Lyrical Poems [15]
SHEPHERDS
MON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we. MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up: And he, who used to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd. AMBO. Let's cheer him up. SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe. MIRT. Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay. Dear Amarillis! MON. Hark! SIL. Mark! MIRT. This earth grew sweet Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet. AMBO Poor pitied youth! MIRT. And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine. This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here. SIL. Words sweet as love itself. MON. Hark!-- MIRT. This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent! Like to a field of beans, when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown. MON. A sweet sad passion---- MIRT. In dewy mornings, when she came this way, Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep. Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell, The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable. But she is gone. SIL. Mirtillo, tell us whither? MIRT. Where she and I shall never meet together. MON. Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please To give an end... MIRT. To what? SIL. Such griefs as these. MIRT. Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure. MON. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills And dales again. MIRT. No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep; And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep; And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee. MON. Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL. The day grows old; And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold. CHOR. The shades grow great; but greater grows our sorrow:-- But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep; And meet to weep To-morrow.
*38*
TO THE WILLOW-TREE
Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head, Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid, Come to weep out the night.
*39*
THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL
DEDICATED TO MR JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR AT LAW
RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW, AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW; SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE, WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE. THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.
THE TEMPLE
A way enchaced with glass and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads; Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest; Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry; Where he of god-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls. First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly; Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is. Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is. Saint
MON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we. MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up: And he, who used to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd. AMBO. Let's cheer him up. SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe. MIRT. Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay. Dear Amarillis! MON. Hark! SIL. Mark! MIRT. This earth grew sweet Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet. AMBO Poor pitied youth! MIRT. And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine. This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here. SIL. Words sweet as love itself. MON. Hark!-- MIRT. This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent! Like to a field of beans, when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown. MON. A sweet sad passion---- MIRT. In dewy mornings, when she came this way, Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep. Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell, The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable. But she is gone. SIL. Mirtillo, tell us whither? MIRT. Where she and I shall never meet together. MON. Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please To give an end... MIRT. To what? SIL. Such griefs as these. MIRT. Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure. MON. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills And dales again. MIRT. No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep; And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep; And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee. MON. Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL. The day grows old; And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold. CHOR. The shades grow great; but greater grows our sorrow:-- But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep; And meet to weep To-morrow.
*38*
TO THE WILLOW-TREE
Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head, Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid, Come to weep out the night.
*39*
THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL
DEDICATED TO MR JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR AT LAW
RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW, AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW; SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE, WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE. THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.
THE TEMPLE
A way enchaced with glass and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads; Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest; Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry; Where he of god-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls. First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly; Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is. Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is. Saint