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One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

W. WORDSWORTH (The Tables Turned).

1107. FROM THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET' WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, Perhaps some dungeon hears thee Where art thou, worse to me than groan, dead ?

Maimed, mangled by inhuman Oh find me, prosperous or un

men ; done!

Or thou upon a desert thrown Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Inheritest the lion's den ; Why am I ignorant of the same Or hast been summoned to the That I may rest, and neither blame deep, Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? Thou, thou and all thy mates, to

keep

An incommunicable sleep. My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honour and of gain, I look for ghosts ; but none will Oh! do not dread thy mother's force door ;

Their way to me: 'tis falsely said Think not of me with grief and That there was ever intercourse pain :

Between the living and the dead ; I now can see with better eyes ; For, surely, then I should have And worldly grandeur I despise, sight And fortune with her gifts and lies. Of him I wait for day and night,

With love and longings infinite.

W. WORDSWORTH.

1108. UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERTUS

MORTON'S WIFE
He first deceased ; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died.

SIR H. WOTTON.

1109. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will ;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill ;
Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care
Of public fame or private breath ;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice; hath never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise ;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat ;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great ; .
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of His grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend ;

- This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall ;
Lord of himself, though not of lands ;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR H. WOTTON.

1110. ON THE SPRING

This Day Dame Nature seemed in love :
The lusty sap began to move ;
Fresh juice did stir the embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines,
The jealous trout, that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly;
There stood my friend with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the eaves possessed
With the swift pilgrims' daubèd nest :
The groves already did rejoice,
In Philomel's triumphing voice :
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat rubbed pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow ;
Where, for some sturdy football swain,
Joan strokes a syllabub or twain ;
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet,
And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all looked gay, and full of cheer
To welcome the new-liveried year.

Sie H. WOTTON.

11ll. ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN

OF BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies;
What are you, when the Moon shall rise ?
You curious chanters of the wood

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise ?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own,
What are you, when the Rose is blown !
So, when my Mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

Tell me, if she were not designed
Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind ?

SIR H. WOTTON.

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1113. BLAME NOT MY LUTE
BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound

Of this or that as liketh me;
For lack of wit the Lute is bound

To give such tunes as pleaseth me ;
Though my songs be somewhat strange,
And speak such words as touch thy change,

Blame not my Lute !
My Lute, alas ! doth not offend,

Though that perforce he must agree
To sound such tunes as I intend

To sing to them that heareth me;
Then though my songs be somewhat plain,
And toucheth some that use to feign,

Blame not my Lute !
My Lute and strings may not deny,

But as I strike they must obey ;
Break not them then so wrongfully,

But wreak thyself some other way ;
And though the songs which I indite
Do quit thy change with rightful spite,

Blame not my Lute !

Blame but thyself that hast misdone,

And well deserved to have blame ;
Change thou thy way, so evil begone,

And then my Lute shall sound that same;
But if till then my fingers play,
By thy desert their wonted way,

Blame not my Lute ! SIR T. WYATT.

1114. FORGET NOT YET FORGET not yet the tried intent Forget not yet the great assays, Of such a truth as I have meant; The cruel

elwrong, the scornful ways, My great travail so gladly spent The painful patience in delays, Forget not yet !

Forget not yet! Forget not yet when first began Forget not ! oh! forget not this, The weary life ye know, since whan How long ago hath been, and is The suit, the service none tell can Themind that never meantamissForget not yet !

Forget not yet!
Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved-

Forget not this !

SIR T. WYATT:

:

1115. THEY FLEE FROM ME THAT SOMETIME DID ME

SEEK
THEY flee from me that sometime did me seek,

With naked foot stalking within my chamber :
Once have I seen them gentle, tame, and meek,

That now are wild, and do not once remember
That sometime they have put themselves in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,

Busily seeking in continual change.
Thankèd be fortune, it hath been otherwise

Twenty times better ; but once especial-
In thin array-after a pleasant guise,

When her loose gown did from her shoulders fall,
And she me caught in her arms long and small,
And therewithal so sweetly did me kiss,

And softly said, “Dear heart, how like you this ? '
It was no dream ; for I lay broad awaking :

But all is turned now, through my gentleness,
Into a bitter fashion of forsaking ;

And I have leave to go of her goodness ;
And she also to use new-fangleness.
But since that I unkindly so am served,
' How like you this ? 'what hath she now deserved ?

SIR T. WYATT.

1116. THE FAIR THIEF
BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more, that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn;
Stole all the sweetness ether sheds
On primrose buds and violet beds.

Still to reveal her artful wiles
She stole the Graces' silken smiles ;
She stole Aurora's balmy breath ;
And pilfered orient pearl for teeth ;
The cherry, dipped in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips, and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store ;
And she, in time, still pilfered more!
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen
Her air and love-commanding mien ;
Stole Juno's dignity; and stole
From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

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