoke of old.

Sun-girt City, thou hast been        115
Ocean’s child, and then his queen;
Now is come a darker day,
And thou soon must be his grey,
If the power that raised thee here
Hallow so thy watery bier.        120
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thy conquest-branded brow
Stooping to the slave of slaves
From thy throne, among the waves
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew        125
Flies, as once before it flew,
O’er thine isles depopulate°,
And all is in its ancient state,
Save where many a palace gate
With green sea-flowers overgrown        130
Like a rock of ocean’s own,
Topples o’er the abandoned sea
As the tides change sullenly.
The fisher on his watery way,
Wandering at the close of day,        135
Will spread his sail and seize his oar
Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
Bursting o’er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid masque of death        140
O’er the waters of his path.

Those who alone thy towers behold
Quivering through aërial gold,
As I now behold them here,
Would imagine not they were        145
Sepulchres, where human forms,
Like pollution-nourished worms
To the corpse of greatness cling,
Murdered, and now mouldering:
But if Freedom should awake        150
In her omnipotence, and shake
From the Celtic Anarch’s° hold
All the keys of dungeons cold,
Where a hundred cities lie
Chained like thee, ingloriously,        155
Thou and all thy sister band
Might adorn this sunny land,
Twining memories of old time
With new virtues more sublime;
If not, perish thou and they!—        160
Clouds which stain truth’s rising day
By her sun consumed away—
Earth can spare ye: while like flowers,
In the waste of years and hours,
From your dust new nations spring        165
With more kindly blossoming.

Perish—let there only be
Floating o’er thy hearthless sea
As the garment of thy sky
Clothes the world immortally,        170
One remembrance, more sublime
Than the tattered pall of time,
Which scarce hides thy visage wan;—
That a tempest-cleaving Swan
Of the songs of Albion,        175
Driven from his ancestral streams
By the might of evil dreams,
Found a nest in thee; and Ocean
Welcomed him with such emotion
That its joy grew his, and sprung        180
From his lips like music flung
O’er a mighty thunder-fit
Chastening terror:—what though yet
Poesy’s unfailing River,
Which thro’ Albion winds for ever        185
Lashing with melodious wave
Many a sacred Poet’s grave,
Mourn its latest nursling fled?
What though thou with all thy dead
Scarce can for this fame repay        190
Aught thine own? oh, rather say,
Though thy sins and slaveries foul
Overcloud a sunlike soul?—
As the ghost of Homer clings
Round Scamander’s° wasting springs;        195
As divinest Shakespeare’s might
Fill Avon and the world with light
Like omniscient power which he
Imaged ’mid mortality;
As the love from Petrarch’s urn,        200
Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp by which the heart
Sees things unearthly;—so thou art
Mighty spirit—so shall be
The City that did refuge thee.        205

Lo, the sun floats up the sky
Like thought-wingèd Liberty,
Till the universal light
Seems to level plain and height;
From the sea a mist has spread,        210
And the beams of morn lie dead
On the towers of Venice now,
Like its glory long ago.
By the skirts of that grey cloud
Many-domèd Padua proud        215
Stands, a peopled solitude,
’Mid the harvest-shining plain,
Where the peasant heaps his grain
In the garner of his foe,
And the milk-white oxen slow        220
With the purple vintage strain,
Heaped upon the creaking wain°,
That the brutal Celt may swill°
Drunken sleep with savage will;
And the sickle to the sword        225
Lies unchanged, though many a lord,
Like a weed whose shade is poison,
Overgrows this region’s foison°,
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come
To destruction’s harvest home:        230
Men must reap the things they sow,
Force from force must ever flow,
Or worse; but ’tis a bitter woe
That love or reason cannot change
The despot’s rage, the slave’s revenge.        235
Padua, thou within whose walls
Those mute guests at festivals,
Son and Mother, Death and Sin,
Played at dice for Ezzelin°,
Till Death cried, ‘I win, I win!’        240
And Sin cursed to lose the wager,
But Death promised, to assuage her,
That he would petition for
Her to be made Vice-Emperor,
When the destined years were o’er,        245
Over all between the Po
And the eastern Alpine snow
Under the mighty Austrian.
Sin smiled so as Sin only can,
And since that time, ay, long before,        250
Both have ruled from shore to shore,
That incestuous pair, who follow
Tyrants as the sun the swallow,
As Repentance follows Crime,
And as changes follow Time.        255

In thine halls the lamp of learning,
Padua, now no more is burning;
Like a meteor, whose wild way
Is lost over the grave of day,
It gleams betrayed and to betray:        260
Once remotest nations came
To adore that sacred flame,
When it lit not many a hearth
On this cold and gloomy earth:
Now new fires from antique light        265
Spring beneath the wide world’s might;
But their spark lies dead in thee,
Trampled out by tyranny.
As the Norway woodman quells,
In the depth of piny dells,        270
One light flame among the brakes,
While the boundless forest shakes,
And its mighty trunks are torn
By the fire thus lowly born:
The spark beneath his feet is dead,        275
He starts to see the flames it fed
Howling through the darkened sky
With a myriad tongues victoriously,
And sinks down in fear: so thou,
O Tyranny, beholdest now        280
Light around thee, and thou hearest
The loud flames ascend, and fearest:
Grovel on the earth; ay, hide
In the dust thy purple pride!

Noon descends around me now:        285
’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow,
When a soft and purple mist
Like a vaporous amethyst°,
Or an air-dissolvèd star
Mingling light and fragrance, far        290
From the curved horizon’s bound
To the point of Heaven’s profound,
Fills the overflowing sky;
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath, the leaves unsodden        295
Where the infant Frost has trodden
With his morning-wingèd feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
And the red and golden vines,
Piercing with their trellised lines        300
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line        305
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun;
And of living things each one;        310
And my spirit which so long
Darkened this swift stream of song,
Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky:
Be it love, light, harmony,        315
Odour, or the soul of all
Which from Heaven like dew doth fall,
Or the mind which feeds this verse
Peopling the lone universe.

Noon descends, and after noon        320
Autumn’s evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine° moon,
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister°
Half the crimson light she brings        325
From the sunset’s radiant springs:
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like wingèd winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
’Mid remembered agonies,        330
The frail bark of this lone being)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again.

Other flowering isles must be        335
In the sea of Life and Agony:
Other spirits float and flee
O’er that gulf: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folded wings they waiting sit        340
For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,        345
In a dell ’mid lawny hills
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine        350
Of all flowers that breathe and shine:
We may live so happy there,
That the Spirits of the Air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing Paradise        355
The polluting multitude;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves        360
Under which the bright sea heaves;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies,        365
And the love which heals all strife
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood:
They, not it, would change; and soon        370
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.


Notes

Line 13: riving. Rending, cleaving.

Line 54: mew. A small gull of the northern hemisphere.

Line 71: paean. Celebratory hymn.

Line 72: rook. Black European crow.

Line 80: grain. Color.

Line 97: Amphitrite. Consort of Poseidon, symbolizing the sea.

Line 127: depopulate. Depopulated.

Line 152: Celtic Anarch. The Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia was a vassal state to the Austrian Habsburg Empire. Austria is traditionally a Celtic country, and anarch is an archaic word denoting an anarchist or representation of anarchy.

Line 195: Scamander. The river Karamanderes, by which the Trojan war was fought.

Line 222: wain. Farm wagon.

Line 223: swill. Drink greedily.

Line 228: foison. Abundant harvest.

Line 239: Ezzelin. Ezzelino III da Romano (1194-1259), a legendary tyrant of the region.

Line 288: amethyst. Purplish quartz, used as gem.

Line 322: infantine. Infantile.

Line 324: minister. Furnish, supply.