Poems Written at Horton1632-1638L'al Leg Ro(1633)
¶HENCE, loathed Melancholy,Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,In Stygian cave forlorn'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sightsunholy,Find out some uncouth cell,Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealouswings,And the night-raven sings;There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,As ragged as thy locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.But come, thou Goddess fair and free,In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;Or whether (as some sager sing)The frolic Wind that breathes the spring,Zephyr with Aurora playing,As he met her once a-Maying,There on beds of violets blue,And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,So buxom, blithe and debonair.Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,[31]Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek;Sport that wrinkled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Come, and trip it as ye go,On the light fantastic toe;And in thy right hand lead with theeThe mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And, if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crew,To live with her, and live with thee,In unreproved pleasures free;To hear the lark begin his flight,And singing starde the dull night,From his watch-tower in the skies,Till the dappled Dawn doth rise;Then to come, in spite of sorrow,And at my window bid good-morrow,Through the sweet-briar or the vine,Or the twisted eglantine;While the cock with lively dinScatters the rear of Darkness thin;And to the stack, or the barn-door,Stoudy struts his dames before:Oft listening how the hounds and hornCheerly rouse the slumbering Morn,From the side of some hoar hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill:Sometime walking, not unseen,By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,Right against the eastern gate,Where the great Sun begins his state,Robed in flames and amber light,The clouds in thousand liveries dight;While the ploughman, near at hand,Whistles o'er the furrowed land,And the milkmaid singeth blithe,And the mower whets his scythe,And every shepherd tells his tale[32]Under the hawthorn in the dale.Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,Whilst the lantskip round it measures:Russet lawns, and fallows gray,Where the nibbling flocks do stray;Mountains on whose barren breastThe labouring clouds do often rest;Meadows trim with daisies pied;Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.Towers and battlements it seesBosomed high in tufted trees,Where perhaps some Beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.Hard by, a cottage chimney smokesFrom betwixt two aged oaks,Where Corydon and Thyrsis metAre at their savoury dinner setOf hearbs and other country messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her bower she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;Or, if the earlier season lead,To the tanned haycock in the mead.Sometimes with secure delightThe upland hamlets will invite,When the merry bells ring round,And the jocond rebecks soundTo many a youth and many a maidDancing in the chequered shade;And young and old come forth to playOn a sunshine holyday,Till the livelong daylight fail:Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,With stories told of many a feat,How fairy Mab the junkets eat:She was pinched and pulled, she said;And he, by Friar's lanthorn led,Tells how the drudging Goblin sweatTo earn his cream-bowl duly set,When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,[33]His shadowy flail hath threshed the cornThat ten day-labourers could not end;Then lies him down, the lubber fiend,And, stretched out all the chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength,And crop-full out of doors he flings,Ere the first cock his matin rings.Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.Towered cities please us then,And the busy hum of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,With store of Ladies, whose bright eyesRain influence, and judge the prizeOf wit or arms, while both contendTo win her grace whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn saffron robe, with taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask and antique pageantry;Such sights as youthful Poets dreamOn summer eves by haunted stream.Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonson's learned sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,Warble his native wood-notes wild.And ever, against eating cares,Lap me in soft Lydian airs,Married to immortal verse,Such as the meeting soul may pierce,In notes with many a winding boutOf linked sweetness long drawn outWith wanton heed and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running,Untwisting all the chains that tieThe hidden soul of harmony;That Orpheus' self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heaped Elysian flowers, and hear[34]Such strains as would have won the earOf Pluto to have quite set freeHis half-regained Eurydice.These delights if thou canst give,Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
IL Penseroso(1633)
¶HENCE, vain deluding Joys,The brood of Folly without father bred!How little you bested,Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!Dwell in some idle brain,And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the sunbeams,Or likest hovering dreams,The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.But hail! thou Goddess sage and holy!Hail, divinest Melancholy!Whose saintly visage is too brightTo hit the sense of human sight,And therefore to our weaker viewO'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;Black, but such as in esteemPrince Memnon's sister might beseem,Or that starred Ethiop Queen that stroveTo set her beauty's praise aboveThe Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended:Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yoreTo solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she; in Saturn's reignSuch mixture was not held a stain.Oft in glimmering bowers and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida's inmost grove,Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,[35]Sober, steadfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grain,Flowing with majestic train,And sable stole of cypress lawnOver thy decent shoulders drawn.Come; but keep thy wonted state,With even step, and musing gait,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:There, held in holy passion still,Forget thyself to marble, tillWith a sad leaden downward castThou fix them on the earth as fast.And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ringAye round about Jove's altar sing;And add to these retired Leisure,That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;But, first and chieftest, with thee bringHim that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,The Cherub Contemplation;And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will deign a song,In her sweetest saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,While Cynthia checks her dragon yokeGently o'er the accustomed oak.Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,Most musical, most melancholy!Thee, Chauntress, oft the woods amongI woo, to hear thy even-song;And, missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering Moon,Riding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the heaven's wide pathless way,And oft, as if her head she bowed,[36]Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft, on a plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off curfew sound,Over some wide-watered shore,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or, if the air will not permit,Some still removed place will fit,Where glowing embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom,Far from all resort of mirth,Save the cricket on the hearth,Or the Bellman's drowsy charmTo bless the doors from nightly harm.Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,Be seen in some high lonely tower,Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphereThe spirit of Plato, to unfoldWhat worlds or what vast regions holdThe immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook;And of those Daemons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or underground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet or with element.Sometime let gorgeous TragedyIn sceptred pall come sweeping by,Presenting Thebs, or Pelops' line,Or the tale of Troy divine,Or what (though rare) of later ageEnnobled hath the buskined stage.But, O sad Virgin! that thy powerMight raise Musarus from his bower;Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as, warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,And made Hell grant what Love did seek;Or call up him that left half-toldThe story of Cambuscan bold,Of Camball, and of Algarsife,[37]And who had Canace to wife,That owned the virtuous ring and glass,And of the wondrous horse of brassOn which the Tartar King did ride;And if aught else great Bards besideIn sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of turneys, and of trophies hung,Of forests, and inchantments drear,Where more is meant than meets the ear.Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appear,Not tricked and frounced, as she wontWith the Attic boy to hunt,But kerchieft in a comely cloud,While rocking winds are piping loud,Or ushered with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the rustling leaves,With minute drops from off the eaves.And, when the sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me, Goddess, bringTo arched walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,Of pine, or monumental oak,Where the rude axe with heaved strokeWas never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.There, in close covert, by some brook,Where no profaner eye may look,Hide me from Day's garish eye,While the bee with honeyed thigh,That at her flowery work doth sing,And the waters murmuring,With such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep.And let some strange mysterious dream,Wave at his wings in airy stream,Of lively portraiture displayed,Softly on my eyelids laid.And as I wake, sweet music breathe[38]Above, about, or underneath,Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,Or the unseen Genius of the wood.But let my due feet never failTo walk the studious cloister's pale,And love the high embowed roof,With antick pillars massy proof,And storied windows richly dight,Casting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blow,To the full voiced Quire below,In service high and anthems clear,As may with sweetness, through mine ear,Dissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peaceful hermitage,The hairy gown and mossy cell,Where I may sit and rightly spell,Of every star that Heaven doth shew,And every hearb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo something like prophetic strain.These pleasures, Melancholy, give,And I with thee will choose to live.
Sonnet to the Nightingale(1632-33)
¶O NIGHTINGALE that on yon blooming sprayWarblest at eve, when all the woods are still,Thou with fresh hopes the Lover's heart dost fill,While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,Portend success in love. O if Jove's willHave linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hateForetell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;As thou from year to year hast sung too lateFor my relief, yet had'st no reason why.[39]Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
Song on May Morning
¶(163 2-33)Now the bright morning-star, Day's harbinger,Comes dancing from the East, and leads with herThe flowery May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspireMirth, and youth, and warm desire!Woods and groves are of thy dressing;Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early song,And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
On Time
¶(1633-34)FLY , envious Time, till thou run out thy race:Call on the lazy leaden-stepping Hours,Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,Which is no more than what is false and vain,And merely mortal dross;So little is our loss,So little is thy gain!For, whenas each thing bad thou hast entombed,And, last of all, thy greedy Self consumed,Then long eternity shall greet our blissWith an individual kiss,And joy shall overtake us as a flood;When everything that is sincerely goodAnd perfectly divine,With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shineAbout the supreme ThroneOf Him, to whose happy-making sight aloneWhen once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,Then, all this earthly grossness quit,Attired with stars we shall forever sit,Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,O Time!
At a Solemn Music(1633-34)
¶BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse,Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ,Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;And to our high-raised phantasy presentThat undisturbed Song of pure consent,Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured ThroneTo Him that sits thereon,With saintly shout and solemn jubily;Where the bright Seraphim in burning rowTheir loud uplifted angel trumpets blow,And the Cherubic host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,Hymns devout and holy psalmsSinging everlastingly:That we on Earth, with undiscording voice,May rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportioned SinJarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh dinBroke the fair music that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motions swayedIn perfect diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O, may we soon again renew that song,And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere longTo his celestial consort us unite,To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
Upon the Circumcision(1634)
¶Y E flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright,That erst with music, and triumphant song,First heard by happy watchful Shepherds' ear,So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along,Through the soft silence of the listening night,—[41]Now mourn; and if sad share with us to bearYour fiery essence can distil no tear,Burn in your sighs, and borrowSeas wept from our deep sorrow,He who with all Heaven's heraldry whilereEntered the world, now bleeds to give us ease.Alas! how soon our sinSore doth beginHis infancy to seize!O more exceeding Love, or Law more just?Just Law indeed, but more exceeding Love!For we, by rightful doom remediless,Were lost in death, till He, that dwelt aboveHigh-throned in secret bliss, for us frail dustEmptied his glory, even to nakedness;And that great Covenant which we still transgressIntirely satisfied,And the full wrath besideOf vengeful Justice bore for our excess,And seals obedience first with wounding smartThis day; but oh! ere long,Huge pangs and strongWill pierce more near his heart.
Arcades
¶(1633)
¶Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Derby atHare field by some Noble Persons of her Family; who appear on theScene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with thissong:
I. Song
¶LOOK, Nymphs and Shepherds, look!What sudden blaze of majestyIs that which we from hence descry,Too divine to be mistook?This, this is sheTo whom our vows and wishes bend:Here our solemn search hath end.Fame, that her high worth to raiseSeemed erst so lavish and profuse,[42]We may justly now accuseOf detraction from her praise:Less than half we find expressed;Envy bid conceal the rest.
¶Mark what radiant state she spreads,In circle round her shining throneShooting her beams like silver threads:This, this is she alone,Sitting like a Goddess brightIn the centre of her light.
¶Might she the wise Latona be,Or the towered Cybele,Mother of a hundred gods?Juno dares not give her odds:Who had thought this clime had heldA Deity so unparalleled?
¶Gen. Stay, gende Swains, for, though in this disguise,I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes;Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprungOf that renowned flood so often sung,Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice,Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse;And ye, the breathing roses of the wood,Fair silver-buskind Nymphs, as great and good.I know this quest of yours and free intentWas all in honour and devotion meantTo the great Mistress of yon princely shrine,Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,And with all helpful service will complyTo further this night's glad solemnity,And lead ye where ye may more near beholdWhat shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;Which I full oft, midst these shades alone,Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon.For know, by lot from Jove, I am the PowerOf this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove[43]With ringlets quaint and wanton windings wove;And all my plants I save from nightly illOf noisome winds and blasting vapours chill;And from the boughs brush off the evil dew,And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites,Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites.When Evening grey doth rise, I fetch my roundOver the mount, and all this hallowed ground;And early, ere the odorous breath of mornAwakes the slumbering leaves, or tasselled hornShakes the high thicket, haste I all about,Number my ranks, and visit every sproutWith puissant words and murmurs made to bless.But else, in deep of night, when drowsinessHath locked up mortal sense, then listen ITo the celestial Sirens' harmony,That sit upon the nine enfolded spheres,And sing to those that hold the vital shears,And turn the adamantine spindle roundOn which the fate of gods and men is wound.Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,To lull the daughters of Necessity,And keep unsteady Nature to her law,And the low world in measured motion drawAfter the heavenly tune, which none can hearOf human mould with gross unpurged ear.And yet such music worthiest were to blazeThe peerless height of her immortal praiseWhose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,If my inferior hand or voice could hitInimitable sounds. Yet, as we go,Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can showI will assay, her worth to celebrate,And so attend ye toward her glittering state;Where ye may all, that are of noble stem,Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.
II. Song
¶O'er the smooth enamelled green,Where no print of step hath been,[44]Follow me, as I singAnd touch the warbled string.Under the shady roofOf branching elm star-proofFollow me.I will bring you where she sits,Clad in splendour as befitsHer deity.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
III. Song
¶Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no moreBy sandy Ladon's lilied banks;On old Lycatus, or Cyllene hoar,Trip no more in twilight ranks;Though Erymanth your loss deplore,A better soil shall give ye thanks.From the stony MznalusBring your flocks, and live with us;Here ye shall have greater grace,To serve the Lady of this place.Through Syrinx your Pan's mistress were,Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
Comus, a MaskThe Persons
The Lady. First Brother. Second Brothel
Then President of Wales
¶The Chief Persons which presented were:—The Lord Bracly; Mr. Thomas Egerton, his Brother; The Lady AliceEgerton.The first Scene discovers a wild wood.The ATTENDANT SPIRIT descends or enters.
¶BEFORE the starry threshold of Jove's courtMy mansion is, where those immortal shapes[45]Of bright aerial Spirits live inspheredIn regions mild of calm and serene air,Above the smoke and stir of this dim spotWhich men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care,Confined and pestered in this pinfold here,Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives,After this mortal change, to her true servantsAmongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats.Yet some there be that by due steps aspireTo lay their just hands on that golden keyThat opes the Palace of Eternity.To such my errand is; and, but for such,I would not soil these pure ambrosial weedsWith the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould.But to my task. Neptune, besides the swayOf every salt flood and each ebbing stream,Took in, by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove,Imperial rule of all the sea-girt IslesThat, like to rich and various gems, inlayThe unadorned bosom of the Deep;Which he, to grace his tributary gods,By course commits to several government,And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crownsAnd wield their little tridents. But this Isle,The greatest and the best of all the main,He quarters to his blue-haired deities;And all this tract that fronts the falling sunA noble Peer of mickle trust and powerHas in his charge, with tempered awe to guideAn old and haughty Nation, proud in arms:Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore,Are coming to attend their father's state,And new-intrusted sceptre. But their wayLies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood,The nodding horror of whose shady browsThreats the forlorn and wandering passenger;And here their tender age might suffer peril,But that, by quick command from sovran Jove,I was despatched for their defence and guard!And listen why; for I will tell you nowWhat never yet was heard in tale or song,[46]From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.Bacchus, that first from out the purple grapeCrushed the sweet poison of misused wine,After the Tuscan mariners transformed,Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed,On Circe's island fell. (Who knows not Circe,The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cupWhoever tasted lost his upright shape,And downward fell into a grovelling swine?)This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks,With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth,Had by him, ere he parted thence, a SonMuch like his Father, but his Mother more,Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named:Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age,Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,At last betakes him to this ominous wood,And, in thick shelter of black shades imbowered,Excels his Mother at her mighty art;Offering to every weary travellerHis orient liquor in a crystal glass,To quench the drouth of Phoebus; which as they taste(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst),Soon as the potion works, their human count'nance,The express resemblance of the gods, is changedInto some brutish form of wolf or bear,Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goatAll other parts remaining as they were.And they, so perfect is their misery,Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,But boast themselves more comely than before,And all their friends and native home forget,To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.Therefore, when any favoured of high JoveChances to pass through this adventrous glade,Swift as the sparkle of a glancing starI shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy,As now I do. But first I must put offThese my sky-robes, spun out of Iris' woof,And take the weeds and likeness of a swainThat to the service of this house belongs,[47]Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song,Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar,And hush the waving woods; nor of less faith,And in this office of his mountain watchLikeliest, and nearest to the present aidOf this occasion. But I hear the treadOf hateful steps; I must be viewless now.
¶COM us enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the other; withhim a rout of Monsters, headed lil(e sundry sorts of wild beasts, butotherwise lik.e men and women, their apparel glistering. They come inmaking a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands.
¶Comus. The star that bids the shepherd foldNow the top of heaven doth hold;And the gilded car of DayHis glowing axle doth allayIn the steep A dan tic stream:And the slope Sun his upward beamShoots against the dusky pole,Pacing toward the other goalOf his chamber in the east.Meanwhile, welcome joy and feast,Midnight shout and revelry,Tipsy dance and jollity.Braid your locks with rosy twine,Dropping odours, dropping wine.Rigour now is gone to bed;And Advice with scrupulous head,Strict Age, and sour Severity,With their grave saws, in slumber lie.We, that are of purer fire,Imitate the starry Quire,Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,Lead in swift round the months and years.The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,Now to the Moon in wavering morrice move;And on the tawny sands and shelvesTrip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves.By dimpled brook and fountain-brim,The Wood-Nymphs, decked with daisies trim,Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:What hath night to do with sleep?[48]Night hath better sweets to prove;Venus now wakes, and wakens LoveCome, let us our rites begin;T is only daylight that makes sin,Which these dun shades will ne'er report.Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport,Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flameOf midnight torches burns! mysterious Dame,That ne'er art called but when the dragon wombOf Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom,And makes one blot of all the air!Stay thy cloudy ebon chair,Wherein thou ridest with Hecat', and befriendUs thy vowed priests, till utmost endOf all thy dues be done, and none left outEre the blabbing eastern scout,The nice Morn on the Indian steep,From her cabined loop-hole peep,And to the tell-tale Sun descryOur concealed solemnity.Come, knit hands, and beat the groundIn a light fantastic round.
¶The Measure.
¶Break off, break off! I feel the different paceOf some chaste footing near about this ground.Run to your shrouds within these brakes and trees;Our number may affright. Some virgin sure(For so I can distinguish by mine art)Benighted in these woods! Now to my charms,And to my wily trains: I shall ere longBe well stocked with as fair a herd as grazedAbout my Mother Circe. Thus I hurlMy dazzling spells into the spongy air,Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion,And give it false presentments, lest the placeAnd my quaint habits breed astonishment,And put the Damsel to suspicious flight;Which must not be, for that's against my course.I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,[49]And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,Baited with reasons not implausible,Wind me into the easy-hearted man,And hug him into snares. When once her eyeHath met the virtue of this magic dustI shall appear some harmless villager,Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.But here she comes; I fairly step aside,And hearken, if I may her business hear.
¶The LADY enters
¶Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true,My best guide now. Methought it was the soundOf riot and ill-managed merriment,Such as the jocond flute or gamesome pipeStirs up among the loose unlettered hinds,When, for their teeming flocks and granges full,In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,And thank the gods amiss. I should be lothTo meet the rudeness and swilled insolenceOf such late wassailers; yet, oh! where elseShall I inform my unacquainted feetIn the blind mazes of this tangled wood?My brothers, when they saw me wearied outWith this long way, resolving here to lodgeUnder the spreading favour of these pines,Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket sideTo bring me berries, or such cooling fruitAs the kind hospitable woods provide.They left me then when the grey-hooded Even,Like a sad Votarist in palmer's weed,Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phcebus' wain.But where they are, and why they came not back,Is now the labour of my thoughts. 'T is likeliestThey had ingaged their wandering steps too far;And envious darkness, ere they could return,Had stole them from me. Else, O thievish Night,Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,In thy dark lantern thus close up the starsThat Nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps[50]With everlasting oil, to give due lightTo the misled and lonely travailler?This is the place, as well as I may guess,Whence even now the tumult-of loud mirthWas rife, and perfet in my listening ear;Yet nought but single darkness do I find.What might this be? A thousand fantasiesBegin to throng into my memory,Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire,And airy tongues that syllable men's namesOn sands and shores and desert wildernesses.These thoughts may starde well, but not astoundThe virtuous mind, that ever walks attendedBy a strong siding champion, Conscience.0 welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings,And thou unblemished form of Chastity!I see ye visibly, and now believeThat He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things illAre but as slavish officers of vengeance,Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,To keep my life and honour unassailed. . . .Was I deceived, or did a sable cloudTurn forth her silver lining on the night?I did not err: there does a sable cloudTurn forth her silver lining on the night,And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.I cannot hallo to my brothers, butSuch noise as I can make to be heard farthestI'll venter; for my new-enlivened spiritsPrompt me, and they perhaps are not far off.
Sono
¶Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv'st unseenWithin thy airy shellBy slow Meander's margent green,And in the violet-imbroidered valeWhere the love-lorn NightingaleNightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair[51]That likest thy Narcissus are?O if thou haveHid them in some flowery cave,Tell me but where,Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the Sphere!So may'st thou be translated to the skies,And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies!Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mouldBreathe such divine inchanting ravishment?Sure something holy lodges in that breast,And with these raptures moves the vocal airTo testify his hidden residence.How sweetly did they float upon the wingsOf silence, through the empty-vaulted night,At every fall smoothing the raven downOf darkness till it smiled! I have oft heardMy mother Circe with the Sirens three,Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,Culling their potent hearbs and baleful drugs,Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul,And lap it in Elysium: Scylla wept,And chid her barking waves into attention,And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause.Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense,And in sweet madness robbed it of itself;But such a sacred and home-felt delight,Such sober certainty of waking bliss,I never heard till now. I'll speak to her,And she shall be my Queen.—Hail, foreign wonder!Whom certain these rough shades did never breed,Unless the Goddess that in rural shrineDwell'st here with Pan or Sylvan, by blest songForbidding every bleak unkindly fogTo touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood.
¶Lady. Nay, gende shepherd, ill is lost that praiseThat is addressed to unattending ears.Not any boast of skill, but extreme shiftHow to regain my severed company,Compelled me to awake the courteous EchoTo give me answer from her mossy couch.Comus. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you thus?[52]Lady. Dim darkness and this leavy labyrinth.Comus. Could that divide you from near-usheringguides?Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf.Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why?Lady. To seek i' the valley some cool friendly spring.Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady?Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quickreturn.Comus. Perhaps forestalling night prevented them.Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit!Comus. Imports their loss, beside the present need?Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose.Comus. Where they of manly prime, or youthfulbloom?Lady. As smooth as Hebe's their unrazored lips.Comus. Two such I saw, what time the laboured oxIn his loose traces from the furrow came,And the swinked hedger at his supper sat.I saw them under a green manding vine,That crawls along the side of yon small hill,Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots;Their port was more than human, as they stood.I took it for a faery visionOf some gay creatures of the element,That in the colours of the rainbow live,And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awe-strook,And, as I passed, I worshiped. If those you seek,It were a journey like the path to HeavenTo help you find them.Lady. Gentle villager,What readiest way would bring me to that place?Comus. Due west it rises from this shrubby point.Lady. To find out that, good Shepherd, I suppose,In such a scant allowance of star-light,Would overtask the best land-pilot's art,Without the sure guess of well-practised feet.Comus. I know each lane, and every alley green,Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wild wood,And every bosky bourn from side to side,[53]My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood;And, if your stray attendance be yet lodged,Or shroud within these limits, I shall knowEre morrow wake, or the low-roosted larkFrom her thatched pallet rouse. If otherwise,I can conduct you, Lady, to a lowBut loyal cottage, where you may be safeTill further quest.Lady. Shepherd, I take thy word,And trust thy honest-offered courtesy,Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds,With smoky rafters, than in tapestry hallsAnd courts of princes, where it first was named,And yet is most pretended. In a placeLess warranted than this, or less secure,I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trialTo my proportioned strength! Shepherd, lead on. . . .
The Two BROTHERS
¶Eld. Bro. Unmuffle, ye faint stars; and thou, fairMoon,That wont'st to love the travailler's benison,Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,And disinherit Chaos, that reigns hereIn double night of darkness and of shades;Or, if your influence be quite dammed upWith black usurping mists, some gentle taper,Though a rush-candle from the wicker holeOf some clay habitation, visit usWith thy long levelled rule of streaming light,And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,Or Tyrian Cynosure.Sec. Bro. Or, if our eyesBe barred that happiness, might we but hearThe folded flocks, penned in their wattled cotes,Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,Or whistle from the lodge, or village cockCount the night-watches to his feathery dames,Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering,[54]In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.But, Oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister!Where may she wander now, whither betake herFrom the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles?Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now,Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elmLeans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears.What if in wild amazement and affright,Or, while we speak, within the direful graspOf savage hunger, or of savage heat!Eld. Bro. Peace, brother: be not over-exquisiteTo cast the fashion of uncertain evils;For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown,What need a man forestall his date of grief,And run to meet what he would most avoid?Or, if they be but false alarms of fear,How bitter is such self-delusion!I do not think my sister so to seek,Or so unprincipled in virtue's book,And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever,As that the single want of light and noise(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not)Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts,And put them into misbecoming plight.Virtue could see to do what Virtue wouldBy her own radiant light, though sun and moonWere in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's selfOft seeks to sweet retired solitude,Where, with her best nurse, Contemplation,She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings,That, in the various bustle of resort,Were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.He that has light within his own clear breastMay sit i' the centre, and enjoy bright day:But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughtsBenighted walks under the mid-day sun;Himself is his own dungeon.
¶Sec. Bro. Tis most trueThat musing Meditation most affectsThe pensive secrecy of desert cell,[55]Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds,And sits as safe as in a senate-house;For who would rob a Hermit of his weeds,His few books, or his beads, or maple dish,Or do his grey hairs any violence?But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian TreeLaden with blooming gold, had need the guardOf dragon-watch with uninchanted eyeTo save her blossoms, and defend her fruit,From the rash hand of bold Incontinence.You may as well spread out the unsunned heapsOf miser's treasure by an oudaw's den,And tell me it is safe, as bid me hopeDanger will wink on Opportunity,And let a single helpless maiden passUninjured in this wild surrounding waste.Of night or loneliness it recks me not;I fear the dread events that dog them both,Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the personOf our unowned sister.Eld. Bro. I do not, brother,Infer as if I thought my sister's stateSecure without all doubt or controversy;Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fearDoes arbitrate the event, my nature isThat I encline to hope rather than fear,And gladly banish squint suspicion.My sister is not so defenceless leftAs you imagine; she has a hidden strength,Which you remember not.Sec. Bro. What hidden strength,Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that?Eld. Bro. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength,Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own:'Tis Chastity, my brother, Chastity:She that has that is clad in corn'plete steel,And, like a quivered nymph with arrows keen,May trace huge forests, and unharboured heaths,Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds;Where, through the sacred rays of chastity,[56]No savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer,Will dare to soil her virgin purity.Yea, there, where very desolation dwells,By grots and caverns shagged with horrid shades,She may pass on with unblenched majesty,Be it not done in pride, or in presumption.Some say no evil thing that walks by night,In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen,Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost,That breaks his magic chains at curfew time,No goblin or swart faery of the mine,Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.Do ye believe me yet, or shall I callAntiquity from the old schools of GreeceTo testify the arms of Chastity?Hence had the huntress Dian her dread bow,Fair silver-shafted Queen for ever chaste,Wherewith she tamed the brinded lionessAnd spotted mountain-pard, but set at noughtThe frivolous bolt of Cupid; gods and menFeared her stern frown, and she was queen o' thewoods.What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shieldThat wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin,Wherewith she freezed her foes to con'gealed stone,But rigid looks of chaste austerity,And noble grace that dashed brute violenceWith sudden adoration and blank awe?So dear to Heaven is saintly chastityThat, when a soul is found sincerely so,A thousand liveried angels lackey her,Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,And in clear dream and solemn visionTell her of things that no gross ear can hear;Till oft converse with heavenly habitantsBegin to cast a beam on the outward shape,The unpolluted temple of the mind,And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence,Till all be made immortal. But, when lust,By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,[57]But most by lewd and lavish act of sin,Lets in defilement to the inward parts,The soul grows clotted by contagion,Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite loseThe divine property of her first being.Such are those thick and gloomy shadows dampOft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,Lingering and sitting by a new-made grave,As loth to leave the body that it loved,And linked itself by carnal sensualtyTo a degenerate and degraded state.Sec. Bro. How charming is divine Philosophy!Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,But musical as is Apollo's lute,And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets,Where no crude surfeit reigns.Eld. Bro. List! list! I hearSome far-off hallo break the silent air.Sec. Bro. Methought so too; what should it be?Eld. Bro. For certain,Either some one, like us, night-foundered here,Or else some neighbour woodman, or, at worst,Some roving robber calling to his fellows.Sec. Bro. Heaven keep my sister!Again, again, and near!Best draw, and stand upon our guard.Eld. Bro. I'll hallo.If he be friendly, he comes well: if not,Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us!
¶The ATTENDANT SPIRIT, habited li\e a shepherd.That hallo I should know. What are you? speak.Come not too near; you fall on iron stakes else.Spir. What voice is that? my young Lord? speakagain.Sec. Bro. O brother, 'tis my father's Shepherd, sure.Eld. Bro. Thyrsis! whose artful strains have oftdelayedThe huddling brook to hear his madrigal,And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale.[58]How earnest thou here, good swain? Hath any ramSlipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam,Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook?How couldst thou find this dark sequestered nook?Spir. O my loved master's heir, and his next joy,I came not here on such a trivial toyAs a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealthOf pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy wealthThat doth enrich these downs is worth a thoughtTo this my errand, and the care it brought.But, oh! my virgin Lady, where is she?How chance she is not in your company?Eld. Bro. To tell thee sadly, Shepherd, withoutblameOr our neglect, we lost her as we came.Spir. Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true.Eld. Bro. What fears, good Thyrsis?Prithee briefly shew.Spir. I'll tell ye, 'tis not vain or fabulous(Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance)What the sage poets, taught by the heavenly Muse,Storied of old in high immortal verseOf dire Chimeras and inchanted Isles,And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell;For such there be, but unbelief is blind.Within the navel of this hideous wood,Immured in cypress shades, a Sorcerer dwells,Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus,Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries,And here to every thirsty wandererBy sly enticement gives his baneful cup,With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poisonThe visage quite transforms of him that drinks,And the inglorious likeness of a beastFixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintageCharactered in the face. This have I learntTending my flocks hard by i' the hilly croftsThat brow this bottom glade; whence night by nightHe and his monstrous rout are heard to howlLike stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey,[59]Doing abhorred rites to HecateIn their obscured haunts of inmost bowers.Yet have they many baits and guileful spellsTo inveigle and invite the unwary senseOf them that pass unweeting by the way.This evening late, by then the chewing flocksHad ta'en their supper on the savoury herbOf knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in fold,I sat me down to watch upon a bankWith ivy canopied, and interwoveWith flaunting honeysuckle, and began,Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy,To meditate my rural minstrelsy,Till fancy had her fill. But ere a closeThe wonted roar was up amidst the woods,And filled the air with barbarous dissonance;At which I ceased, and listened them a while,Till an unusual stop of sudden silenceGave respite to the drowsy-flighted steedsThat draw the litter of close-curtained Sleep.At last a soft and solemn-breathing soundRose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,And stole upon the air, that even SilenceWas took ere she was ware, and wished she mightDeny her nature, and be never more,Still to be so displaced. I was all ear,And took in strains that might create a soulUnder the ribs of Death. But, oh! ere longToo well I did perceive it was the voiceOf my most honoured Lady, your dear sister.Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear;And "O poor hapless Nightingale," thought I,"How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare!"Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste,Through paths and turnings often trod by day,Till, guided by mine ear, I found the placeWhere that damned wisard, hid in sly disguise(For so by certain signs I knew), had metAlready, ere my best speed could prevent,The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey;[60]Who gently asked if he had seen such two,Supposing him some neighbour villager.Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessedYe were the two she meant; with that I sprungInto swift flight, till I had found you here;But furder know I not.Sec. Bro. O night and shades,How are ye joined with hell in triple knotAgainst the unarmed weakness of one virgin,Alone and helpless! Is this the confidenceYou gave me, brother?Eld. Bro. Yes, and keep it still;Lean on it safely; not a periodShall be unsaid for me. Against the threatsOf malice or of sorcery, or that powerWhich erring men call Chance, this I hold firm:Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt,Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled;Yea, even that which Mischief meant most harmShall in the happy trial prove most glory.But evil on itself shall back recoil,And mix no more with goodness, when at last,Gathered like scum, and settled to itself,It shall be in eternal resdess changeSelf-fed and self-consumed. If this fail,The pillared firmament is rottenness,And earth's base built on stubble. But come, let's on!Against the opposing will and arm of HeavenMay never this just sword be lifted up;But, for that damned magician, let him be girtWith all the griesly legions that troopUnder the sooty flag of Acheron,Harpies and Hydras, or all the monstrous forms'Twixt Africa and Ind, I'll find him out,And force him to restore his purchase back,Or drag him by the curls to a foul death,Cursed as his life.Spir. Alas! good ventrous youth,I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise;But here thy sword can do thee little stead.[61]Far other arms and other weapons mustBe those that quell the might of hellish charms.He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints,And crumble all thy sinews.Eld. Bro. Why, prithee Shepherd,How durst thou then thyself approach so nearAs to make this relation?Spir. Care and utmost shiftsHow to secure the Lady from surprisalBrought to my mind a certain shepherd lad,Of small regard to see to, yet well skilledIn every virtuous plant and healing hearbThat spreads her verdant leaf to the morning ray.He loved me well, and oft would beg me sing;Which when I did, he on the tender grassWould sit, and hearken even to ecstasy,And in requital ope his leathern scrip,And shew me simples of a thousand names,Telling their strange and vigorous faculties.Amongst the rest a small unsighdy root,But of divine effect, he culled me out.The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,But in another country, as he said,Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil:Unknown, and like esteemed, and the dull swainTreads on it daily with his clouted shoon;And yet more med'cinal is it than that MolyThat Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave.He called it Haemony, and gave it me,And bade me keep it as of sovran use'Gainst all inchantments, mildew blast, or damp,Or ghastly Furies' apparition.I pursed it up, but little reckoning made,Till now that this extremity compelled.But now I find it true; for by this meansI knew the foul inchanter, though disguised,Entered the very lime-twigs of his spells,And yet came off. If you have this about you(As I will give you when we go) you mayBoldly assault the necromancer's hall;[62]Where if he be, with dauntless hardihoodAnd brandished blade rush on him: break his glass,And shed the luscious liquor on the ground;But seize his wand. Though he and his curtf crewFierce sign of battail make, and menace high,Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoke,Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink.Eld. Bro. Thyrsis, lead on apace; I'll follow thee;And some good angel bear a shield before us!
¶The Scene changes to a stately palace, set out with all manner of delicious ness: soft music, tables spread with all dainties. COMUS appears witi his rabble, and the LADY set in an inchonied chair; to whom he offer his glass; which she puts by, and goes about to rise.
¶Comus. Nay, Lady, sit. If I but wave this wand,Your nerves are all chained up in alablaster,And you a statue, or as Daphne was,Root-bound, that fled Apollo.Lady. Fool, do not boast.Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mindWith all thy charms, although this corporal rindThou hast immanaclcd while Heaven sees good.Comus. Why are you vexed, Lady? why do youfrown ?Here dwell no frowns, nor anger; from these gatesSorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasuresThat fancy can beget on youthful thoughts,When the fresh blood grows lively, and returnsBrisk as the April buds in primrose season.And first behold this cordial julep here.That flames and dances in his crystal bounds,With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed.Not that Nepenthes which the wife of ThoneIn Egypt gave to Jove-born HelenaIs of such power to stir up joy as this,To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst.Why should you be so cruel to yourself,And to those dainty limbs, which Nature lentFor gentle usage and soft delicacy?But you invert the covenants of her trust,And harshly deal, like an ill borrower,[63]With that which you received on other terms,Scorning the unexempt conditionBy which all mortal frailty must subsist,Refreshment after toil, ease after pain,That have been tired all day without repast,And timely rest have wanted. But, fair virgin,This will restore all soon.Lady. T will not, false traitor!*T will not restore the truth and honestyThat thou has banished from thy tongue with lies.Was this the cottage and the safe abodeThou told'st me of? What grim aspects' are these,These oughly-headed monsters? Mercy guard me!Hence with thy brewed inchantments, foul deceiver!Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocenceWith vizored falsehood and base forgery?And wouldst thou seek again to trap me hereWith lickerish baits, fit to ensnare a brute?Were it a draught for Juno when she banquets,I would not taste thy treasonous offer. NoneBut such as are good men can give good things;And that which is not good is not deliciousTo a well-governed and wise appetite.Comus. O foolishness of men! that lend their earsTo those budge doctors of the Stoic fur,And fetch their precepts from the Cynic tub,Praising the lean and sallow AbstinenceWherefore did Nature pour her bounties forthWith such a full and unwithdrawing hand,Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable,But all to please and sate the curious taste?And set to work millions of spinning worms,That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired silk,To deck her sons; and, that no corner mightBe vacant of her plenty, in her own loinsShe hutched the all-worshiped ore and precious gems,To store her children with. If all the worldShould in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse,Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,[64]The All-giver would be unthanked, would beunpraisedNot half his riches known, and yet despised;And we should serve him as a grudging master,As a penurious niggard of his wealth,And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons,Who would be quite surcharged with her own weight,And strangled with her waste fertility:The earth cumbered, and the winged air darked withplumes;The herds would over-multitude their lords;The sea o'erfraught would swell, and the unsoughtdiamondsWould so emblaze the forehead of the Deep,And so bestud with stars, that they belowWould grow inured to light, and come at lastTo gaze upon the Sun with shameless brows.List, Lady; be not coy, and be not cozenedWith that same vaunted name, Virginity.Beauty is Nature's coin; must not be hoarded,But must be current; and the good thereofConsists in mutual and partaken bliss,Unsavoury in the injoyment of itself.If you let slip time, like a neglected roseIt withers on the stalk with languished head.Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be shownIn courts, at feasts, and high solemnities.Where most may wonder at the workmanship.It is for homely features to keep home;They had their name thence: coarse complexionsAnd cheeks of sorry grain will serve to plyThe sampler, and to tease the huswife's wool.What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that,Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the Morn?There was another meaning in these gifts;Think what, and be advised; you are but young yet.Lady, I had not thought to have unlocked my lipsIn this unhallowed air, but that this JugglerWould think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes,Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb.[65]I hate when Vice can bolt her argumentsAnd Virtue has no tongue to check her pride.Impostor! do not charge most innocent Nature,As if she would her children should be riotousWith her abundance. She, good Cateress,Means her provision only to the good,That live according to her sober laws,And holy dictate of spare Temperance.If every just man that now pines with wantHad but a moderate and beseeming shareOf that which lewdly-pampered LuxuryNow heaps upon some few with vast excess,Nature's full blessings would be well-dispensedIn unsuperfluous even proportion,And she no whit encumbered with her store;And then the Giver would be better thanked,His praise due paid: for swinish GluttonyNe'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast,But with besotted base ingratitudeCrams and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on?Or have I said enow? To him that daresArm his profane tongue with contemptuous wordsAgainst the sun-clad power of ChastityFain would I something say;—yet to what end?Thou hast nor ear, nor soul, to apprehendThe sublime notion and high mysteryThat must be uttered to unfold the sageAnd serious doctrine of Virginity;And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not knowMore happiness than this thy present lot.Enjoy your dear Wit, and gay Rhetoric,That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence;Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced.Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worthOf this pure cause would kindle my rapt spiritsTo such a flame of sacred vehemenceThat dumb things would be moved to sympathize,And the brute Earth would lend her nerves, and shake,Till all thy magic structures, reared so high,Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head.[66]Comus. She fables not. I feel that I do fearHer words set off by some superior power;And, though not mortal, yet a cold shuddering dewDips me all o'er, as when the wrath of JoveSpeaks thunder and the chains of ErebusTo some of Saturn's crew. I must dissemble,And try her yet more strongly.—Come, no more!This is mere moral babble, and directAgainst the canon laws of our foundation.I must not suffer this; yet't is but the leesAnd settlings of a melancholy blood.But this will cure all straight; one sip of thisWill bathe the drooping spirits in delightBeyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste . . .
¶BROTHERS rush in with swords drawn, wrest his glass out of his hand, and break it against the ground: his rout make sign of resistance, but are all driven in. The ATTENDANT SPIRIT comes in.
¶Spir. What! have you let the false Enchanter scape?O ye mistook; ye should have snatched his wand.And bound him fast. Without his rod reversed,And backward mutters of dissevering power,We cannot free the Lady that sits hereIn stony fetters fixed and motionless.Yet stay: be not disturbed; now I bethink me,Some other means I have which may be used,Which once of Melibceus old I learnt,The soothest Shepherd that ere piped on plains.There is a gende Nymph not far from hence,That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream:Sabrina is her name: a virgin pure;Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,That had the sceptre from his father Brute.She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuitOf her enraged stepdame, Guendolen,Commended her fair innocence to the floodThat stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course.The water-Nymphs, that in the bottom played,Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in,Bearing her straight to aged Nereus' hall;Who, piteous of her woes, reared her lank head,[67]And gave her to his daughters to imbatheIn nectared lavers strewed with asphodil,And through the porch and inlet of each senseDropt in ambrosial oils, till she revived,And underwent a quick immortal change,Made Goddess of the river. Still she retainsHer maiden gentleness, and oft at eveVisits the herds along the twilight meadows,Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signsThat the shrewd meddling Elf delights to make,Which she with prctious vialed liquors heals:For which the Shepherds, at their festivals,Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream,Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffadils.And, as the old Swain said, she can unlockThe clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell,If she be right invoked in warbled song;For maidenhood she loves, and will be swiftTo aid a virgin, such as was herself,In hard-besetting need. This will I try,And add the power of some adjuring verse.
Song
¶Sabrina fair,Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent wave,In twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;Listen for dear honour's sake,Goddess of the silver lake,Listen and save!
¶Listen, and appear to us,In name of great Oceanus,By the earth-shaking Neptune's maceAnd Tethys' grave majestic pace;By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,And the Carpathian wizard's hook;By scaly Triton's winding shell,[68]And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell;By Leucothea's lovely hands,And her son that rules the strands;By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet,And the songs of Sirens sweet;By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,And fair Ligea's golden comb,Wherewith she sits on diamond rocksSleeking her soft alluring locks;By all the nymphs that nightly danceUpon thy streams with wily glance;Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy headFrom thy coral-paven bed,And bridle in thy headlong wave.Till thou our summons answered have.Listen and save!
¶SABRINA rises, attended by Water-nymphs, and sings.
¶By the rushy-fringed bank,Where grows the willow and the oiser dank,My sliding chariot stays,Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheenOf turkis blue, and emerald green,That in the channel strays:Whilst from off the waters fleetThus I set my prindess feetO'er the cowslip's velvet head,That bends not as I tread.Gentle swain, at thy requestI am here!
¶Spir. Goddess dear,We implore thy powerful handTo undo the charmed bandOf true virgin here distressedThrough the force and through the wileOf unblessed enchanter vile.Sabr. Shepherd, 't is my office bestTo help insnared Chastity,Brightest Lady, look on me.[69]Thus I sprinkle on thy breastDrops that from my fountain pureI have kept of pretious cure;Thrice upon thy finger's tip,Thrice upon thy rubied lip:Next this marble venomed seat,Smeared with gums of glutinous heat,I touch with chaste palms moist and cold.Now the spell hath lost his hold;And I must haste ere morning hourTo wait in Amphitrite's bower.
¶SABRINA detcends, and the LADY rises out of her seat.
¶Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine,Sprung of old Anchises' line,May thy brimmed waves for thisTheir full tribute never missFrom a thousand petty rills,That tumble down the snowy hills:Summer drouth or singed airNever scorch thy tresses fair,Nor wet October's torrent floodThy molten crystal fill with mud;May thy billows roll ashoreThe beryl and the golden ore;May thy lofty head be crownedWith many a tower and terrace round,And here and there thy banks uponWith groves of myrrh and cinnamon.Come, Lady; while Heaven lends us grace,Let us fly this cursed place,Lest the Sorcerer us enticeWith some other new device.Not a waste or needless soundTill we come to holier ground.I shall be your faithful guideThrough this gloomy covert wide;And not many furlongs thenceIs your Father's residence.Where this night are met in state[70]Many a friend to gratulateHis wished presence, and besideAll the Swains that there abideWith jigs and rural dance resort.We shall catch them at their sport,And our sudden coming thereWill double all their mirth and cheer.Come, let us haste; the stars grow high,But Night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.
¶The Scene changer, presenting Ludlow Town, and the President's Castle: then come in Country Dancers; after them the ATTENDANT SPUUT, with the two BROTHERS and the LADY.
Sonc
¶Spir. Back, Shepherds, back! Enough your playTill next sun-shine holiday.Here be, without duck or nod,Other trippings to be trodOf lighter toes, and such court guiseAs Mercury did first deviseWith the mincing DryadesOn the lawns and on the leas.
¶This second Song presents them to their Father and Mother.
¶Noble Lord and Lady bright,I have brought ye new delight.Here behold so goodly grownThree fair branches of your own.Heaven hath timely tried their youth,Their faith, their patience, and their truth,And sent them here through hard assaysWith a crown of deathless praise,To triumph in victorious danceO'er sensual Folly and Intemperance.
¶The dances ended, the SPIRIT epiloguizes.
¶Spir. To the ocean now I fly,And those happy climes that lieWhere day never shuts his eye,Up in the broad fields of the sky .There I suck the liquid air,[71]All amidst the Gardens fairOf Hesperus, and his daughters threeThat sing about the Golden Tree.Along the crisped shades and bowersRevels the spruce and jocond Spring;The Graces and the rosy-bosomed HoursThither all their bounties bring.There eternal Summer dwells,And west winds with musky wingAbout the cedarn alleys flingNard and cassia's balmy smells.Iris there with humid bowWaters the odorous banks, that blowFlowers of more mingled hueThan her purfled scarf can shew,And drenches with Elysian dew(List mortals, if your ears be true)Beds of hyacinth and roses,Where young Adonis oft reposes,Waxing well of his deep woundIn slumber soft, and on the groundSadly sits the Assyrian queen;But far above in spangled sheenCelestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranced,After her wandring labours long,Till free consent the gods amongMake her his eternal Bride,And from her fair unspotted sideTwo blissful twins are to be born,Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.But now my task is smoothly done,I can fly, or I can runQuickly to the green earth's end,Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,And from thence can soar as soonTo the corners of the Moon.Mortals, that would follow me,Love Virtue, she alone is free;She can teach ye how to climb[72]Higher than the spheary chime:Or, if Virtue feeble were,Heaven itself would stoop to her.
Lycidas(1637)
¶In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatelydrowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637; and, byoccasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, then in their height.
¶YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more,Ye Myrdes brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint and sad occasion dearCompels me to disturb your season due;For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred wellThat from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destined urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the Morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening bright[73]Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westeringwheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;Tempered to the oaten fluteRough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long;And old Damcetas loved to hear our song.But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn.The willows, and the hazel copses green,Shall now no more be seenFanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steepWhere your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream.Ay me! I fondly dream"Had ye been there," . . . for what could that havedone?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her inchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with uncessant careTo tend the homely, slighted, Shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,[74]Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfet witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood.But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the Herald of the Sea,That came in Neptune's plea.He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beaked promontory.They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panope with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe."Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?"Last came, and last did go,[75]The pilot of the Galilean Lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:—"How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Anow of such as, for their bellies' sake,Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest.Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the leastThat to the faithful Herdman's art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are spedAnd, when they list, their lean and fleshy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;Besides what the grim Wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said.But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more."Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is pastThat shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale gessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears;[76]Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And dafTadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.For so, to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold.Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth:And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the Saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the Shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.
¶Thus sang the uncouth Swain to the oaks and rills,While the still Morn went out with sandals grey:[77]He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay.At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.