Lyrical Poems [36]
And after they have shown their pride, Like you, a-while;--they glide Into the grave.
*187*
THE SHOWER OF BLOSSOMS
Love in a shower of blossoms came Down, and half drown'd me with the same; The blooms that fell were white and red; But with such sweets commingled, As whether (this) I cannot tell, My sight was pleased more, or my smell; But true it was, as I roll'd there, Without a thought of hurt or fear, Love turn'd himself into a bee, And with his javelin wounded me;--- From which mishap this use I make; Where most sweets are, there lies a snake; Kisses and favours are sweet things; But those have thorns, and these have stings.
*188*
TO THE ROSE: SONG
Go, happy Rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my Love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill.
Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this,--but do not so!-- Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I!
*189*
THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE
The Rose was sick, and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed, there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood. Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept. The holy sisters some among, The sacred dirge and trental sung; But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere, As heaven had spent all perfumes there! At last, when prayers for the dead, And rites, were all accomplished, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb.
*190*
THE BLEEDING HAND; OR THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID
From this bleeding hand of mine, Take this sprig of Eglantine: Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets, shall prove Many thorns to be in love.
*191*
TO CARNATIONS: A SONG
Stay while ye will, or go, And leave no scent behind ye: Yet trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye.
Within my Lucia's cheek, (Whose livery ye wear) Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there.
*192*
TO PANSIES
Ah, Cruel Love! must I endure Thy many scorns, and find no cure? Say, are thy medicines made to be Helps to all others but to me? I'll leave thee, and to Pansies come: Comforts you'll afford me some: You can ease my heart, and do What Love could ne'er be brought unto.
*193*
HOW PANSIES OR HEARTS-EASE CAME FIRST
Frolic virgins once these were, Overloving, living here; Being here their ends denied Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them hearts-ease turn'd to flowers.
*194*
WHY FLOWERS CHANGE COLOUR
These fresh beauties, we can prove, Once were virgins, sick of love, Turn'd to flowers: still in some, Colours go and colours come.
*195*
THE PRIMROSE
Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears,-- The sweets of love are mixt with tears.
Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer,--these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.
*196*
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or
*187*
THE SHOWER OF BLOSSOMS
Love in a shower of blossoms came Down, and half drown'd me with the same; The blooms that fell were white and red; But with such sweets commingled, As whether (this) I cannot tell, My sight was pleased more, or my smell; But true it was, as I roll'd there, Without a thought of hurt or fear, Love turn'd himself into a bee, And with his javelin wounded me;--- From which mishap this use I make; Where most sweets are, there lies a snake; Kisses and favours are sweet things; But those have thorns, and these have stings.
*188*
TO THE ROSE: SONG
Go, happy Rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my Love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me.
Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands; Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods at will, For to tame, though not to kill.
Take thou my blessing thus, and go And tell her this,--but do not so!-- Lest a handsome anger fly Like a lightning from her eye, And burn thee up, as well as I!
*189*
THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE
The Rose was sick, and smiling died; And, being to be sanctified, About the bed, there sighing stood The sweet and flowery sisterhood. Some hung the head, while some did bring, To wash her, water from the spring; Some laid her forth, while others wept, But all a solemn fast there kept. The holy sisters some among, The sacred dirge and trental sung; But ah! what sweets smelt everywhere, As heaven had spent all perfumes there! At last, when prayers for the dead, And rites, were all accomplished, They, weeping, spread a lawny loom, And closed her up as in a tomb.
*190*
THE BLEEDING HAND; OR THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID
From this bleeding hand of mine, Take this sprig of Eglantine: Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets, shall prove Many thorns to be in love.
*191*
TO CARNATIONS: A SONG
Stay while ye will, or go, And leave no scent behind ye: Yet trust me, I shall know The place where I may find ye.
Within my Lucia's cheek, (Whose livery ye wear) Play ye at hide or seek, I'm sure to find ye there.
*192*
TO PANSIES
Ah, Cruel Love! must I endure Thy many scorns, and find no cure? Say, are thy medicines made to be Helps to all others but to me? I'll leave thee, and to Pansies come: Comforts you'll afford me some: You can ease my heart, and do What Love could ne'er be brought unto.
*193*
HOW PANSIES OR HEARTS-EASE CAME FIRST
Frolic virgins once these were, Overloving, living here; Being here their ends denied Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them hearts-ease turn'd to flowers.
*194*
WHY FLOWERS CHANGE COLOUR
These fresh beauties, we can prove, Once were virgins, sick of love, Turn'd to flowers: still in some, Colours go and colours come.
*195*
THE PRIMROSE
Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears,-- The sweets of love are mixt with tears.
Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer,--these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.
*196*
TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas, you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind, Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd as we, Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or