Written by
Michael Drayton |
In Ionia whence sprang old poets' fame,
From whom that sea did first derive her name,
The blessed bed whereon the Muses lay,
Beauty of Greece, the pride of Asia,
Whence Archelaus, whom times historify,
First unto Athens brought philosophy:
In this fair region on a goodly plain,
Stretching her bounds unto the bord'ring main,
The mountain Latmus overlooks the sea,
Smiling to see the ocean billows play:
Latmus, where young Endymion used to keep
His fairest flock of silver-fleeced sheep,
To whom Silvanus often would resort,
At barley-brake to see the Satyrs sport;
And when rude Pan his tabret list to sound,
To see the fair Nymphs foot it in a round,
Under the trees which on this mountain grew,
As yet the like Arabia never knew;
For all the pleasures Nature could devise
Within this plot she did imparadise;
And great Diana of her special grace
With vestal rites had hallowed all the place.
Upon this mount there stood a stately grove,
Whose reaching arms to clip the welkin strove,
Of tufted cedars, and the branching pine,
Whose bushy tops themselves do so entwine,
As seem'd, when Nature first this work begun,
She then conspir'd against the piercing sun;
Under whose covert (thus divinely made)
Ph{oe}bus' green laurel flourish'd in the shade,
Fair Venus' myrtle, Mars his warlike fir,
Minerva's olive, and the weeping myrrh,
The patient palm, which thrives in spite of hate,
The poplar, to Alcides consecrate;
Which Nature in such order had disposed,
And therewithal these goodly walks inclosed,
As serv'd for hangings and rich tapestry,
To beautify this stately gallery.
Embroidering these in curious trails along,
The cluster'd grapes, the golden citrons hung,
More glorious than the precious fruit were these,
Kept by the dragon in Hesperides,
Or gorgeous arras in rich colours wrought,
With silk from Afric, or from Indy brought.
Out of this soil sweet bubbling fountains crept,
As though for joy the senseless stones had wept,
With straying channels dancing sundry ways,
With often turns, like to a curious maze;
Which breaking forth the tender grass bedewed,
Whose silver sand with orient pearl was strewed,
Shadowed with roses and sweet eglantine,
Dipping their sprays into this crystalline;
From which the birds the purple berries pruned,
And to their loves their small recorders tuned,
The nightingale, wood's herald of the spring,
The whistling woosel, mavis carolling,
Tuning their trebles to the waters' fall,
Which made the music more angelical;
Whilst gentle Zephyr murmuring among
Kept time, and bare the burthen to the song:
About whose brims, refresh'd with dainty showers,
Grew amaranthus, and sweet gilliflowers,
The marigold, Ph{oe}bus' beloved friend,
The moly, which from sorcery doth defend,
Violet, carnation, balm, and cassia,
Idea's primrose, coronet of may.
Above this grove a gentle fair ascent,
Which by degrees of milk-white marble went:
Upon the top, a paradise was found,
With which Nature this miracle had crown'd,
Empal'd with rocks of rarest precious stone,
Which like the flames of ?tna brightly shone,
And served as lanthorns furnished with light,
To guide the wand'ring passengers by night:
For which fair Ph{oe}be, sliding from her sphere,
Used oft times to come and sport her there,
And from the azure starry-painted sky
Embalm'd the banks with precious lunary:
That now her Maenalus she quite forsook,
And unto Latmus wholly her betook,
And in this place her pleasure us'd to take,
And all was for her sweet Endymion's sake;
Endymion, the lovely shepherds' boy,
Endymion, great Ph{oe}be's only joy,
Endymion, in whose pure-shining eyes
The naked fairies danced the heydegies.
The shag-hair'd Satyrs' mountain-climbing race
Have been made tame by gazing in his face.
For this boy's love, the water-nymphs have wept,
Stealing oft times to kiss him whilst he slept,
And tasting once the nectar of his breath,
Surfeit with sweet, and languish unto death;
And Jove oft-times bent to lascivious sport,
And coming where Endymion did resort,
Hath courted him, inflamed with desire,
Thinking some nymph was cloth'd in boy's attire.
And often-times the simple rural swains,
Beholding him in crossing o'er the plains,
Imagined, Apollo from above
Put on this shape, to win some maiden's love.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
CANZONE I. Che debb' io far? che mi consigli, Amore? HE ASKS COUNSEL OF LOVE, WHETHER HE SHOULD FOLLOW LAURA, OR STILL ENDURE EXISTENCE. What should I do? what, Love, dost thou advise?Full time it is to die:And longer than I wish have I delay'd.My mistress is no more, and with her gone my heart;To follow her, I must needBreak short the course of my afflictive years:To view her here belowI ne'er can hope; and irksome 'tis to wait.Since that my every joyBy her departure unto tears is turn'd,Of all its sweets my life has been deprived. Thou, Love, dost feel, therefore to thee I plain,How grievous is my loss;I know my sorrows grieve and weigh thee down,E'en as our common cause: for on one rockWe both have wreck'd our bark;And in one instant was its sun obscured.What genius can with wordsRightly describe my lamentable state?Ah, blind, ungrateful world!Thou hast indeed just cause with me to mourn;That beauty thou didst hold with her is fled! Fall'n is thy glory, and thou seest it not;Unworthy thou with her,While here she dwelt, acquaintance to maintain.Or to be trodden by her saintly feet;For that, which is so fair,Should with its presence decorate the skiesBut I, a wretch who, reftOf her, prize nor myself nor mortal life,[Pg 234]Recall her with my tears:This only of my hope's vast sum remains;And this alone doth still support me here. Ah, me! her charming face is earth become,Which wont unto our thoughtTo picture heaven and happiness above!Her viewless form inhabits paradise,Divested of that veil,Which shadow'd while below her bloom of life,Once more to put it on,And never then to cast it off again;When so much more divine,And glorious render'd, 'twill by us be view'd,As mortal beauty to eternal yields. More bright than ever, and a lovelier fair,Before me she appears,Where most she's conscious that her sight will pleaseThis is one pillar that sustains my life;The other her dear name,That to my heart sounds so delightfully.But tracing in my mind,That she who form'd my choicest hope is deadE'en in her blossom'd prime;Thou knowest, Love, full well what I become:She I trust sees it too, who dwells with truth. Ye sweet associates, who admired her charms,Her life angelical,And her demeanour heavenly upon earthFor me lament, and be by pity wroughtNo wise for her, who, risenTo so much peace, me has in warfare left;Such, that should any shutThe road to follow her, for some length of time,What Love declares to meAlone would check my cutting through the tie;But in this guise he reasons from within: "The mighty grief transporting thee restrain;For passions uncontroll'dForfeit that heaven, to which thy soul aspires,Where she is living whom some fancy dead;[Pg 235]While at her fair remainsShe smiles herself, sighing for thee alone;And that her fame, which livesIn many a clime hymn'd by thy tongue, may ne'erBecome extinct, she prays;But that her name should harmonize thy voice;If e'er her eyes were lovely held, and dear."Fly the calm, green retreat;And ne'er approach where song and laughter dwell,O strain; but wail be thine!It suits thee ill with the glad throng to stay,Thou sorrowing widow wrapp'd in garb of woe. Nott.
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Written by
Algernon Charles Swinburne |
By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,
Remembering thee,
That for ages of agony hast endured, and slept,
And wouldst not see.
By the waters of Babylon we stood up and sang,
Considering thee,
That a blast of deliverance in the darkness rang,
To set thee free.
And with trumpets and thunderings and with morning song
Came up the light;
And thy spirit uplifted thee to forget thy wrong
As day doth night.
And thy sons were dejected not any more, as then
When thou wast shamed;
When thy lovers went heavily without heart, as men
Whose life was maimed.
In the desolate distances, with a great desire,
For thy love's sake,
With our hearts going back to thee, they were filled with fire,
Were nigh to break.
It was said to us: "Verily ye are great of heart,
But ye shall bend;
Ye are bondmen and bondwomen, to be scourged and smart,
To toil and tend."
And with harrows men harrowed us, and subdued with spears,
And crushed with shame;
And the summer and winter was, and the length of years,
And no change came.
By the rivers of Italy, by the sacred streams,
By town, by tower,
There was feasting with revelling, there was sleep with dreams,
Until thine hour.
And they slept and they rioted on their rose-hung beds,
With mouths on flame,
And with love-locks vine-chapleted, and with rose-crowned heads
And robes of shame.
And they knew not their forefathers, nor the hills and streams
And words of power,
Nor the gods that were good to them, but with songs and dreams
Filled up their hour.
By the rivers of Italy, by the dry streams' beds,
When thy time came,
There was casting of crowns from them, from their young men's heads,
The crowns of shame.
By the horn of Eridanus, by the Tiber mouth,
As thy day rose,
They arose up and girded them to the north and south,
By seas, by snows.
As a water in January the frost confines,
Thy kings bound thee;
As a water in April is, in the new-blown vines,
Thy sons made free.
And thy lovers that looked for thee, and that mourned from far,
For thy sake dead,
We rejoiced in the light of thee, in the signal star
Above thine head.
In thy grief had we followed thee, in thy passion loved,
Loved in thy loss;
In thy shame we stood fast to thee, with thy pangs were moved,
Clung to thy cross.
By the hillside of Calvary we beheld thy blood,
Thy bloodred tears,
As a mother's in bitterness, an unebbing flood,
Years upon years.
And the north was Gethsemane, without leaf or bloom,
A garden sealed;
And the south was Aceldama, for a sanguine fume
Hid all the field.
By the stone of the sepulchre we returned to weep,
From far, from prison;
And the guards by it keeping it we beheld asleep,
But thou wast risen.
And an angel's similitude by the unsealed grave,
And by the stone:
And the voice was angelical, to whose words God gave
Strength like his own.
"Lo, the graveclothes of Italy that are folded up
In the grave's gloom!
And the guards as men wrought upon with a charmed cup,
By the open tomb.
"And her body most beautiful, and her shining head,
These are not here;
For your mother, for Italy, is not surely dead:
Have ye no fear.
"As of old time she spake to you, and you hardly heard,
Hardly took heed,
So now also she saith to you, yet another word,
Who is risen indeed.
"By my saying she saith to you, in your ears she saith,
Who hear these things,
Put no trust in men's royalties, nor in great men's breath,
Nor words of kings.
"For the life of them vanishes and is no more seen,
Nor no more known;
Nor shall any remember him if a crown hath been,
Or where a throne.
"Unto each man his handiwork, unto each his crown,
The just Fate gives;
Whoso takes the world's life on him and his own lays down,
He, dying so, lives.
"Whoso bears the whole heaviness of the wronged world's weight
And puts it by,
It is well with him suffering, though he face man's fate;
How should he die?
"Seeing death has no part in him any more, no power
Upon his head;
He has bought his eternity with a little hour,
And is not dead.
"For an hour, if ye look for him, he is no more found,
For one hour's space;
Then ye lift up your eyes to him and behold him crowned,
A deathless face.
"On the mountains of memory, by the world's wellsprings,
In all men's eyes,
Where the light of the life of him is on all past things,
Death only dies.
"Not the light that was quenched for us, nor the deeds that were,
Nor the ancient days,
Nor the sorrows not sorrowful, nor the face most fair
Of perfect praise."
So the angel of Italy's resurrection said,
So yet he saith;
So the son of her suffering, that from breasts nigh dead
Drew life, not death.
That the pavement of Golgotha should be white as snow,
Not red, but white;
That the waters of Babylon should no longer flow,
And men see light.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
BALLATA V. Volgendo gli occhi al mio novo colore. HER KIND SALUTE SAVED HIM FROM DEATH. Late as those eyes on my sunk cheek inclined,Whose paleness to the world seems of the grave,Compassion moved you to that greeting kind,Whose soft smile to my worn heart spirit gave.The poor frail life which yet to me is leftWas of your beauteous eyes the liberal gift,And of that voice angelical and mild;My present state derived from them I see;As the rod quickens the slow sullen child,So waken'd they the sleeping soul in me.Thus, Lady, of my true heart both the keysYou hold in hand, and yet your captive please:Ready to sail wherever winds may blow,By me most prized whate'er to you I owe. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXXIV. Quando Amor i begli occhi a terra inchina. LAURA SINGS. If Love her beauteous eyes to earth incline,And all her soul concentring in a sigh,Then breathe it in her voice of melody,Floating clear, soft, angelical, divine;My heart, forth-stolen so gently, I resign,And, all my hopes and wishes changed, I cry,—"Oh, may my last breath pass thus blissfully,If Heaven so sweet a death for me design!"But the rapt sense, by such enchantment bound,And the strong will, thus listening to possessHeaven's joys on earth, my spirit's flight delay.And thus I live; and thus drawn out and woundIs my life's thread, in dreamy blessedness,By this sole syren from the realms of day. Dacre. Her bright and love-lit eyes on earth she bends—Concentres her rich breath in one full sigh—A brief pause—a fond hush—her voice on high,Clear, soft, angelical, divine, ascends.Such rapine sweet through all my heart extends,New thoughts and wishes so within me vie,Perforce I say,—"Thus be it mine to die,If Heaven to me so fair a doom intends!"But, ah! those sounds whose sweetness laps my sense,The strong desire of more that in me yearns,Restrain my spirit in its parting hence.Thus at her will I live; thus winds and turnsThe yarn of life which to my lot is given,Earth's single siren, sent to us from heaven.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXLVIII. Amor fra l' orbe una leggiadra rete. HE COMPARES HIMSELF TO A BIRD CAUGHT IN A NET. Love 'mid the grass beneath a laurel green—The plant divine which long my flame has fed,Whose shade for me less bright than sad is seen—A cunning net of gold and pearls had spread:[Pg 167]Its bait the seed he sows and reaps, I weenBitter and sweet, which I desire, yet dread:Gentle and soft his call, as ne'er has beenSince first on Adam's eyes the day was shed:And the bright light which disenthrones the sunWas flashing round, and in her hand, more fairThan snow or ivory, was the master rope.So fell I in the snare; their slave so wonHer speech angelical and winning air,Pleasure, and fond desire, and sanguine hope. Macgregor.
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